ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER
BY
ANNE H. M. BREWSTER.
"Our poet knows you will be just, but we
Appeal to mercy.....'T is in you
To make a little sprig of laurel grow
And spread into a grove, where you may sit
And hear soft stories, when by blasting it
You gain no honor, though our ruins lie
To tell the spoils of your offended eye."
BEAUMONT & FLETCHER, Thierry and Theodoret.
BOSTON:
TICKNOR AND FIELDS.
i866.




Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year i865, by
TICKNOR AND FIELDS,
in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts.
UNIVERSITY PRESS: WELCH, BIGELOW, & CO.,
CAMBRIDGE.




PREFACE.
OOR La Fontaine! Racine took him one
evening during Holy Week to church.
"Le bon homme," as his friends called
him, was not at all learned, nor was religion, in the old sense of the word, one of his prominent characteristics; therefore he grew horribly weary
with the length of the services.
To occupy him, Racine gave him a Bible which
contained the Minor Prophets. La Fontaine opened
it at the prayer of the Jews in Baruch.  Struck
with the sublime fulness of this grand diapason of
supplication, he could not control his surprise and
delight, and commenced elbowing Racine restlessly.
" O my friend," he whispered, eagerly, " what a
fine genius this Baruch had!  But tell me, who
was he?"
And for some time after he was so full of Baruch
that every friend he met in the streets of Paris was
greeted with the question, " Avez-vous lu Baruch?
Ah, c'6tait par ma foi un beau genie."
Poor great La Fontaine!
I have often thought during my journey in South



iv                 PREFACE.
ern Italy of "Avez-vous lu Barcuchh" when expressing my sincere enthusiasm. And while relating
with innocent delight all this which was new to me
in " Les Petites Prophetes " (the Minor Prophets)
of the grand Bible of Art and History, I have been
probably like le bon homme La Fontaine.
Many of my readers may have known these
Minor Prophets of art their whole lifetime, may
be familiar with every word of beauty they have
uttered through countless ages, - words which have
served as texts of inspiration for great poets from
the time of that "golden world" where
" The holy laws of homely pastoral,
And flowers, and founts, and nymphs, and semi-gods,
And all the Graces, found their old abodes,"
up through passionate passages of perilous human
contests and gorgeous mediaeval splendors, on to
this nineteenth century where men are driving out
"From clouds of steam majestical white horses,"
making true the prophetic words of Baruch, that
wise " old man of noble extraction and learned in
the law," — " Bringing down every high mountain,
and the everlasting rocks, and filling up the valleys
to make them even with the ground." But the
Bible of the Beautiful is ever young and ever new,
and the earnest, unaffected admiration of those to
whom this Bible has been opened for the first time
has its own peculiar charm; therefore, though my
readers may be more learned, they must show as
much good-natured patience as did the cleverer




PREFACE.
friends of the great French humorist, to my reiter-.
ated  exclamation, "Avez-vous lu Baruch'?  Ah,
c'6tait par ma foi un beau g#nie."
Then there is a kinder view which can be taken
of these pages, for, as Bold Fletcher said to his
audience, -
" We would fain please ye, and as fain be pleased;'T is but a little liking, both are eased."
There are seasons of quiet that come in the midst
of great trials, rare and short to be sure, but precious. All outside interferences seem to arrange
themselves, and social tangles unweave their knots
most graciously, as if to lend us a short rest and
peace, - it may be to give strength for future trouble, - fresh discipline, - Mother Nature holding
the soul back, as it were, with tender solicitude
and pensive prevision on the edge of a moral winter.
During such a season were these pages written,
and the pleasure of writing them under the influence
of that sweet lull added greatly to the diversion of
sad thoughts. Therefore, as they have performed
such a gentle office to me, I would not have them
ungently judged.
And now as I gather these journal leaves together,
and think of that pleasant period, I name them, and
that part of my life, after the sweet autumn season
of the year which they resemble, -
"ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER."








CONTENTS.
PAGE
I" WE"........                   1
MIDNIGHT ON MONT CENIS.......    13
JANET'S STORY.22
RAILWAY TALK AND CARNIVAL STUDIES                    36
PRIDE, PIETY, AND AMBITION..                        61
PLANTING ROOTS..                                    66
ELECTRA....                          80
THE TITAN'S CHILDREN AND CAPRI THE SPHINX            95
NEW FRIENDS..... 106
SPIRITISM AND DREAMS.....   119
HUMAN FAME....                       135
"NOBILE OZIO"...                      154
STONE TONGUE....173
"CASA DELLA SIRENA".                               184
PHILIP.... 203
PSYCHE..                                           220
A MIRACLE.... 242
A DINNER AT BAI..                                  255
SKY-ROCKETS.....                               277
MALEBOLGE..... 291
THREE DEAD CITIES..                                306
A MUSICAL EVENING.                 325
MRS. ROCHESTER'S BALL.                            331
CONSEQUENCES OF THE BALL....       345
BEGINNING OF THE END... 862




viii                 CONTENTS.
A NOCTURNE.. 374
WANLUCK....                                      380
LEAVING NAPLES..... 888
" CONCA D' ORO".. 393
IBERIAN COASTS......... 406
THE GADITANIAN GATES..               413
TEMPTING FATE....423
MARE TENEBROSUM....   430
FUGUE IN E MINOR....435




ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
"XW E."
VEVAY, Hotel des Trois Couronnes,
11th January, 185-.
E never do anything for the last time consciously without sadness, some one has said;
and I am feeling a sort of tender mournful-!I-,-~-~  Fness as I write the above heading in my new
journal.
"Vevay, Hotel des Trois Couronnes," is put here for
the last time,- and the first, too, in this fresh book;
the last time, at all events, for many years, for to-morrow
we commence our journey into Italy, and to accomplish
our pleasant plan of delightful travel and leisurely study
there will keep us from revisiting Suisse for a long
while.
I talk of "We" as naturally as if this "we " was the
same which was meant on the first pages of the large
closely-written volume I packed to-day in the box which
is to be sent to America, - that book which contains the
sorrowful record of five gloomy years. A lustrum, as
those old Romans used to say, - and indeed, it has been
a period- of purifying and light-giving; so much light
and clearness of mental vision, that I sit sometimes and
A




2              ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
grow weary over the thought that, with such light at the
beginning, I might have made straight much that was
hopelessly crooked and wilful. What use, however, in
such a thought?
"We can but fill the hour with its best deed,
The knowledge which the tardy morrow brings
Impeaches not the wisdom of the act,
It came too late to guide."
And now back again to my starting-point of " We."
First, however, let me notice that Rhone valley, and
the Lake, the clear starlit sky, and the beautiful terraced
garden beneath my window, which looks like some
chateau pleasure grounds of the gay French days of
Watteau. Yes, they are all very beautiful, and the
memory of them will be delightful; but, according to
the opinion of the German lad across the street, at the
Pharmacie Mayor, the memory will also be sad.
" Ah, Madame," he said to me this afternoon, as I was
buying some cologne of him, " you will long heartachingly for these Alps. You may think you can leave
them as you do other beautiful countries,- but you cannot, Madame. Once live among mountains and they
become like kindred,- and when you go away the
Heimweh, or home-sickness, is sure to cling to you as
well as to the native-born Suisse."
How strange these Germans are!  There is such a
deal of dreamy sentimentality about them, which consorts
drolly, like some curious marriages, with their sharp,
keen eye to the main chance. This young German
looked pensive and sighed most touchingly; but he did
not forget to charge me outrageously for the cologne,
notwithstanding he could talk so tenderly about the
Alpine Heimweh. But the Irishman is forgiven for




" WE."                     3
his wit, therefore let the German's droll romance stand
him also in good stead.
Down in the garden I see Janet walking up and down
the short slab of stone which forms the landing-place of
the broad flight of terrace steps leading to the lake. She
is enjoying the loveliness of the night, which is cold, still,
and beautiful, and doubtless thinking of the approaching
departure - separation to her - a little solemnly. She
leans on the stone parapet, gazing clear off into the dim
distance. Like Thekla, over that glorious young Max's
grave, she may be murmuring,
"There where he lies buried
Is now the whole earth to me! "
The eye cannot in this dark night trace around the
beautiful indentations of the lake shore, nor could it
from this window or that terrace see the enchanting
spot where lies Janet's "whole earth."
Under the shadow of that beautiful old Montreux
church is a grave containing two human beings. One,
whose life had only a breath, a look, a sigh, and then
back again to its native heaven. Another, who lived
honorable years, loved, served his kindred nobly, received priceless love in return, lay down to die in the
midst of life's best gifts, and is now mourned with a
silent unending grief, "too deep for tears."
It is a lovely resting-place, that old graveyard. The
picturesque church hangs suspended, as it were, from
the mountain's side; its fine spire, with ogive piercings,
draped with clambering ivy, points upward, and at sunset this stone finger of Hope throws down its protecting,
assuring shadow directly over the earth-bed in which lie
Janet's best memories.




4              ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
I stood by it alone yesterday at sundown, and wished
I could have Janet beside me to show her how peaceful and happy the place looked; and this afternoon, when
she walked off there to makd, as I knew, her last pilgrimage to that dear spot, I prayed that the same soft shadow
might rest just as lovingly as it seemed to my eyes, and
bring down into her heart the same quiet, soothing
thoughts it had to mine.
Music fills the air. Venitia is condescending to use
the hotel piano.  Her own Erard full-grand has been
packed up for a day or so, in order to be sent round by
Marseilles and down the Mediterranean to our new home
in Parthenope,-as she, with pretty poetic pedantry, calls
our intended abiding-place Naples, Neapolis, -for to us
it will be new.
She is capricious to-night, and is playing only broken
bits and passages, nothing continuous. Like us she is
feeling the breaking-up and departure, but not as we,
nor for the same cause; for she has no past, has had no
awakening, and is at that happy age when she feels only
the inconveniences of the present, and is free from those
sorrowful memories which might make her dread a future, or any change, no matter how hopeful and bright it
might look.
And yet her trust in this unknown future is a blind,
unconscious feeling, not that trust which arises from wisdom; for though Venitia has much knowledge, she has
but little wisdom.
"Knowledge is of things we see,"
but true wisdom, is faith, - a faith more than a believing, for belief is a work of reason, faith a result of
love, - a trust in that which we do not see. But, after




"WE."
all, it is only through many losses that this diviner wisdom comes; and it is the possession of this that makes
Janet so much calmer than either of us; she has a true
tranquillizing faith and trust in the unknown Future of
this life.
"It soon becomes the Present," she says; " and if it be
a present of sorrow and suffering, they, being human,
after a season, pass away even from the memory; but if
it shall be a sweet present of joy and happiness, they,
being divine, remain forever. There is a lethean stream,
my friend, flowing through our being, which, in time,
quiets all murmurs, stills all unrest, and even throws a
soft mist over the memory of past joys to prevent the
disturbing effect of regret."
But now back again to "we."  Who and what are
" we?"  For I make it a rule always, in commencing a
new journal, to describe my social surroundings, if at all
differing from those which were with me at the beginning of the previous one. As my memory sweeps back,
endeavoring to contrast this present with that past, it
flaps a wearied wing, so wide and broad is the gulf of
difference stretching out appallingly into a mare tenebrosum of hopeless separation from that past!
Enough of my individual self. My journal does not
need that text dwelt on at the beginning. It is a sermon which all these pages are to hold and develop. Let
me talk of those social domestic surroundings which, to a
woman most especially, make her real " we " - her daily,
hourly associates - of Janet and Venitia; for they are
mine, - my " we."
These names did not touch the pages of the other
journal during all its first three gloomy years. These
two human beings, who are now so much to me, -one,




6              ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
Janet especially, —I did not know even the existence
of; and should that other journal be lost during its long
voyage "home," those who love me and who love to read
these pages would be in a state of perplexity and wonder,
while reading this one, who my new friends could be.
They are two sisters. A couple of years ago, when I
came to this old Europe to seek, if not a grave for my
body, one at least for my dead hopes, which lay in most
unseemly state unburied, I met these two women under most pleasing social circumstances. Chance threw
us much together; our tastes and pursuits we found to
be alike. We were all three comparatively alone, not
only in Europe, but in life, with only passing acquaintances which are most often to travellers like us but bits
of straw hanging to the fringe of a garment, easily caught
and as easily shaken off.
A severe illness of Venitia enabled me to be of service
to Janet, and I grew deeply attached to her; we united
with each other, made one home together, and without
vow, or engagement, or troth-plight, only a loving look
of need for each other's presence daily, I think we shall
spend our future of this life together.
Janet is a widow, about my own age, or a little older.
She is neither handsome nor homely, but has those nameless charms, those indescribable attractions, which are the
only ones that can hold love after beauty of form and
feature and intellect have grown familiar to us. She has
also
"A calm unfaltering voice, and the grace
That comes with the knowledge of life."
She is a thoroughly educated woman. I do not mean
by this her skill in Latin and Greek, nor her cleverness
in positive sciences and mathematics, all of which she pos



"WE."                       7
sesses, but I mean that her soul is so fully developed, -
drawn out, - that it seems. to my mortal comprehension
complete. She has a fine, highly cultured intellect, it is
true, but, better than all, a judgment so clear that it is
almost inspiration, and a pure, well-balanced character,
every fibre firm and strong.
Janet is an American by birth and feeling, although
the most of her life has been spent in Europe. Her
father was for many years consul at some southern
European port.  The effect produced on Americans,
particularly on some characters, by living in Europe
any length of time, is very unsettling. Artificial habits
are acquired, views of society and life, totally at variance
with those entertained at home, are insensibly taken up,
and this proved to be the case with Mr. Howard, Janet's
father. After losing his consulship he never returned to
America, but went into a foreign banking-house, and remained the rest of his life abroad. For some reason or
other he changed his abode many times, and they seem
never to have had a settled or comfortable home. Janet
has only visited America once since her childhood, and
that was when she first grew up, just before the death of
her mother, at which time she spent a few months with
her kinsfolk in the United States, but returned to Europe
to take charge of her young brothers and sisters, after
the news of that saddest of all sad losses, her mother's
death, reached her.
She is strongly attached to, and quickly drawn towards,
that which she considers American. Of course, never
having lived in her birthplace, she is more governed in
her opinions and feelings by the views which she has
taken at a distance,;'of our truly interesting government
and its romantic success, than by actual experience. She




8              ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
has known intimately distinguished Europeans who have
regarded the United States as.the Utopia of their dreams.
In her girlhood she often made one in the charming circle
which gathered at La Grange around " that hero of two
worlds," Lafayette, a delightful atmosphere which developed, if not created, artists and political dreamers.
After Janet became a woman, she knew De Tocqueville, and, later, Ampere, and certainly can theorize about
the American States as patriotically, poetically, and with
as much enthusiasm as the best dreaming philosopher of
them all.
Her early life was one of bitter sorrow. Wrong, injustice,. disgrace, every biting drop that could be distilled
in the alembic of grief, fell on her young heart. After
she had passed her early womanhood, without ever thinking of love or its sweet comforts, this great joy of life
came to her. Here, on This beautiful lake shore, while
striving to eke out a slender income, educate her young
sister and some orphan nieces, and nurse a dying, brokenhearted widowed sister, she met with Paul Dale, a prosperous, cultured Englishman. She has told me, by short
bits from time to time, her story, for Janet is not one who
talks much of that which touches her feelings most: but
her short, rapid utterance is very touching, of"How strange it should have seemed, and yet it did
not, for Paul and me to love each other. I had no faith
in mortal man left, and he came to teach me, by his own
truth and excellence, perfect faith."
Paul Dale must have been a man worthy of love.
He gathered up the whole family and his Janet most tenderly to his heart; he took them to his beautiful English
home; used his delightful wealth generously, made life
pleasant to the dying widowed sister and her children;




"WE."                      9
soothed Janet, and when her heart ached with the sorrow
caused by the deaths of the darlings for whom she had
labored so courageously for years, he filled the goblet of
life to overflowing with his own rich purple love, and
pressed it tenderly to her lips. She dared not grieve,
even when their only child, the boy for whose birth Paul
had wished so earnestly, breathed one short breath and
then died.
O0 no," she has said to me, "I never uttered a murmur, for had I not Paul? And so long as death, which
seemed then to be my only pursuing sorrow, did not
touch him, I could not mourn."
At last, of her whole large family there were only two
left,- Janet and Venitia, - the oldest and youngest!
All had died just when prosperity came, and they could
so well have enjoyed life together. Paul adopted Venitia, of whom he was very fond, and directed her education with as much care as taste. The girl early showed
remarkable musical ability. To give her every advantage in her musical studies, he left England and resided
in Germany for a while.
Then came death again; and this time it took Paul,
and with it Janet's best part of life. She brought him
here, and laid him down under the shadow of that old
church spire, where their baby boy was sleeping his little
slumber, and where she also hopes to lie some day, " God
willing," she says, with a soft submission most touching
in one so self-sufficing and firm.
And now a few words about Venitia, - then I must
clasp my journal and go to bed, as it is past midnight.
The beautiful girl has just been in to say good night and
give me one of her caresses, which are so different from
Janet's, though. much more profuse. Janet's touch my
1*




10             ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
heart, Venitia's only my body; and yet we both love each
other dearly. Let me describe her as she looked, standing by my window a few moments since, gazing out on
the night and the lake, and talking of Italy and our journey with all the keen fresh taste for novelty which youth
gives.
Venitia, whose rather fanciful name was given her
from her birthplace, Venice, is really a beautiful woman.
Her figure has the majesty of an empress and the grace
of a nymph, which give her that double charm of infantile innocence and womanly reserve. Her height is full,
her development fine; large, well-formed limbs, statuelike in their mould. She has a well-shaped, well-poised
head, with a great wealth of waving hair, a rich brown
in its hue. Her fine brow expresses capability of thought
as her eyes do of feeling, and these eyes are the glory of
her face.
The arch of the brow is a little prominent, and gives
her a stern expression; the setting and shape of the eye
and whole facial outline is Greek; but the full face, owing
to the firm brow, is not so flat as the Greek form, and
therefore not so insipid. Her eyes are large, their expression, and that of the mouth, as imperious as those of a
Juno. Indeed, she has often been likened to the Juno in
the Villa Ludovisi at Rome, a profile engraving of which
I have had framed, and christened it playfully "Venitia."
There is the same mouth line, the same liquid reflective
eyeball and resolute curve of the brow and lip, the firm,
high-arched lines, indicative of strong will, contending
with the soft flowing ones of loveliness.
The color of the eyes is a tender poetic gray, which
deepens to an intense black in earnest moments from the
enlarging of the pupil, and there is an expression in them




"WE."                      11
sometimes that amounts almost to inspiration; but the fire
is too redundant, too intrepid, and at times there is a
sombre mysterious look in them which tells of distant
thunder and far-off lightning; they need toning down,
with some great emotion that shall shake her being to its
very centre.
Her mouth, that feature which tells so much of one's
character and culture, is faultless. Some one has well
said, that all the features of the human face are made for
us but our mouths; these we make for ourselves. Venitia's is full of expression; the rich hued lips are as
quivering and trembling as " shadowy water with a sweet
south wind breathing over it"; and the curves are those
soft, delicate ones, which only culture and the early discipline of refinement can give; but there is that same imperious line triumphant, which hardens her whole face,
and which must be the one that makes the striking resemblance to the Juno; for I have seen a simple fragment
of a female head on a mutilated gem pronounced to be
that of the haughty queen of the gods, simply from this
imperious mouth line.
A pallor which the Italians call morbidezza is the hue
of her skin, golden and transparent in its high lights like
ivory. Titian knew and felt to the very tingling point of
his fingers the rich loveliness of such flesh.
Does this description sound exaggerated? To me it
seems tame; for words can scarcely give the effect produced on me by such beauty as Venitia's. I lie on the
lounge sometimes and watch her with half-closed eyes, as
I would a picture or statue, her graceful motions, every
attitude an unconscious pose of statue-like beauty, and
think of luscious fruit, delightful sounds, warm  coloring,
and great sculptors' creations. Why, to paint Venitia, a




12             ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
Raphael and Titian should unite; for she has the pure
beauty of a Madonna, combined with the rich full size
and attraction of a Magdalen.
She has all the organization of an artist, too, - quick
perceptions, keen enjoyments, is sympathetic, and to a certain point creative; but, with all this beauty of mind and
mould, there is a mysterious, veiled, inexplicable something about her, which keeps her from developing completely; she is by some enchantment locked up from
herself and from others.
Venitia's life melody is not only yet unwritten, but
even unprefigured; here is the fine human instrument
with its rich assemblage of strings and keys; preluding
chords, too, are heard full of promising beauty, but the
life-theme is not hinted at. To some women this theme
never comes; the whole human existence is but a gentle
soft preluding; and others even have preludes full of
complicated harmonies, sounding like intricate themes,
but the life pieces end as mere voluntaries, nothing more,
and so it may be with our Venitia.
We are very proud of her. She gives us no cause for
uneasiness or discomfort. There is none of the restlessness and caprice about her which might be pardoned in
one so gifted and charming. She is pure and sparkling,
too, like a first-water diamond, - yes, that is just it, - for
she is almost as hard.




MIDNIGHT ON MONT CENIS.
E left Vevay last Thursday for Geneva. On
board the lake steamer Rhone, we met a Milanese whose conversation amused us; she
was not young, - about mid-age; not at all
pretty, but had an intelligent face. Some chance accident
introduced us, a courtesy, I think, such as the offer of a
seat or something of the like. She talked rapidly, freely,
and well; described Milan, Genoa, and Turin with graphic distinctness; drew a rapid sketch of Italian literature,
and touched on Italian politics with a forked tongue.
We talked of books over Heine's "Lutece," which I
was reading, and a novel of De Balzac she held in her
hands. She spoke contemptuously of French authors,
was well read in English literature, - as cultivated Italians are apt to be, — and said she "adored the classic
writers of England," as she called the poets and dramatists of the Elizabethan day. When we approached Geneva we all leaned over the guards of the boat together.
" Look! " she cried, " at the ugly place. It is a great
phalanstery town; but that is the spirit of the day, - so
no wonder. In the last age this community idea' was
dreamed of by philosophers; in this nineteenth century
the people carry it into execution.  The philosophers
meant it for the improvement of the mind and condition




14              ST. MARTIN'S SUMIMER.
of the poor; the people of this day use it to give to themselves the luxuries of the old noblesse, — the temporal
sensual ones, - and ragged half-price business they make
of it, with their mammoth hotels and community-cafes,
their woven cotton lace, and their thin coatings of silver
and gold."
Her lips curled scornfully, she drew in her sharp pointed chin and threw back her head with a haughty, resentful air, as she added, in low hissing words with half-closed
lips, as Italians speak when at white-heat rage, -
"Ah, the influence of the South is over!  No more
beauty, no more poesy in life. The reign of the cold,
rigid North is supreme, with its chemins de fer (railways), its fils de fer (telegraphs), and all other choses de
fer" (iron things).
Then she muttered from Dante's Inferno this passage:
" Lo'mperador del doloroso regno
Da mezzo'1 petto uscia fuor della ghiaccia."
" That Emperor who sways
The realm of sorrow, at mid breast from the ice." *
I have no doubt she felt full of gall and bitterness as
she thought how prone to earth lay her beloved Italy
under this detested rule of the Teuton.
Venitia, with graceful kindness said to her: "Beautiful Italy, seated in your loveliness on the earth, like poor
uncrowned Constance!' Here I in sorrow sit;
Here is my throne, bid kings come bow to it.'"
The Italian turned sharply, with tears actually glittering in her keen black eyes, and looked at the lovely girl
as if she adored her. The boat touched the pier and
* Cary's Dante; Inferno, Canto XXXIV.




MIDNIGHT ON MONT CENIS.            15
knocked all to bits the nice little scene, while in the hurry
of landing, porters' bustle, the noise of luggage, and all
the other busy attendants of going on shore, we lost sight
of our chance acquaintance.
After securing the coupe in the diligence, and setting
a commissionaire, or errand-porter, to work about the
passports, we took a farewell look at the "phalanstery
town," as our boat friend had called it. We went to the
head of the city, to our favorite spot, Place St. Antoine,
to give a good-by gaze to the beautiful view on which
we had looked so often that it had become a possession
of memory.
The Savoy Alps stretched out snowy fortifications between us and that wondrous ice-bed, above which towers
the " monarch of mountains," Mont Blanc. Deut D'Oche,
our old Alpine neighbor, seemed to peep familiarly over
the Chablais at us, to tell us " God speed."  To the
northeast there was the Mole, with its solitary peak, and
the Voirons, seated like matrons in the midst of their
forests; while to the right, Mont Buet, with its snowy
dome, and the dark rocky outworks of the Grenier, summoned us onwards.
At half-past four we returned to the hotel and dined,
then went to the Diligence Bureau, received our passport, and were soon snugly packed away in the coupe'.
The journey from Geneva to Chambery was the coldest
part of the route. We left Geneva at six in the evening,
and reached Chambery at six the next morning, where
we staid till midday. At one o'clock in the afternoon we
were again on the road. The diligence was lifted upon
the rails, and we flew along quite swiftly up to St. Jean,
which we reached at nightfall; there we took horses
again and commenced the mountain passage.




16             ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
The passage of Mont Cenis is the least interesting in
a picturesque sort of view of all the Alpine entrances
into Italy; but it is a superb road, and is as safe and
comfortable in mid-winter as an ordinary journey away
from the Alps. It is considered a masterpiece of engineering, its ascent and descent are so gradual and secure.
Fabbroni, the great engineer, gave seven years' study,
thought, and labor, and France over a million of dollars,
to accomplish it.
The first Charlemagne crossed Mont Cenis with his
army, when it was a true feat to make the passage, for
it had to be done on foot and in litters. The road remained impassable for diligence as late as 1800. Then
came the second Charlemagne, who wished to go into
Italy over mountains as high as his ambition, but he was
not of the race of those
" First men who led black horses by the mane ";
nor was he of this third race, of which his nephew is a
type, - who merits, better than his uncle, Carlyle's title
"Hero of Tools," —who is now driving out over these
Alps, -
" From the cloud of steam majestical white horses."
He, the second Charlemagne, the great Napoleon, commanded this fine road, and a greater miracle it was then
than the tunnel can be now. We talked of the history
of this celebrated road, and the great change the tunnelling of the Alps shall make in a few years. The idea
sounds more poetical than the journey then shall be, for
the tunnel will alter materially this midnight pass which
has its own peculiar charm.
The peal of a bell across the midnight air- the An



MIDNIGHT ON MONT CENIS.              17
gelus bell of the Hospice - turned the conversation to the
Benedictines who live on Mont Cenis. We went back
to the great St. Benedict, whose famous Holy Rule was
said to contain the maxims of perfect government; that
system which Cosmo di Medici, and all those great rulers
of men, studied reverentially.  Those Benedictines, his
followers, were great people at every period of their history, either as sturdy forest-clearers, tillers of the soil, or
scholarly gentlemen copying with clerkly skill, and protecting, with cultured reverence, the treasures of Greek
and Latin poesy.
Guizot says of them, "The monks of St. Benedict.
were the great land-clearers of Europe"; and Mignet
calls them, "Those great republics of agricultural and
literary industry of the Order of St. Benedict."
" Scienter nesciens, et sapienter indoctus, (learnedly ignorant and wisely learned,) St. Gregory, his biographer,
called this wonderful man," said Janet; " and these Benedictines on Mont Cenis are living quite in accordance with
their holy founder's rule, but that cannot be said of every
Benedictine order; they have fallen many times sadly
away from his rigid self-denying practice. Why, to become a member of the very community St. Benedict established at Mlonte Casino, near the frontier or line
between the Roman States and Naples, the applicant
has to be not only a person of high birth, but also of
independent fortune. At one time the Abbot of Monte
Casino held the rank of Baron of the kingdom, and drove
his coach and six."
" So soft is flesh of mortals, that on earth
A good beginning doth no longer last
Than while an oak may bring its fruit to birth," *
* Cary's Dante, Paradise, Canto XXII.
B




18             ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
I quoted. "But you must remember, Janet, even in
their days of backsliding the gentlemen of that convent
were not idle men. To them you lovers of the classics
are indebted for a great deal that you now enjoy. That
very monastery of Monte Casino was a sanctuary for
Greek and Latin treasures which otherwise would have
been lost. You would never have had even those six.Fasti of Ovid which you prize so highly, nor the great
Englishman Fox, his beloved Idylls of Theocritus, but for
these scholarly Benedictines of Monte Casino."
We dwelt on the life of the great founder of the Order,
of whom Montalembert says, "At a season of universal
desolation and gloom, when the whole world was steeped
in heresy, schism, and divisions, a solitary monk created
a centre of supernatural virtue, and illuminated it with a
splendor which shone during ten ages over regenerated
Europe." *
The beautiful love which existed between St Benedict
and his sister St. Scholastica, and the touching story told
by St. Gregory of their last interview, interested Venitia
deeply. St. Scholastica's convent was five miles distant
from Monte Casino, and once a year she always visited
her brother. He would not let her visit the monastery,
but went out to meet her at a place appointed, and there
they passed the day in sweet talk on their mutual faith
and great hope.
When she knew she was dying she made her people
carry her to the place of meeting, and her brother came
to her. The day seemed short to the dying woman; and
as the setting sun sank behind the beautiful hills, she
clung with mortal yearning to her dearly loved brother,
whose blessed words of comfort during the day had given
* Les Moines d'Occident, par Montalembert.




MIDNIGHT ON MONT CENIS.            19
her so much healing strength. She besought him to stay
until morning with her, and talk again to her of the happiness of that other life which lay beyond the dread, dark
sea of anguish, called Death, — that sea which she was
so soon to cross alone.
But the rule of his Order, established by himself, forbade a monk to pass the night away from his monastery.
He knew it was his beloved sister's last request, but he
steadfastly, though sorrowfully, refused.
Then the poor, expiring woman, seeing her entreaties
were in vain, lay her trembling hands on a table, rested
her face in them, weeping bitterly, and besought Almighty God to interpose in her behalf. Straightway the
heavens seemed opened, and there came pouring down.
such a flood of rain with fierce thunder and sharp lightning, that no man or beast dare venture out in it.
" God forgive you, sister!" said St. Benedict. "What
have you done? "
"I asked a favor of you," she replied, with reproachful tenderness, " and you refused me. I asked it of God,
and he has granted it to me."
All night long the holy brother and sister held solemn
vigil together, and his strong words became as an armor
of might to the feeble woman whose soul and body were
having their last great battle. At dawn they parted, not
in tears, but with faces that shone like angels; and as St.
Benedict kissed his sister, she said, -
" My brother, the parting will not be long. We shall
soon meet again."
Three days after, she breathed her last breath in great
mortal anguish, but in holy peace of spirit; and her sorrowing brother, who was praying at the time in his tower
at Monte Casino, believed he saw her pure soul ascend
to heaven in the form of a dove.




20             ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
Only a few weeks passed and it was as St. Scholastica
had said; the parting was not long, for the monks of
Monte Casino were mourning their great founder's death.
Brother and sister sleep together under the magnificent high altar, rich in precious marbles, of the superb
Church of Monte Casino; and the tender beauty of their
love steals gently down through thirteen centuries with
a light as pure as their great virtue.
"Ah yes," said Janet, as I finished this sweet old
story; " and St. Gregory, their biographer, gives a beautiful reason for the granting of St. Scholastica's prayer,
Justo G'alde judicio illa plus potuit quce amplius amavit,
-' By a just judgment, indeed, she who was the more
loving was the more powerful.'"
"Was St. Bernard, the stern judge of poor Abelard,
a Benedictine? " asked Venitia.
"The great Abbot of Clairvaux," I answered, "belonged to a reformed Benedictine order, the Cistercians,
but his followers were sometimes called Bernardins. He
lived six hundred years after St. Benedict. St. Benedict's period was 480 to 543; while the apostle of the illfated Second Crusade, St. Bernard, flourished from 1091
to 1153."' St. Bernard's period," said Janet, "was also famous
for many new religious orders.  The mendicant friars
sprang up then. St. Dominic, and St. Francis of Assissium, the founders of the Dominican and Franciscan
brotherhoods, were contemporaries of the all-powerful
St. Bernard."
"Lord Lindsay, in his Christian Art," I remarked,
" says that during this period, extending from St. Benedict's death up even so far as 1400, Christianity found
its chief expression in architecture; the spirit of Faith,




MIDNIGHT ON MONT CENIS.             21
reigning supreme, gave utterance to its grandest voice,
its symphonies in stone." *
We talked all night, and Janet told us of quite an exciting adventure she once had when crossing this same
Mont Cenis with Venitia and a young brother, when
they were children.
* Lord Lindsay's Christian Art, Letter I. Vol. II.




JANET'S STORY.
ATE one afternoon in January, about fifteen
1 years ago, said Janet, " I received a letter
telling me of my sister Mary's dangerous
illness. I was at Geneva and she at Turin.
The letter was from her physician; it bade me come
immediately; even then I might not find her alive.
" I had the two youngest children with me,- my poor
little brother Ernst, a child of seven, and Venitia, who
was not more than five; they could not be left in Geneva,
for I knew no one there to trust them with, therefore
they had to go with me. I had only just time to hurry
down to the Diligence Bureau to see what seats I could
get. Of course, I found the coupe engaged; for when one
is in a disagreeable position, the difficulties that spring
up on all sides can be named Legion. There were only
two seats to be had in the whole diligence, and they were
in the interior.
"I could not help hesitating, used as I was to facing
disagreeable things; for it is so unpleasant for a woman
to travel alone in such a place.  But what alternative
had I?' Go,' said Courage,'and trust to the children
for protection.'
" The diligence was being arranged while I stood in
the office talking about the seats with the courteous clerk,




JANET'S STORY.                 23
who very good naturedly sympathized with my annoy;
ance; in fifteen minutes the coach would start. My hesitation was ended by the arrival of the commissionaire
whom I had employed to have my passport vised by the
Sardinian consul.  I lost no more time, paid for the
seats, lifted the children into the interior,.and followed
them; it was soon crowded with men.  All nations
seemed to be represented, and, until midnight, their
conversation was very animated, —a perfect Babel of
tongues.
"On entering the diligence I put Ernst in the corner,
taking the seat next him, holding Venitia on my lap.
My next neighbor was a German, and soon he showed a
disposition to be friendly. At the Sardinian frontier he
handed out my passport officiously, as if I belonged to
him; offered repeatedly to relieve me of my child, and
evidently desired to make himself agreeable, but, in such
a manner as to cause all, the hedgehog in my nature to
put out its quills; besides, at that time I had so much
trouble that there was, as is apt to be with energetic
women under such influences, more harshness about me
than anything else, — it was just at' the darkest hour
before day' in my life.
"I was no longer in my first youth, and it would have
been quite a figure of speech. to have called me pretty;
nevertheless I found I was more attractive to my German neighbor than was pleasant.  He sat very near,
saying once in a while, with vulgar familiarity, in German,'Nahe zusammen sitzen macht gute Gesellschaft.' *
"Such a night as I passed! But the interior being
crowded was some little protection.  Pressing Venitia
close to my breast, whilst Ernst slept soundly, leaning
*"Close sitting makes good company."




24             ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
against me, I turned a deaf ear to the impertinent remarks of the German. At last he also slept, and had
the insolence to rest his head on my shoulder. I had
anticipated some such proceeding from his manner, and
accordingly had put a few pins there, points outward; he
quickly raised his head, muttering angrily,'Vermaledeites Weib.'*
"I was too alarmed to laugh, I assure you; moreover
my heart was too full of apprehension for dear Mary,
she might at that moment be dead! Memories of our
youth swept up before me. Hours of joy and hours of
sorrow we had had together; for we were the eldest of
that large family, and very near of an age. Then she
was my only counsellor and friend in the bringing up of
the whole little flock; and though her health had been
failing for some time, and she was almost a penniless
widow with two little girls of her own, adding to, as she
would mournfully say, instead of relieving the family
burden; still she was of great value to me in many,
many ways, -most of all to a woman in trouble, she
was one, near my own age, who could love and be loved.
The other children were my charges and responsibilities:
she was my only earthly luxury and consolation.
"Be merciful, O God!" I inwardly groaned, resting
my burning, dry, aching eyes on Venitia's soft curls; for
she, like my little brother, was sleeping soundly that
blessed child - sleep'that the thunder cannot break.'
Looking at them I envied their unconsciousness of danger, their freedom from apprehensions and care, their
sweet trust and faith in me as the living present providence of a mother, which is'the heaven that hangs
around' a child.
* " Confound the woman! "




JANET'S STORY.                25
"Mary and I had once been young and tolerably happy; more cared for in the way of luxury than they, but
not more loved. Now what were we?  Solitary wrecks
on life's sandy shore. If God's angel of death had come
then, and shielded us all three with his dark wing, very
sweet would have been the sleep to me! But still I
ejaculated'Be merciful, 0 God!' and the prayer for
Mary's life went on.
"Towards morning the diligence rumbled into Chambery. The first thing that struck my eyes when I looked
from the window in the dim morning light was that large
monumental fountain you were so struck with to-day,
ornamented with huge elephants standing in the middle
of the street. Some day we must go over together the
history of General de Boigne, his eventful life in India,
his romantic but unhappy marriage with Madame Recamier's friend, and his return to his native town far up
in the Sardinian Alps, where he sought consolation for
his disappointed domestic hopes in charities. After his
death his grateful townsmen raised this curious and costly
fountain to his memory, and gave his name to the street
in the centre of which the fountain stands.
"We drove through Rue de Boigne to the bureau.
When the diligence stopped I roused the sleeping children, pushing aside hastily my offensive German neighbor, who, notwithstanding his experience of pin-points,
was ready with disgusting freedom to assist me. Two or
three of the men talked with him of me, as I handed
out the children to the guard. I took occasion to address
the children in English, which we seldom used; for
French, as the language of the country we lived in, was
easier; but I did so, because the best protection to a lone
woman on the European continent is our good, brave
2




26              ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
Anglo-Saxon tongue; the woman who speaks it as if
born to it is supposed to know how to do, to be, and to
suffer, and most especially not to suffer any impertinence. Their conversation was in German.
"' Englainderin,' said one.
"' Nein,' replied my meddling neighbor,'nein, sie
sprecht nicht wie eine Englinderin.' *
"Another suggested'Russian,' for cultivated Russians
speak, as Berlioz drolly says,'all known and unknown
tongues' with the greatest facility, almost without accent; they speak English too, in the monotone manner
of Americans, quite free from British emphasis.
" Taking the children by the hand I went into the diligence office to secure the coupe' if possible for the rest
of the journey, but to my dismay found it engaged all
the way through to Turin. The morning sun shot a little bright ray through the office window and seemed to
give me fresh courage. One rarely feels timid in broad
daylight. After inquiring the time of starting, finding I
had seven or eight hours for rest, I went to the hotel.
"A pleasant chambermaid gave me a nice room and
brought us a good breakfast. I undressed the children,
bathed them, and put them to bed, where they soon fell
into a sound sleep. I did the same for myself, but it was
in vain that I tried to sleep. My uneasiness about Mary
tortured me; the painful tension of my nerves during
the night caused them to throb fiercely. I crept quietly
out of bed and dressed myself. Ernst opened his full
brown eyes on me, as I stooped down by the bedside to
get my walking boots.
"'Dear child,' I said, as the affectionate little fellow
* "An Englishwoman." —" No, she does not speak like an Englishwoman."




JANET'S STORY.                    27
held up his arms to clasp around my neck,'Jennie is
feverish and needs air. Ernst will take good care of his
little sister, will he not, while Jennie is out?'
" The self-sacrificing child assented with a bright smile,
and whispered good by. I hurried out of the hotel. I
wished to see something of this town in which De Maistre was born, to ramble through its streets, and up the
mountain roads where he had roamed in his youth, and
dreamed visions, strange to say, more than realized in
his eventful life.  Military renown, successful authorship, a long married love, were his; he was a soldier, a
philosopher, -' studied all things and yet knew nothing,' as he said in the light, graceful epitaph which he
wrote for himself a few years before his death. Do you
remember it?  No?  I will try to repeat it, it is so well
turned.
Ci-git, sous cette pierre grise,
Xavier, qui de tout dtonnait,
Demandant d'oh venait la bise
Et pourquoi Jupiter tonnait.
II etudiat maint grimoire,
II lut du matin jusqu'au soir,
Et but k la fin l'onde noire,
Tout surpris de ne rien savoir.' *
"I went out of the Faubourg de Mlontmeillan, and followed the left bank of the Leysse for some distance.
First I came to a village; then seeing the ruins of a
* Here lies under this gray stone,
Xavier, who, quite astonished,
Asked whence came the north wind,
And why Jupiter thundered?
He studied many a gramarye,
He read from morning until night,
And drank at last the black wave,
Quite surprised at knowing nothing.




28             ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
castle on the other side of the stream, I crossed it, and
soon after entered a beautiful mountain gorge, completely
shut in. High steep rocks swept up, seeming like the
pedestal of the serrated mountain in the distance. A
peasant woman guided me around a paper-mill to see a
cascade, which came tumbling down the cliffs, and spouted
out in jets through fissures in the rock, while all around
hung brilliant icicles glittering and sparkling in the sunlight superbly.
"' C'est bien " Le Bout du il~onde "' * said the peasant
woman naively, and I afterwards found it was the actual
name of the place.
" I gave her some money and dismissed her. My watch
told me I had only been a little over an hour and a half
walking there, thus leaving me at least two hours more
for my ramble; so I gave myself up freely to the luxury
of a silent revery in this beautiful spot.
" I returned to the gorge, where I paced rapidly up and
down the snow-covered path. The shadows of the firtrees rested on the ground as firm and still as if inlaid;
the glittering snow flashed in the morning sunlight a million of facets, -a sheet- of diamonds; and the sharp
peaks of the mountain lay white and icy against the blue
sky. My fancy, morbid from the influence of sorrow,
drew a sad contrast between those cutting ice-peaks, the
soft clouds of the heavens, and my own broken life; I
thought of Mary's lot and mine with something like bitterness.
"I could not feel disheartened with that strong fresh
mountain air, washing like waves over my hot brow and
cheeks. Nor could I, when I thought
* It is indeed " The End of the World."




JANET'S STORY.                   29'o'er loss of days no more to be,
Of actions dropped to dreams, and dreams to Death,
And then Eternity,' *
feel what is called resignation. Like you, Ottilie, I have
no such grace given me. I think I am more submissive
than you, - certainly not more enduring, my friend, -
but not one whit more resigned. I may meet with a hundred rebuffs and disappointments and be desperate; but
still I stand with armor buckled on ready for fresh action.
"' I planted my feet strongly and firmly on that rocky,
icy road, as I paced rapidly to and fro, looking up at the
cliffs and the shut-in gorge, which doubtless was'the
end of the world' to the innocent inhabitants of the place.
It was a solemn, sublime spot, where fancy might readily
weave woof and web of sombre but grand contrasts, filling memory's storehouse with material for the use of the
imagination at more healthy seasons. I seemed surrounded with'Fragments of a crystal world
Long shattered from its skyey course.'
" Does it seem strange to you, Ottilie, that I should be
able to recall the very detail of emotions felt so many
years ago? It was just at the turning-point of my life,
when the load of trouble had grown so heavy as to be
near that perilous toppling over which is apt to carry
the sufferer with it in its fall. Thus my memory retains
the impression of the keen cutting left by those sad experiences.
" Poverty,'that sorrowful human poison,' as some one
has called it, had added itself to our other trials, giving
to my soul little nervous tremblings, exaggerated apprehensions and timidities, quite foreign to my character,
* Read's "' Doomed and Forgotten."




30             ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
paralyzing every power and desire of happiness. 0, it
is a terrible poison of pride, that same poverty, for it
distorts and chills the heart, making one believe in the
existence of a sea of ice between ourselves and others.
I felt like shutting the book of life forever, so hopeless
seemed our future, without even the memory of a happy
past to relieve it, - and yet so soon life was to open up
to me, for the first time in my existence, a real, true, unalloyed joy! That very spring it was I first met Paul."
Janet stopped. The night was too dark for me to see
her face; but there was an agitation in the rich tones of
her voice, which showed she was deeply moved. After
a few moments, she continued, —
" Noonday approaching, warned me of the necessity of
returning towards the town, and I retraced the road on
the border of the Leysse, which had led me to this beautiful spot in the morning. I found the children up,
dressed, and the maid spreading a nice dinner for us in
the anteroom of our apartment.
"'How fresh and rosy you look, dear Jennie,' they
cried, leaping into my arms, and almost smothering me
with kisses.
" As my walk had sharpened my appetite as well as
brightened my cheeks and eyes, I hastened to our dinner.
That through, we went to the diligence, in order to be
seated before the other passengers arrived. When I
stepped in after Ernst, the boy made an outcry, and my
foot pressed something hard which had just fallen from
his hand.
"' O, my knife, my knife!' he exclaimed.
"'Here it is,' I said; and stooping down I picked it up
from the straw where he had dropped it. I slipped it
into my pocket, intending to put it in the travelling-bag




JANET'S STORY.                31
after we should be seated, for it was a heavy, troublesome
thing. It had been sent to Ernst a little while before
from the United States, — a real Western bowie-knife,
which he wished with boy pride to show to our little
nieces at Turin. We had just taken our seats when in
trooped the other passengers. There were not so many
as the night before, and most of them were new comers.
An old peasant woman was among them. I made room
for her beside Ernst, having taken the corner seat myself.
My German neighbor, I observed with great satisfaction,
had left also.
" Toward sunset we reached St. Jean. The children
wished to look out of the window, so I stood up with
Venitia, while Ernst left his seat to see something on the
roadside which had attracted his sister's attention. When
the diligence was ready to start, to my surprise and dissatisfaction I found Ernst's seat occupied; I looked at the
person and recognized the officious German. He had
been travelling from Chambery in some other part of the
diligence. I observed also that every one had left the
interior but the old woman, who had settled herself to
sleep in the farthest corner.
" My heart seemed to stand still for an instant. The
man said nothing, but as my eye met his I fancied in its expression that he observed my annoyance and exulted in it.
I went over to the opposite bench and put one of the children on either side of me. The German taking no other
notice of the change than by stretching himself out on the
unoccupied seats, I began to think I had been foolishly
alarming myself; so gradually dismissing him from my
mind, I became absorbed in thinking of Mary and the desolation of life her death would cause me.
"Night came on very cold and dark. I listened to




32             ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
the heavy breathing of the sleepers. The dull hoarse
snoriing of the old woman proved how leaden was her
slumber. The diligence wheels groaned through the
hard, stony snow, grinding it with sharp harsh creaks
into powder. The wind blew high, moaning in soughs
and gusts around the desolate place. The voice of the
driver, the cries of the postillion to his horses, all sounded
as if coming from a great distance.
"While I was observing this, the helplessness and loneliness of my position again presented themselves to me.
No cry of mine thrown out from this shut-up box of a
place on that surging, roaring wind could possibly be
heard, or, if heard, probably no attention would be paid
to it; for, according to European notions, I had no business to be travelling in such a place unprotected.
" Ernst had crept down on the large tin foot-warmer,
his head rested on my lap, one dear soft cheek nestled
lovingly in the palm of my hand. I listened to the sweet
rise and fall of the breath of the sleeping children; so loud
did my own heart throb, that I could plainly distinguish
its anxious troubled beat from the peaceful measure of
their childish slumbers. Suddenly I heard a slight rustling in the corner occupied by the German, and I thought
I saw in the dim light a figure moving.
"My anxiety is making a baby of me," I said to myself, while I strained my eyes forward, watching closely.
I was not mistaken, -he was coming stealthily over to
my side of the coach.
"'Wir sind besonders glticklich, so allein zu sein in
diinkler Nacht, und um eine solche gute Gelegenheit za
benuitzen setze beiseite iuserliche Besheidenheit,' * said
* " We are very lucky to be all alone this dark night; we ought to
use such a good opportunity, and not be too modest."




JANET'S STORY.                 33
he, taking his seat beside me, and resting his arm on my
neck.
"I sprang to my feet, snatched the knife out of my
pocket, the recollection of which came to me as if by inspiration, touched its spring, and flashed the broad, bright
blade in his face; there was just light enough from the
dim lantern to show the glimmer of the steel. I am sure
if he had touched me I should have killed him.
"I never saw a human being so alarmed in my life.
Hie was struck dumb, cowered down, and gradually crept
off, farther and farther from me, until he had reached the
end of the coach. I did not speak a word, nor cease
looking at him; I was afraid of breaking the fascination.
I sat down with assumed calmness, but continued snapping the blade with leisurely beats to and fro. I do not
know how long I sat watching him; the time seemed interminable. About midnight the diligence stopped at
one of the relay houses, or houses of refuge. There my
German admirer stepped out, and I saw him no more.
Just before the diligence started, I heard one of the
guards bantering him, evidently urging him to return to
the interior.
"' Verdammit, nein,' he muttered, sullenly,' da drinnen
ist eine Birin.' *
"'Sie ist eine Americanerin,' t said the guard, laughing.
" The German's teeth fairly chattered with fright, as
he cried,' Americanerin! was sie nicht sagen! Mein
Gott! lieber ginge ich in die Hdhle einer Birin als
einer solchen Americanerin zu nahe zu kommen!' ~
*  "Curse it, no! There is a she-bear in there! "
t " She's an American woman."
t "An American woman! You don't say so! My God, I had rather
go into a she-bear's den than come too near such an American
woman."
2*                            c




34             ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
"The other men laughed heartily as he clambered up
to some other part of the coach, grumbling angrily, while
the -diligence rolled on to Susa. My journey after that
passed without incident; and when I reached Turin I had
the great happiness of finding Mary not only alive, but
relieved from immediate danger. In a fortnight she was
well enough to enjoy my description of the journey, and
laugh with me over the fright caused by my German admirer, as well as the good use I had made of Ernst's
bowie-knife."
This story led Janet and Venitia to recall many old
memories, while I fell into a troubled, disturbed sleep of
fatigue which caused me the loss of the fine sunrise at
Susa. I remember trying to arouse myself to look at
the mountain outlines of the Plains of Piedmont as the
keen-eyed Janet pointed them out on our approach to
Susa, but I was growing so weary with the twelve hours'
confinement in the coupe' as to feel really ill and long
for the sight of Turin.
At Susa, our diligence was raised upon the railway
again, but we did not reach Turin until ten o'clock in the
morning. I have a dim recollection of being lifted to a
carriage, carried to a room, laid on a bed, and in the
midst of much suffering, feeling Janet's dear hand-touches, with once in a while a soft, cool kiss on my hot brow,
and a short, eager, loving press of her cheek against
mine, which tender nursing at last quieted the mortal
pain, soothing me into a heavy sleep, filled with mysterious magnetic dreams. Of course we could not continue
our journey; but I am so much better this morning that
we shall leave at two o'clock, as we wish to be in Genoa
before Carnival closes.




JANET'S STORY.                 35
Janet and Venitia have gone out to refresh old memories. Years ago this was one of the tarrying places of
their curious nomadic life.  I should have liked to go
with them, but I did not think it prudent, as the streets
are covered with snow. It disappoints me, too, for I
wished to visit the Turin Royal Gallery, which has a fine
collection of pictures of the old German school. Viardot says, in his Miusees d'Italie, that no museum in Italy is so rich as this in German paintings. There are
Albert Durer's, some fine Holbein portraits, - one of my
historical heroine, Marguerite de Valois, —Rubens's, Rembrandt's, Van-Dyck's, and, above all, one of the tender
pictures of that devoted observer of "the beautiful laws
of Catholic symbolism and religious painting, who united
the deep symbolism of devotion and holy beauty with a
German abundance of feeling and expression"; * Henling, whose touching picture of the " Passion," is in this
collection.
But I only tease myself by naming them over. Here
come Janet and Venitia, full of eager, earnest, pleasant
talk. Venitia has turned over the leaves of my journal,
crying out with surprise at the number of pages I have
written during their absence. Janet scolded me tenderly. But it would have been greater fatigue to have
lain on a sofa with hands folded over the aching heart,
feeling the biting tooth of resentful, bitter memory eating in and in!
* F. Schlegel.




RAILWAY TALK AND- CARNIVAL
STUDIES.
GENOA.
E arrived last evening at eight o'clock, having
left Turin at two in the afternoon. Although
there was snow at Turin, the country lost its
H —m E iwintry look very soon, and the air grew soft
and balmy.
Piedmont — Pied de monte, foot of the mountain —
lay spread out before us; we almost fancied we could
see these vast plains between the Alps and Apennines,
stretching from their mountain frontiers far across Lombardy to the Adriatic, their mistress; for though the
western and southwestern shores are washed by the Mediterranean, their waters are all sent to the Venetian Sea.
The journey between Turin and Genoa was very pleasant. The rest which I had taken in Turin refreshed me,
and made me strong enough to notice and enjoy this new
landscape, which differs very much in all its points from
Swiss scenery. The color of the sky first struck me. Its
mellow amber hue is so unlike the cold transparent stony
blue of the Alpine heavens. Then the buildings are
novel. I had grown familiar in Switzerland with the
heavy turreted tops of the grim'Middle Age chateaux
and the gray stone churches, whose massive, four-sided
spires, with ogive openings, seemed part and parcel of
the mountains from whose sides they jutted out.




RAILWAY TALK AND CARNIVAL STUDIES.    37
The Italian campaniles, or bell towers, are the first
buildings which attract attention on these Plains of Piedmont. The Lombards, in adopting the Basilica of Latin
architecture, did not lose sight of this graceful accessory.
They seemed to have enjoyed the picturesque effect these
campaniles and the baptisteries produced when grouped
around their churches; for they displayed so much architectural taste in them. These beautiful towers run gracefully up against the soft sky, several stories in height,
each story often bearing a different order of architecture;
the rich-hued heavens peep through the many-arched, airylooking belfry-tops, these sweet warders and gentle guards
of the churches, beside which they stand, and they differ
widely as well as pleasantly from the frowning towers of
old Lombardy castles, which bristle out from many an
Alpine crest, whose heavy machicolations and sharp turrets of inverted triangles tell of the fierce times when
Guelph and Ghibelline warred hotly against each other.
"This landscape is very gentle and gracious," remarked
Venitia.  "It is quite a relief to my eyes, after having
looked so long on rugged Alps, with their torrents and
glaciers and dense forests."
"The garden of Europe," I said, half to myself, as I
leaned back in the comfortably stuffed seat of the railway
carriage.
" A garden it is truly," answered Janet, "but one that
has been nourished with precious human blood. This
little kingdom of Piedmont, or Sardinia, has grown on
what kills other and larger governments, — politics and
war; in this it resembles Prussia. Two great men erected their inheritances into kingdoms through the force of
their individual will and courage about the same period.
Frederick the Great, of Prussia, that prosaic, wondrous




38             ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
hero, as Heine calls him, and Victor Amadeus II. of
Savoy, —both princes, too, struggling against one common enemy; — Austria. This very north of Italy was
then the scene of the same struggle which is now going
on, Piedmont against Austria, with France for her ally and
kinsman; for a royal marriage then sealed the treaty between Louis XIV. and Victor Amadeus, as it is going to
do now between the French Emperor and Victor Emanuel. Louis's grandson, the Duc de Bourgogne, you know,
married a daughter of the aspiring Savoisien DukeKing.
"France her kinsman! " I repeated. "Yes, you are
right. The questionable fidelity and friendly tyranny
which France has always shown Savoy and Piedmont
is very like that which a strong and powerful kinsman
is apt to show a weaker relative. But the first part of
your remarks recalls to me a fine expression of De Mazade, - you will remember it. He says,' this Plain of
Piedmont has had the fatal privilege of being the champclos * of European duels.'"
" That is very true," assented Janet.  "Every spot
here has been trampled under foot with war-steeds;
every clump of grass and every leaf on the trees should
be blood-red instead of green. All these towns we have
been travelling through during the last two or three
days have names which bristle with warlike memories as
with spears.  Conquered and reconquered  Susa, besieged Turin, both tell the same old story of European
antagonisms, rival struggles, and Italian yearnings after
liberty."
"Which yearnings," I added, " generally resolve themselves, so far as true national or governmental liberty is
* Chamnp-clos, field for single combat, - lists.




RAILWAY TALK AND CARNIVAL STUDIES.   39
concerned, into a sonnet, a written tragedy, or an epic.
From Dante to the present day, all their poets have
moaned over,'in deathless verse,' the oppressions and
wrongs endured by this'geographical expression,' as
Metternich pertly called Italy."
"The Italians, it is true," replied Janet, laughing,
"have always believed everything could be said in
verse, and, as I think of it, I remember that one of
the noted Italian poets of the present day, a Piedmontese, too, by the way, has actually written a poem, in
which he has celebrated the Piedmontese statutes, the
two Chambers of Deputies, and the Constitutional laws,
-just fancy the droll air of such an epic!"
We sat silent for a little while, when suddenly Venitia
exclaimed, -
"0  Jennie, do you remember that famous journey
we made last year, coming from Paris to Switzerland,
when we passed through the vast plains of Franche
Comte, that golden Burgundy, the rich Cote d'Or, with
its sweet flowering vineyards which filled the air with
fragrance? for it was in early June, you know.  You
remind me of that delightful journey, for, just as you
have been doing now, you and Ottilie mingled with the
subtle odor of the grape-flower your memories of the
past.  You showered down a flood of names and a
stream of historic story as brilliant in its flow as the
precious Burgundian wine. But I remember it poured
black and dark with that bad Philip,' the greatest duke
in all the world,' the one whom history calls'Good,'
notwithstanding the cruel wrong he did to his poor or.
phan niece, Jacqueline of Holland, -'She whom they called queen
In Brabant once.'"




40              ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
" Yes," answered Janet, smiling, " we went over the
whole Burgundian line from Philip the Bold down to
Charles the Bold, and his chronicler De Commines;
then when we came to that great struggle of ducal pride
and state ambition warring with the general power, that
never-ending sphinx riddle for countries, Ottilie and I
had a grand argument, I remember."
"But I did not follow  you through those political
historical disputes," said Venitia. I got no further than
poor Jacqueline, -  as Owen Meredith sings:-'Alas, it was a piteous history,
The life of that poor countess! -
Wrongs, insults, treacheries,
Hopes broken down, and memory which sighed
In, like a night-wind.'"
" It is very hard," said Janet, laughing, " to make you
enthusiastic young persons accept those great facts which
history establishes; namely, that there are some rights
which are perfectly just in themselves and yet seem politically impossible, and some concessions which are not
only humiliating, but cruel, that seem politically necessary."
"Venitia must accept them," I remarked.  "If she
does not now, her life experience, I fancy, will teach
them to her; for they are proved, not only in the history
of nations, but in the history of every woman."
" It is not so pleasant to learn them from experience,"
said Janet, pressing my hand tenderly.  "There is a
sort of aerial perspective hanging around historical wrongs
which makes them less painful to regard than personal
ones. The distance of time prevents us from seeing and
feeling all the detail of suffering caused by these wicked
political necessities and impossibilities; it enables us also




RAILWAY TALK AND CARNIVAL STUDIES.   41
to distinguish the whole great plan and note the divine
balance made in the end, the holy compensation which
equalizes all at last. This very Jacqueline of Holland
story, for example; we who look at it now may feel like
Venitia, indignant for the unfortunate young countess's
sake, but our indignation is tempered quickly; the eye
has only to run down a few sentences, as it were, on the
page of history, to find the injustice meeting its punishment.  Forty years after the sad period when poor
Jacqueline' in Holland night and day
Watched those long lines of siege, and fought at bay
Along her broken army,'
the Burgundian line ended in one fair girl, who, like her
grandfather's niece, stood alone in life, an orphan, and
had her duchy, that beautiful Burgundy for whose advancement Philip had sinned, wrested from her by Louis
XI. Jacqueline's wrongs were resented, just where Philip
would have felt them most, on his granddaughter, Mary
of Burgundy; and yet the innocent young duchess was
compensated too, for she was bride to a great emperor,
Maximilian of Austria."
"What a sweet opium for private griefs is contained
in this journeying over European lands," I remarked,
after a little pause. "These'majestical steam-horses'
carry us swiftly through countries whose history revives
pleasant home studies of our youth, the quiet library
readings when we pored over books night and day, the
printed page setting our young brains to thinking earnestly of great events which seemed to us
"Dust and ashes, dead and done with,"
but which here take living form and shape. Memory
forgets to dwell on her own little tale of sorrows while




42             ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
making these glorious sweeps over thousands of years
filled with great incidents, many of which, too, are draped
with the glowing, sparkling tissue of rich old'poesy and
romance."'
"Heine says so touchingly," replied Janet, "in his Pictures of Travel, that the study of history led his soul to
calmer paths, and he talks of'those historical consolations enabling him to bear the painful events of his after
life.' Then add to this study, Ottilie, the visiting and
living in countries which are famous in history, the very'breathing the spirit of the place,' and we gain from it,
not only a consolation and enjoyment, but a refinement
of character, a mental culture, which cannot be obtained
in any other pursuit or study."
" But to reap the full benefit of it, Janet," said Venetia, " what years of study and thought are required. And
not only these, but vivid memory and quick fancy must
be united to the past labor. I wonder if I shall ever arrive at the time when I can be able to allow my mind to
lie still and simply drink the rich draught which this
European journeying offers me without the everlasting
hard study I now have to keep up, like a difficult accompaniment running underneath some divine melody."
We could not help laughing, though the dear girl was
in very sober earnest. She joined in our laugh good-humoredly; but, shaking her head, she added, a little sorrowfully, "I am sure I should do or be something if that
time should ever come, for I am taking in all the while
Art's very nutriment, not only the spirit of beauty, but
knowledge itself fiom its glorious fountain-heads."
"Poor child! " said Janet, "and are you troubled with
that naughty'Canker of ambitious thoughts?'




RAILWAY TALK AND CARNIVAL STUDIES.   43
You will never find sweet, quiet paths in Europe or anywhere else so long as your spirit travels that hot, dusty,
high-road.  But here we are at Genoa la Superba.
Genoa and a Carnival! Think of that, Ottilie! One
would be enough for common mortals, but we must have
both glories showered down on us."
The cars.stopped, and then followed the usual bustle.
We were soon through the confusion, however, and nicely accommodated in the Hotel Fdder, which was formerly
the Palace of the Admiralty. It is a grand old building,
with noble halls, broad spacious flights of stone stairways, rooms of palatial height, size, and adornments too,
for our apartments are beautifully frescoed and luxuriously furnished.
At last I find myself really in Italy; it seems like living awake a beautiful dream. Snowy Turin discouraged
me and I looked longingly, hoping to see what Heine
calls " the variegated tangled life of Italy come leaping
towards me; real, warm, and humming." Here I have
it in its fullest force, for added to the native exuberance
of life is the Carnival. Then the weather is delicious.
We are just stepping on the flowery lintel of this blessed
land
" Where summer sings and never dies,"
and are already breathing its divine atmosphere.
Carnival is near its close, for Ash-Wednesday is at
hand, and the people are on their maddest height of fun
and frolic. I see the same exhibitions I have read of
hundreds of times in books of travel; but, as it is my first
Carnival, the festival strikes me not exactly as a new
thing might, but with greater power, I fancy. When I
read the descriptions of others I often tried to imagine
these scenes; thus I have now in my mind their impres



44             ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
sions, the feeble pictures of my fancy, and the wonderful
reality which is indeed hard to represent in words, or
even on canvas, for it is such a motley, changeable, emotional thing.
I find myself recalling the various instrumental Carnivals of musicians with greater satisfaction than those
given in books. To read aloud the finest written description here in its presence would sound tame and insipid; but Venitia goes from the window to the piano
every little while to play passages recalled or suggested
to her memory by something in the street from some
musical composer's Carnival, and the music, instead of
sounding out of place, seems to give even a richer color
to the fete.
I have drawn my writing-table into the large balcony
on the outside of the window, and as I write I can look
down on the thronged strada beneath, and sketch from
nature as a painter painting a picture. Barouches filled
with gayly dressed people, some in grotesque costumes,
are driving slowly along. One barouche has just passed
by, in which was a merry party of children dressed superbly in the magnificent costume of the time of Louis
XIV.  Two little girls represented, one a marquise
and the other a duchess; they wore paint, powder, and
patches, and robes of the richest satins and velvets, but
all their fine clothes could not take the child out of them,
for the carriage scarcely held them in their frolic mirth.
From these carriages come showers of confetti; the
occupants throw them at each other, on the crowd and
even up into the balconies, for Venitia has just received
a shower of very nice ones from the carriage load of
children.
Now a clown dashes through the crowd, and the peo



RAILWAY TALK AND CARNIVAL STUDIES.   45
ple scatter on each side, as if his bursts of reckless fun
and droll somersets were handfuls of sharp missiles; he
jingles his bells, leaps up in air, making the eyes dance
as his mantle of brilliant zigzag figures waves about,
and his Joseph garment of many colors flashes to and fro
from his rapid movements.
The people give a fresh shout, and out from a strada
at the east comes trotting a troop of asses; the clown is
forgotten; he has dashed off to amuse another crowd,
while we gaze at the gay feathered trappings of the asses,
and laugh ourselves almost sick over the droll devices of
the various riders; each one carries an absurd baton,
whose ends are surmounted by heads of geese and pigs,
&c.; and the faces of the donkey-riders are hidden by
ludicrous, huge-nosed, broad, grinning-mouthed masks.
" 0 look! " cries Venitia; and the crowd stop laughing
to gaze, as we do, admiringly at a party of young gentlemen, who pass by with stately tread, masked and richly
dressed. Their glittering spurs clank against the stones
of the strada, their swords ring in the scabbards, and the
gay hat-plumes nod with a gracious wave. Behind them
are their horses superbly caparisoned, and each is led
by a servant in an Oriental dress. It is just sunset; and
although the golden rays cannot enter the narrow street,
still the air is made bright, and we feel the sunlight, if
we do not see it.
As the graceful cavaliers disappear, we hear music approaching. A band of singers are turning that corner
of Piazzi Bianchi, and their chorus is as mellow and
golden as the atmosphere. They pass on, and from another point a crowd of motley-hued maskers come pouring tumultuously into our already crowded strada; but
they all mingle together as quick blending figures in a




46             ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
kaleidoscope, or like the circles and eddies in a stream,
where a fast-flowing downward current meets a bubbling
up spring; they form bewildering mazes, and yet there
seems some curious tangled harmony of figure in the
whole variegated mass.
There are shrill ear-piercing fifes and whistles, while
real Pulcinellas squeak and brandish their wooden
swords.  A  glorious peal of the merriest laughter
mounts up like the foam  on a goblet of new wine.
Every moment there is a fresh absurdity, and each absurdity is sometimes graceful, but never vulgar.  The
mingling, blending crowds grow more noisy as night
comes on; there is, however, no fighting, brutality, or
coarseness; they sweep on in one endless flow of gayety.
Opposite our window, on the other side of the strada,
is a shop where masks and dominos are sold; they hang
around the door and windows, flapping about in the
evening wind, as if longing to leap off their hooks and
dance along in the merry crowd. Every rank and condition of costume is swaying there, from costly corn color
or pink satin, bordered with this delicate silver lace of
Genoa manufacture, down to common red and black muslin. Then the masks are as various. There are strings
of lovely Venetian ones, made of black velvet with falls
of rich lace, looking most bewitchingly and entreatingly
out of their almond-shaped eye-hollows, while hob-nobbing beside them are absurd Pulcinella masks, with
huge noses and hideous mouths.
We saw a living picture this afternoon at the corner
of the Piazza dell' Annunziata, such a one as would
have set an old painter half beside himself. A handsome Genoese woman, one of the lower class, sat in a
chair in the open street, having her fine hair dressed by
n                    YrIIV  INI \IUU\CN




RAILWAY TALK AND CARNIVAL STUDIES.    47
a girl almost as pretty as herself. Two or three men
stood near her, "assisting," (as the French say,) and
seemed really to enjoy the plaiting and trailing out of
those rich long tresses as much as we did. The work
also exhibited to advantage the fine arms and well-formed
person of the pretty hair-dresser.
One of the men held in his hands a long veil with gay
flowers stamped on its border. It was the mezzaro, as it
is called, the costume of every woman in Genoa; for even
those of the highest rank wear it to church. In most
Catholic countries a French-shaped bonnet, such as all
women wear elsewhere, is considered bold and irrevereiit
at a place of worship. Italian and Spanish women, who
delight in the costliest and gayest bonnets for a promenade or visit, will shroud their heads meekly and devoutly in a simple veil when going to their devotions.
But to return to the Genoese mezzaro. It is worn
like the Spanish rebosa, thrown over and covering the
head, and extending nearly to the waist; the- ends are
gathered up on the arms, and crossed over the breast,
making one of the most bewitching costumes imaginable,
combining the gracefulness of the scarf with the pretty
coquetry of the veil.
I must not forget our street picture, however. Another lucky dog literally "assisted" the pretty' hairdresser, for he smoothed out awkwardly, but softly and
tenderly, one of the long thick braids of hair. The girl,
who was the fortunate possessor of the luxuriant tresses,
sat leaning lazily back in her low wooden chair, twirling
a gilt hair-pin between her fingers, laughing and looking
up at her friend in high glee.  Both were evidently
"belles in their own circle," and, if rivals, were friendly
ones, or wise enough to know they were most powerful




48              ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
united. According to Janet's and Venitia's report, —for
they understand this Genoese dialect, - the girls were
saying all manner of saucy things to their beaux.
Their brilliant eyes shot out sparkling jets of fire,
their lips were as red as the coral beads encircling their
proud, well-formed throats, - throats which looked like
bits of fine columns, -and the skin! 0 that was delicious, "Phoebus had loved it and kissed it brown," and
the genial warm blood mounted up in a rich glow on
their cheeks.
" Ah!" I exclaimed, " if an artist would only deign to
copy such pieces of nature from these street corners of
Italian towns, his pictures would be' ravishing before he
hardly knew it. As Stendhal says,' Filippo Lippi and
Frere Angelico da Fiesole, when they had the good luck
to meet with a fine bit in nature, copied it with conscientious fidelity. It was this close study of real life in its
most perfect form which makes the works of the painters
of the last half of the fifteenth century so enchanting.'"
"But those old Italian artists," said Janet, " were
something more than mere painters. When you come to
see the numberless walls, ceilings, and altars in South
Italy, covered with fine decorative frescoes and paintings,
you will say they were the works of men possessing more
than ordinary mind, and higher, purer culture than we
see now. Their creations must have cost them vigils of
meditation, days of labor, and concentrated thought; then,
added to this, they had a gift of conception, such as great
poets or famous writers possess."
"Lord Lindsay," I remarked, "after giving the first
period, from the sixth century to the fifteenth, to architecture, as the voice of the simple, pure faith of the age,.
devotes the fifteenth century to sculpture, as the expres



RAILWAY TALK AND CARNIVAL STUDIES.   49
sion of Christianity battling with Intellect; the third,
however, extending from the latter half of the fifteenth to
the middle of the sixteenth century, he says witnessed
the successive triumphs of that struggle, and Painting
became then the handmaid and exponent of Christianity." *
" There is something very earnest and true in architecture," responded Janet, "I mean that architecture of
the early ages of the Church. Jean Paul was right, or
felt right, when he said,'the giant stood out of it and
close before the soul.' The men who built those great
works were nourished on' plain living and high thought';
they must have had a faith, not childlike, but godlike.
The painters who followed them — those marvellous men
I was just speaking of —seem to me to have been earnest believers too; but they had become poets, and were
as little children in their expression of the new gift. They
looked up into the throbbing heavens, and saw adoring
cherub heads crowding in to behold the glory of the Infant God; and on the long, cool, level clouds beautiful
Madonnas stood, crowned with the glory of the setting
sun of old Heathenism beaming on them, while the long
folds of their chaste garments swept above the young
crescent moon of Christ's faith, which was just rising.
These men had hearts running over with love, bodies
brimming up with rich exuberant life, and minds not so
full of learning as of heavenly inspiration. A great Word
was given to mankind in each one of those periods; but
we do not seem to possess, now-a-days, organs capable of
hearing or comprehending the language. Even the few
of us who fondly think we possess them, grope as children at twilight or see as' through a glass darkly."'
* Lord Lindsay's Christian Art, Vol. II. p. 4.
3                           D




50             ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
- The night has closed in completely; the turmoil
still goes on in the strada, but as a sea-breeze is blowing,
and it is cool, I have come in and closed the window.
Venitia is playing mad wild bursts of music, broken bits
of conception suggested by these Carnival sights. She is
more than clever, but her thoughts to-night are disjointed
and rugged.
Here comes our refreshing nine o'clock tea; for we
Americans, like the English, never lose our home habits,
whatever part of the world we may float to. We shall
have a little pleasant talk over the teacups, and then we
shall part for the night, as the confusion of the Carnival
has wearied us sadly.




PRIDE, PIETY, AND AMBITION.
E  have spent the day in church-visiting.
First we went to the Cathedral of San
Lorenzo, one of the oldest churches in Italy,
built in the beginning of the eleventh century; but only one of its towers was ever completed. It
remains unfinished, as do so many of these old churches
on the Continent, notwithstanding the early date of its
foundation.
The traveller soon grows accustomed, however, to these
half-completed works of Europe; and, indeed, to so much
that might seem to be hinderances to enjoyment; —to ruins
that are not even sublime; to all the surroundings of
rugged footpaths, and the rude makeshifts of an indolent population, such as hovels and ignoble buildings,
crowding close in against these vast piles of architecture.
But these drawbacks are no more noticed than the
withered branches, dead leaves, unsightly bugs, or woody
paths made muddy by the trickling of a wandering rivulet in a vast forest. The unfinished towers and spires,
too, are like some forest-trees that have shot out one
complete branch to its full and perfect height, and quite
forgotten, through stress of storm, or some other forest
trial of earth, or air, or sky, the rest of the branches belonging to the original tree-plan.




52             ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
The exterior of the Cathedral of San Lorenzo is curiously ornamented with blocks of white and black marble, a Saracenic fashion of decoration. In the interior,
the nave has sixteen columns of black and white Parian
marble. The architecture is of no particular style, and
ineffective, the church having evidently undergone those
alterations which the architects of the Renaissance saw
fit to make.
San Lorenzo has a number of side chapels, into one of
which Venitia was obstinately bent on entering, and had
quite a playful, coaxing talk with the Sacristan, endeavoring to bribe him, not only with silver lira, but with her
own bewitching smiles and beguiling words; — all in
vain.
It was the Chapel of St. John the Baptist; and Innocent VIII. having been attacked with a fit of anger
against the memory of the pretty dancing daughter of
the cruel Herodias, resented her sin on her sex, by forbidding all women to step foot over the threshold of this
Chapel, except one day in the year, the fete day, which
does not fall during our stay.
" Your church, Ottilie," said Janet, "has always been
sadly wanting in gallantry to our sex."
"On the contrary, my dear," I replied, " it has always
acknowledged our great power."
" Not in very courteous terms or ways.  But do listen
to that witch, Venitia. How well she remembers this
Genoese dialect! Dear child! She makes me think of
those old days. Her born tongue is that caressing, childlike Venitian; but she was always very quick in catching
these peculiarities of speech which make up the different
dialects of a language. Hear! how she rings out this
Gallicized Genoese, as good, I assure you, as any of the
people might speak it themselves."




PRIDE, PIETY, AND AMBITION.          53
But all Venitia's sacrifice in the way of pronunciation
had no affect on the Sacristan, who was quite willing to
show us the rest of the chlurch, the Queen of Sh~ba's
Emerald Vase, - the famous " Sacre Catino," - all the
wonders, in fine, but not this Chapel; and wound up his
refusal with a compliment that made us laugh heartily.
"The Signorine was so charming and dangerous, that
he now saw how necessary it was for the poor men to
guard themselves against such perils."
Before leaving the Cathedral we held the " Sacre Catino " in our hands, and reverenced it for its great legendary history.
" What if it is not a real emerald," said Janet, "and
suppose the Queen of Sheba never did present it to her
beloved Solomon, human faith has rested on it; it is a
relic of those blessed, childlike days, when belief was
what doubt and unbelief are now, a credit and a virtue.
Seven hundred and odd years, little vase, you have lived,
to our knowledge; — Heaven only knows how much older
you may be; — and so great was your success at one
time, that you grew tyrannical, and punished with death
any one who should doubt your regal and holy history.
That was a mistake, - a mistake of pride, — a poison
which lies at the root of all errors.'A haughty spirit
goeth before a fall,' dear emerald, and, as high as was
your pride, so great has been your ruin; shattered and
valueless you remain now, except to some dreamy believers, like Ottilie here, or, charitable, indulgent legendloving heretics, such as I. You are very dear to me, little vase, and I shall kiss you to show my reverence."
We had to laugh at Janet's droll apostrophe to the
"Sacre Catino"; and the Sacristan, who did not understand a word of her English, stared, as he well might;




54.  ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
but when he saw her lift the famous old crystal to her
lips and kiss it reverentially, then hand it to us for a like
show of respect, he nodded his head approvingly.
From San Lorenzo we drove up La Strada Nuovo,
which is bordered on either side with fine palaces; while
looking at and admiring this grand reunion of lordly
buildings, we understood well why people called this city
"La Superba."  We went also through Stradas Balbi,
Carlo Felice, Carlo Alberti, Giulia Carrettiera, and several other streets, enjoying the Italian appearance of the
place.
It was high noon; the magnificent architecture of this
gay, southern city, which lay inundated with golden sunlight, looking so regal and opulent, running over with exuberant life and action, the merry, mad Carnival mood of
the population, their beautiful costumes, — all affected me
deeply. It reminded me of the delicious dreams I used
to have of a summer's day, when I was a girl, and would
fall asleep in a hammock, under the shade of an old walnut-tree, after having read myself luxuriously full of fancies over Arabian Nights or Spenser's FaSry Queen.
It being the hour of luncheon, we returned to our hotel;
after that meal was over and we had rested a while, we
started out
"' To fresh woods and pastures new."
"Oh Jennie," said Venitia, after we were seated in
the barouche, and the courier stood at the door to receive
his orders, "let us go look at that brilliant Church of
L'Annunziata. You cannot tell, Ottilie, how much I
adored its gold and purple splendors when I was a child."
So to the Church of the Annunciation we went. It
is one mass of gold-leaf and frescoes, brilliant-hued silk,




PRIDE, PIETY, AND AMBITION.          55
Genoese crimson velvet drapery, and cloth of silver and
gold. The effect is not only dazzling but bewildering,
every part glittering with costly adornments.  It was
built by Della Porta, and is a true church of the Renaissance style.
At the intersection of the cross — that is, where the
transept and nave meet - there is a gilded cupola, supported by caryatides, also blazing with gold-leaf. This
superb and costly church was built for the Lomellini, a
great old Italian house, the heads of which counted themselves sovereigns, and reigned over a little island kingdom, about a mile and a quarter long and a few furlongs
wide, with five hundred subjects, out in the lovely Mediterranean.  Kings of Tabarca! Half Spanish, and half
African; no wonder, when fashion required every noble
family to own at least one church, as part of the appointments of their establishment, these island sovereigns displayed such barbaric splendor. As I was talking of this
old custom of family church-building, Janet said:" Let us leave this place; I wish to show you a church
which was really built to gratify family pride; and, not
only that, to heal wounded vanity, a superb palace was
demolished, in order to make room for a house of religious
worship. It has a curious history, which I will tell you
when we are in one of its chapels."
We left L'Annunziata, and, driving through the Carnival crowd to the other end of the city, came to a hill
on the eastern side, which overlooks the gulf and a great
part of the town. On this hill stands a fine church, Santa
Marie de Carignan.  We entered it, and finding seats
near Luca' Cambiaso's "Pieth," placed so that we could
look at the picture leisurely, - the standing figure in
which, to the right of the spectator, is supposed to be




56             ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
the portrait of the church founder, - I sat and listened
to Janet's account of the cause of the building bf the
church.
"Near the middle of the sixteenth century the Marquis de Sauli was one of Genoa's richest and most esteemed noblemen.  He owned, among other delightful
things, a number of city palaces; and the one in which
he loved best to live was a magnificent building standing
high and lordly on the Hill de Carignan.
"Although the Marquis was so passing rich, strange to
say, he had no chapel nor church of his own. He was
in the habit of going to hear Mass in the church belonging to his old friend, Count Fieschi, - the Santa Marie
in Vie Lata; and he continued doing this even when his
old brother nobleman died and the haughty eighteen-yearold heir succeeded to the title and vast estates of the
Fieschi family. It never entered into his head that he
might not be as welcome to the young Count; for we
middle-aged people are very apt to think lightly, and
often not at all, of the likes and dislikes of young folk.
It was only yesterday they were children, and had to
obey; it is hard to step aside and give them our pathi
while we fall off into the-shadowy one of the elders; and
this stepping aside to make way for the young comes to
almost every one of us unawares; we suddenly awaken
and find not only the old gone, but ourselves lifted into
their places.
"To return to the Marquis de Sauli.
"Every church-day the good nobleman went, as he
had done all his life, taking his family with him, to the
Fieschi church.  Now'family,' in those days, did not
simply mean one's children and grandchildren, but also
retainers, a household guard of soldiers it might be, or




PRIDE, PIETY, AND AMBITION.          57
something of the kind, which made an addition to one's
congregation not always agreeable to a nobleman, who
wished to worship God as he lived with man, in solitary
grandeur. The young Count Fieschi, I fancy, was one
of these same social, pious aristocrats, for one day he
advanced the hour of celebration, so that when'the Marquis de Sauli and his suite arrived, Mass was over,
the church empty. The first time the Marquis met his
young friend, Count Fieschi, after this occurred, he complained good-naturedly about it.
"'My dear Marquis,' said Fieschi, in a stately way,'if a gentleman wishes to hear Mass he should have a
church of his own.'
"' So he should,' replied the Marquis curtly, and, turning on his ringing heel, he gave orders to have his superb
palace on the Carignan Hill, the grandest he owned, razed
to the ground; and after some years of patient and costly
labor, the handsome Church of St. Marie de Carignan
rose in its place. He wished to show the haughty, churlish young nobleman that a gentleman could indeed have
a church of his own, and at the same time destroy a superb palace if he pleased."
This story being told, we looked up at the sorrowful
"Pieth" of Luca di Cambiaso (Luchetto da Genova),
that natural, unaffected artist of a period when nature
had nearly died out in art, — the mannerist era of the
sixteenth century. We thought of the poor, gifted painter's sorrowful life, and talked of him and his lovely sisterin-law, whom he has painted in this picture as the woman
who weeps, and has wept silently there for near three
hundred years! Luca is kneeling hopelessly beside his
dead Lord; the two have brought their mortal love and
anguish to that Sacred Presence of Immortal Life in
3*




58             ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
Death, — that passionate human love which man forbade,
and which sent the great artist to his grave and the woman he adored to the cloister, when they found nor man
nor God could help them.
I looked at the portrait of the stately founder of the
church, and then upon the fine well-proportioned building, which had been raised to display wealth, to gratify
family pride, and heal wounded vanity, - not for the
love of God. O no! piety was as dead as that painted
Christ of the heart-broken painter, for
"'T is the substance that wanes ever,'t is the symbol that exceeds."
This church is a specimen of fine architectural unity.
It is built on a square of a hundred and fifty feet, without including the absis, and was erected on the original
plan of Michael Angelo for St. Peter's at Rome. Three
naves divide the interior, and a Greek cross is formed
by the intersections.  In the centre is a grand cupola,
supported by four massive pillars; at the four angles of
the cross are four smaller cupolas. We went up into the
large central dome to see the magnificent view it commands of the gulf and part of the city.
On the left of us were the ramparts, with the whole
length of the picturesque wharves bordered by the fishermens' huts, and the petty gulfs of the harbor making
graceful indentations in the shore. The peaks of the
Apennines rose behind the town, the west was gorgeous
with light, the blue waters of the harbor tossed up the
sun's rays playfully, then seemed to rush off with frolicsome glee out of the clasping arms of the 3Mole into the
green sea beyond. Towards the west the beautiful shore
stretched out, looking like strips of lapis lazuli, the
headlands were so blue, resting on




PRIDE, PIETY, AND AMBITION.            59
" The waters crystalline;
And before that chasm of light,
As within a furnace bright,
Column, tower, and dome, and spire
Shone like obelisks of fire."
We sat silent for sometime, feeling that it was quite
impossible to point out to each other the quick succeeding beauties which were causing us such sweet, unutterable rapture. But gradually our eyes, as if satisfied with
the first eager sweep over the distance, rested on the objects nearer at hand, and at last upon the church itself.'
Then.we felt that need of expression which comes to
us when some strong emotion has been roused and gratified on the instant. We do not care to talk of the cause
of our joy precisely, but talk we must, of something, or
deep sadness will ensue.
The beautiful church made one common subject for us,
and was a pleasant theme, as it satisfied our yearning
for social communion. Venitia was the first to speak;
for the young are always restless and impatient when
fronting these silent, invisible barriers which stand between the world of emotion and this outside life.
"These great'symphonies in stone,"' she repeated,
"that expression is very beautiful."
"There is a fitness in comparisons made between architecture and music, Venitia," I said, "that is seldom
thought of. Goethe called architecture'frozen music,'
and remarked that the influence which flows upon us
from it is as that from music. Lord Lindsay, too, from
whom we have been quoting so much lately, says, apropos
to this very subject,'as symbolical and expressive of
emotion, not of definite ideas, Music and Architecture
are identical in principle, and distinct, the one from




60             ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
Painting and Sculpture, the other from Poetry or verse,
-and not only distinct, but independent of them to such
a degree that, in proportion as they rise to absolute perfection, the addition of words to the one, or of subsidiary
design to the other, becomes not only unnecessary, but
obtrusive.' "*
I then gave her a short and rapid outline of the deep
symbolic meaning contained in the construction of a
church when architects were the great poets and wrote
their epics in stone. The position of the church had to
be first considered. It was placed towards the east in
memory of the birth of our blessed Lord. It was built
on a hill or elevated place if possible as an emblem of
divine superiority, and also as an intermediate place between heaven and earth.
These two points obtained, then rose the church.
Four parts were essential to it, the porch, the nave, the
choir, and the sanctuary, as emblems of the life of the
penitent, of the Christian, the saint, and the angel. Thus
in the early ages of the Church, the penitents, called audientes and prostrati, prostrated themselves in the porch
during the offering- of the Sacrament, not being considered pure enough to be present during the holiest part
of the celebration.
In the nave were the consistentes or members. In
the ambo, or choir, which was always elevated a step
or two above the nave, the clergy or participantes sat:
while at the sanctuary stood the representative of our
blessed Lord offering the Holy Sacrifice.
The church sometimes had four doors, two symbolical
of earthly life, speciorma porte; two of celestial life, portee
sancte. The sanctuary, which could be entered only by
e Lord Lindsay's Christian Art, Vol. II. p. 13.




PRIDE, PIETY, AND AMBITION.           61
the clergy, was separated frdt the choir and nave by a
chancel or balustrade, which prevented the laity from intruding, expressing in a mystical form the barrier which
separates heaven from earth, and opens only to one who
is dead to the world, such as the priest consecrated to the
service of the altar.
In the representations which decorated the church
those on the left side were subjects taken from this life,
those on the right side from the future life. The form
of the cross in the ground plan of the church was in
memory of the crucifixion of our blessed Lord: the absis indicated the place where his head rested. The absis,
or apsis, as it is sometimes spelled, is the termination
of the choir; the altar was often placed there, although
in many churches of Italy the altar will be found in
front of the choir, especially in churches which have religious brotherhoods attached to them.  The chapels,
which were placed often around the absis, were symbols
of the glory or aureole. Tile transepts were the arms
of the cross.
In some churches there were three doors and three
gable-ends; these signified the Trinity. The beautiful
Catharine-wheel window meant also the Unity as consecrated in Christ, the Light of the Church, from whose
Greek monogram its shape was probably taken, - the
well-known monogram formed of the initial of the name
of Christ in Greek.
The monsters that supported the pillars of the church,
or placed on the roof as gargoyle heads, had various
meanings; they were talismans to frighten off evil spirits,
or indicated evil spirits driven out of the Church by the
Sacred Presence within. The crypt which is to be found
under some Basilicas, and which is often almost a subter



62             ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
ranean church, signified the moral death of man. The
cruciform shape of the church recalled also the Atonement; the cupola, heaven.*
"I love Gothic architecture best of all," Janet remarked; "and yet the Lombard style, so much of which
we shall see in Italy, has its own peculiar beauty."
"Before I came to Europe," I answered, " I was sure
I should never be content with anything but the pure
Gothic; my opinion, however, has changed very much.
I now find more repose and calm beauty in the circular
arches, horizontal lines, and expanding cupola of the
Lombard architecture.  The Gothic, with its pointed
arches, springing vaults, and elaborate tracery, fatigues
me beyond expression. There is infinite rest and peacefulness in the beautiful Basilica. - The Lombard church,
with its octagonal baptistery and the graceful campanile
or bell tower grouped around it, seems to me just the
perfection of religious architecture.  It is so complete
and satisfying, while the Gothic is more like human life,
yearning, aspiring, incomplete."
"The Gothic is an emblem  of the unapproachable
ideal," said Janet. "However, I will not argue with
you, for, like all new converts, you are of course bigoted.
Your excellent author, Lord Lindsay, says, you may possibly remember, that the mind capable of comprehending
the Gothic would be likely to appreciate the Classic
more justly than the devotee of the Classic would the
Gothic."
The Sacristan, just at this moment, told us, with many
civil excuses, that the hour for closing the church had
arrived; so we left our fine cupola seat on the Santa
* Essai Sur les Legendes Pienses du Moyen Age, par M. Alfred
Maury.




PRIDE, PIETY, AND AMBITION.          63
Marie de Carignan, though very loath to do so, and thus
put an end to our pleasant talk on the calm Greek Basilica and the restless Teuton Church.
On returning to our carriage we found we had nearly
an hour at our disposal, for we had given orders that dinner should not be served until after sunset, that we might
have all the daylight for sight-seeing. We drove again
through the Strada Carlo Alberti, which fronts the harbor.
When we reached the Douane we alighted and walked
on the marble-floored promenade, which extends from
the Douane, or Custom-House, to the Darsena, or Water
Dock, and Marine Arsenal. This walk or terrace is
supported on fine porticos, and is one of the beauties of
the city; from it the whole port can be seen.
We looked up at the Douane very earnestly, when
Janet told us that in it were the rooms which had been
formerly used for the famous Bank of St. George, which
had begun to receive deposits and make loans before
Columbus crossed the Atlantic; it was the India House
of the Middle Ages.
Our courier, a quiet, intelligent person, showed us a
heavy iron chain, which hangs over the principal entrance door; it was formerly the chain with which the
Pisans closed their gates, and which the Genoese, after
the fatal battle of Meloria, in 1290, broke and carried off
in triumph to Genoa, nearly six hundred years ago!
It was the hour of sunset, and, though a mid-winter
month, the air was soft and balmy. We returned to the
carriage, and drove slowly, enjoying the lovely sight of
the sunrise and sunset shores of the Genoese Gulf, as
they are called, - Riviera di Levante, where the coast
stretches out towards Tuscany in the east; and Riviera di
Ponente, where the shore leads off towards Nice in the




64             ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
west. We examined the distance with our glasses. The
long western coast, with its Lantern, or Lighthouse, at
Cape St. Benigne, was brilliantly illuminated with the
twilight glories, for the sky was
"Robed in flames and amber light,
The clouds in thousand liveries dight."
Nearer to us, on a rocky terrace projecting out on the
water, almost in front of the port, we observed a group of
ilex-trees; and back of them, the palace of Genoa's great
Admiral, Andrea Doria, who gave his state a Constitution which lasted near three hundred years.
As we talked of this Palazzo Doria, its famous master,
and the regal banquet he had given to Charles V. on
that ilex-shaded terrace, we were very naturally led to
the memory of his unfortunate young rival, Count Fieschi.
"In these very waters of the Darsena," I remarked,
"the unhappy young man perished. It was just touch
and go with Admiral Doria's power then; but for that
fatal midnight mistep of the young Count, history might
have had a different tale to tell. At the moment Fieschi
was treating the Marquis di Sauli so haughtily, he was
probably planning his conspiracy; therefore, was it, that
he did not like being approached as an equal when
dreaming of sovereignty.
"' Madam,' he said to his startled wife, on that sorrowful night three hundred years ago, when he disclosed to
her his intended revolt,'you shall never see me again,
or you shall see everything in Genoa under your feet.'
"She never did see him again! Hle left his palace;
one short hour after, when he was stepping on board the
captain galley, which lay here in this Darsena, to take
command, and bring his masterly-planned conspiracy to a
successful conclusion, the plank broke on which he strode.




PRIDE, PIETY, AND AMBITION.           65
Nothing could be seen, for it was dark midnight; but
a plash of heavy armor falling on the sullen waters was
heard, a plunge, a short gurgle, that was all! The Fieschi pride had met its fall; and the long line of popes,
cardinals, and great generals ended in this young nobleman of twenty-two, while his ill-fated ambition became a
mere fact for history to mention and people to forget,
until, three centuries after, a bold young German poet
made it into a famous play; for although Schiller's Conspiracy of Fieschi may not be equal in literary merit to
his other historical dramas, it is more popular on the
German stage than anything he wrote, except the Robbers."
"It was the old political quarrel between Guelph and
Ghibelline," observed Janet, "that struggle which had
then been raging five hundred years. Doria was a
Guelph-or Papal adherent; Fieschi, a Ghibelline or Imperialist. You should not be sympathizing with young
Fieschi, Ottilie; he did not belong to your side of the
question at all."
" No; that is very true," I replied; "but Fieschi was
bold, young, aimed high,- and failed! Nine times out
of ten that is the side on which women will be found,
utterly regardless of all reason, principle, or opinion, simply from admiration for that which she does not possess,
- high courageous daring; and tender, loving pity for
that which is so often her own fate, - failure! "
The twilight deepened; the driver turned his horses'
heads tbwards the hotel, and quickened their gait. In a
short while after, we were enjoying a capital dinner, and
ai merry talk on the trifles of the present moment, quite
forgetting for the while history's tales of mingled luck
and wanluck.
E




PLANTING ROOTS.
NAPLES, - Strada Mergellina.
HAVE no visit to Pisa or Civita Vecchia to
tell of, -no sweet raptures over the voyage
from  Genoa to this place, on the beautiful Mediterranean, with historical memories
aroused at every turn. During the whole period I was
ill,- ill in body and mind, heart and soul.
Apprehension stalked beside me like an evil genius,
stretching out its long, spectral finger to deaden every
pleasure. A crowd of forms surrounded me, all the
shadowy beings that people the lands of presentiment
and memory; and there arose before me "those towering gates of the Past which seem to stand forever open."
Once in a while the eager, hot breath of love and longing
sweeps aside the sombre curtain, and discloses for one
brief instant joys, hopes, and aspirations forever gone;
then the black folds fall with dumb, appalling weight,
and we move onward oppressed with the dreary thought,
that forever in this life our hands are unclasped from the
loved one's neck, our lips forever parted, our confidences
forever stilled, for the ear of the fond, indulgent friend is
filled with the dust and ashes of death!
But these sorrowful thoughts are quite out of place
here; they sound like harsh dissonances in a beautiful




PLANTING ROOTS.                 67
melody. It seems impossible to be sad under such a sky
and breathing such an atmosphere. The simple play of
light and shade over the heavens, and on the beautiful
land and sea, produces on me the effect of sweet succeeding harmonies in some musical creations, — Mozartian,
for it is joyful and fresh.
We are enchanted with this city; with its picturesque
streets paved with lava; its beautiful surroundings; its
buildings, telling so many legends of olden times; and its
lovely bay, whose shores, from one arm to the other, are
crowded with memories of poetic myths and historic facts.
I never shall forget the effect produced by the first
sight of Vesuvius, -" that stall of the incessant stamping
thunder-steeds." In front of us lies Capri, where Tiberius sinned, - and suffered. Farther off to the right, a
little hidden by those beautiful elm-crowned heights of
Posilippo, lie "the heavenly hills," true mountains of
azure, Ischia and Procida, each bearing a chaplet of memories; and Nisida too, where Brutus and Portia parted
to meet no more.
Then follows Baioe, with its ruins, telling of those old
voluptuous days when Romans came to its baths in the
gay season, " to enact the Greek," as they said. They
had in their language one short word, Grwecari, grcecatus,
graecanicus, which meant something pleasant but wrong,
and this word they applied to the lives they led at Baiae.
They put aside with business all the stern personal habits
of Rome, they loosened their robes, took off their sandals,
and indulged in recreations which Roman eyes could
hardly distinguish from vices.*
But Baie has another memory, a buried tomb, the
earthly trace of which is lost; but not the tradition, for a
* Merivale's Rome.




68              ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
poet has made it immortal. Petrarch visited the grave
of the great Scipio Africanus at Baive, and leaning over
read, " Ingrate patrie," chiselled on the stone which has
now crumbled to dust.
Between us and Baioa, however, at Posilippo, stands a
poet's grave, which is not yet levelled and lost in the
bosom of mother earth. Though some antiquarians may
call it a mere columbarium, Petrarch believed it to be
Virgil's tomb, and planted a laurel on its green summit.
Naples, beautiful Naples, beneath whose burning
breast sleeps the siren Parthenope! Here Virgil lived,
drank deep of poesy, and gave "imp feathers to the
wings of his fancy from harsher, stronger studies." Here
Tasso was born, and held consoling converse with his
demon. Here Petrarch feasted, and Boccaccio loved.
Naples, the golden, the glorious, whose chalice of beauty
is filled to overflowing!
"No more, no more
The worldly shore
Upbraids me with its loud uproar;
With dreamful eyes
My spirit lies
Under the walls of Paradise! "*
Our lodgings are pleasantly situated on the Mergellina,
which is the western branch of the Riviera di Chiaja extension, - that part which fronts this beautiful Vesuvian
Bay, -just on the hem of the great city.  We are in an
old palazzo, a square solid mass of white stone several
stories in height; its different floors run off irregularly,
so as to form terraces for the various suites of apartments
contained in it.
This palazzo, like all other buildings of the kind, has
Read's Drifting.




PLANTING ROOTS.                69
in its centre an open square, called a court-yard, opening
on the street with a hiuge. gateway. This gateway is
flanked on either side by the porteress's lodge and her
dwelling rooms. At the window of the lodge is hung a
large frame containing the cards of the different occupants of the palazzo. We amused ourselves looking over
it this morning, when the porteress, a pretty, civil-spoken
woman, put into it our cards. We found there a principezza and an excellenza, among other notorieties.
When we enter the court-yard we find a motley group
and strange occupants, according to American ideas of
the entrance to a palace containing an ambassador and a
princess. The place is as crowded and probably more
noisy than it was in those " grand old times," when the
count or baron to whom the palace belonged assembled
in it his retainers. There are poultry, yelping curs, and
dirty children rolling in the mud-puddles, - for our courtyard is an untidy place, as are most of them, — and
noisy men and women screaming out this shrill Neapolitan dialect.
The place is so novel to us that we often stop a few
moments in the morning, as we are stepping into our carriage from the broad white marble slab at the foot of the
handsome stone stairway leading to our suite of apartments. There are the men hard at work, and the women
busy gossiping. These Neapolitan women of the lower
class are a lazy, listless set, and remind us of what
Thackeray said of "every Irish gentleman needing
another Irish gentleman to wait on him," for every Neapolitan woman seems to have at least one man, if not
more, to wait on her; and they are not a pretty race
either, but show their mixed blood of Moor and Spaniard,
making an ugly, mongrel Italian.




70              ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
The first floor of all these palazzos has, beside the
porter's home, the stables and coach-houses.  Carriages
and horses consequently take up a good part of the place.
In one corner a coach will be receiving its daily cleaning
and the horses their rubbing down; in another part of the
yard a fine establishment will be waiting on its owner,
who is paying a visit to some friend in one of the numberless apartments of the palazzo, while the tired coachman sleeps on the box.
In the early morning, and at sunset, our court-yard is
a much more curious place: it becomes a sort of farmyard, and is filled with cows and goats, which are brought
in to supply the different occupants of the palazzo with
milk; once in a while a goat clatters its little pan-like
heels, up the stone steps of one of the various passageways, to the apartment of some invalid, who must drink
goat's milk fresh and warm.
This lowing of cattle and tinkle of cow-bells has a
sweet pastoral sound, and pleasing too, making us think
of green meadows and rich pastures while living in a
large, crowded city.  At sunset, when the Riviera di
Chiaja is crowded with brilliant equipages dashing along,
filled with the rank and fashion of this Paris of Italy, the
eye is struck with the curious appearance these flocks of
goats and herds of cattle present, pouring down from the
hills of Posilippo into the broad, gay thoroughfare, to
spread themselves throughout the various streets, as if
going into farms and dairies.
Virgil's Bucolics and Georgics rise to Janet's lips from
her well-stored memory; and this evening, as I sat on the
terrace listening to these rural sounds and gazing dreamily over the Posilippean hills, bathed in the gold and purple of the sunset, their beautiful bases washed by the




PLANTING ROOTS.                  71
glittering waters of this Vesuvian Bay, placing her hand
on my shoulder, she repeated, with her pretty, earnest
enjoyment of the memory, which took all air of pedantry
from it, even supposing any one could have been so ungenerous as to imply its presence,
" Thus of the culture of fields and flocks and of trees
I sung, whilst great Caesar at the deep Euphrates was
thundering in war, was victoriously dispensing laws
among the willing nations, and pursuing the path to
Olympus. At that time me, Virgil, sweet Parthenope
nourished, flourishing in the studies of inglorious ease;
who warbled pastoral songs, and, adventurous through
youth, sung thee, 0 Tityrus, under the covert of a spreading beech."
The third floor of this palazzo, according to our counting, is, nevertheless, the premier piano with Italians, -
that is, the first lodging-floor for gentlefolk. On this floor
are our rooms, -a charming suite, consisting of parlor,
dining-rooms, and bedrooms; part of them opening on a
terrace; the parlor and dining-room are on the west side;
from them we can look over to the glorious hills of Posilippo, while from my bedroom window
" Ischia smiles
O'er liquid miles;
And yonder bluest of the isles,
Calm Capri waits,
Her sapphire gates
Beguiling to her bright estates." *
The view from the terrace is ravishing. In front is
the beautiful bay; to the right are the heights of Posilippo; and on the left the town seems to draw back, to
give us a full view of the Sorrentine promontory and
* Read's Drifting.




72             ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
that great altar Mount Vesuvius, which is forever sending up its incense into the high heavens.
Behind our palazzo rise graceful hills, crowned with
fair villas and " clad with greenery." Beside it is a tufahill, in which are hollowed out huge picturesque arches,
half in ruins, with vines and the tender-hued, featheryleafed, maiden-hair fern clambering up around the stones.
Above this tufa-hill, houses seemed piled on houses; and,
if I lean over the terrace side and stretch my neck a little, I can see on another hill far above us a carouba-tree,
whose round, cauliflower-shaped top brings back to me
my earliest ideas of Italy; for, ever since I can remember, one of these trees was as necessary in my mind to
the making up of an Italian as poplars and willows for a
French landscape.
We were very lucky in obtaining these apartments;
and this pleasant good fortune came to us througlh a social connection which Janet and I have, with one of the
foreign ministers and his wife, both charming accomplished persons.
All the morning we have been out "planting our
roots," as Janet says. We have called on our minister
and his wife, Mir. and Mrs. Rochester; opened our accounts with the pleasant English banker, Mr. Iggulden;
and established ourselves as subscribers and good customers at " Detken's," the " Foreign Book Store and Circulating Library," where they speak all manner of known
and unknown tongues, and keep a most attractive collection of new books, photographs, and journals.
Venitia's piano is under the tuner's hands, and she is
busy sorting her music. Janet is making our apartments
look habitable.  The only coquetry Janet shows is in
the arranging of furniture and the effective display of attractive room-ornaments.




PLANTING ROOTS.                73
She is placing piles of pleasant books about; stereoscopic stands, with fine views just at hand's grasp; neat
portefeuilles of engravings and fine photographs; and
diminutive easels, with beautiful little pictures on them,
standing on the tables and consoles. A few costly ornaments are here and there, not many; a small Sevres vase
or two, and tapering amber, and ruby-hued Bohemian,
and old Venetian glasses; some rare bronzes, — just
enough to touch the rich, high tone of luxury, without
having the artistic freshness overpowered. Then, as if
scattered by a Flora's hand, there are delicious bouquets;
clusters of rich purple violets; anemones, whose deep
scarlet is softened by the cool neutral tint of heliotrope
sprays; and delicate mignonette.
And I? What am I doing? Filling up my journal;
trying to remember some of the clever information which
the intelligent minister gave us this morning. He has
certainly one of the freshest, most attractive minds I
have ever met with. His description of the topography
of this place was not only graphic and clear, but also very
interesting.
The town is divided by a ridge of hills into two parts,
the old and the new town. The different elevations of
this ridge take the names of Capo di Monte, St. Elmo,
and Pizzofalcone; the termination of it is the promontory on which stands that Castel del' Ovo, considered by
Froissart one of the strongest forts in the world, " which
only could be taken by necromancy or the help of the
Devil," but which has a sweeter memory to us than all
Froissart's mystical accounts. In this Castel del' Ovo,
Robert the Wise, and the happy, light-hearted artist
Gidtto, had many a merry hour together, when the father
of modern painting was decorating its walls with those
4




74             ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
wonderful frescoes which have unfortunately disappeared,
— gone, doubtless, as Mr. Rochester, our minister, observed, to that land of fantasy Gautier whimsically imagined, which contains all the divine lost landscapes ever
painted, and whose inhabitants are the lovely figures created by art, "in granite, marble, or wood, on walls, canvas, or crystal," which have perished.
But, to return to our real living land. The ridge of
hills of which I speak, united to the graceful indentations
of the bay, forms two crescents in the outline of the
town. The beautiful bosom of hills on which the town
is built slopes down gracefully, stretching out into the
superb, arm-like promontories of Misenum and Sorrento,
which seem to embrace tenderly the Mediterranean.
On this central ridge stands St. Elmo's Castle, the next
great feature, after Vesuvius, in all pictures of Naples,
another of those fortified palaces of Robert the Wise
This St. Elmo height explained to me the reason of the
beautiful bridge which spans one of the most thronged
streets of the old town, Strada Chiaja, and which arrested my attention yesterday when we were walking.
It is called the Ponte di Chiaja, and is a viaduct, connecting St. Elmo with Pizzofalcone, the hill which terminates in the promontory of Castel del' Ovo.
To the east of this ridge lies the old town. In it are
the Royal Palace, and a superb city artery, called Strada
di Toledo, which sweeps from the bay at the Santa
Lucia coast, or wharf, clear through the great throbbing
heart of this tumultuous city, for the distance of a mile
and a half. In the Middle Ages this street, which is now
the centre of modern Naples, was out on the very edge
of the suburbs, having been built on the fosses of the, old
city (1540), by Don Pedro di Toledo, that wise Viceroy




PLANTING ROOTS.                75
of a wise Emperor, whose government is remembered as
a precious legend to this day, both by the presence of
good works and the memory of good acts.
This morning we stood at the foot of this grand street,
on the fine, spacious square called Largo del Palazzo,
Reale, with the Royal Palace on one side of us, and a
modern Pantheon, San Francesca di Paolo, on the other.
In front of us was Canova's equestrian statue, which has
contrived, like Goldsmith's chest of drawers, not only a
double, but a treble debt to pay; — first it was Napoleon, then Murat, now Charles III.! What shall it be
next? Louis Napoleon, Victor Emmanuel, or -  Garibaldi? Poor statue and poor Italy!
XVe laughed over this history of changes, and made
many speculations on its future; then grew silent, as we
gazed up into this noisiest street of Europe, with its sea
of human beings surging to and fro, and its wave-crests
of carriages. The noise that arose from it, like the alternate come and go of an ocean's grand pulse, made us feel
a little bewildered, and very still.
To the west of this central ridge lies the second crescent, or new city, called Chiaja, on the outskirts of which
we live.
After the Toledo, which it surpasses in beauty, the
next great street of Naples is the one running around the
bay, skirting gracefully the little indentations of the
coast from one end of the city to the other, and bearing as many names as any Spanish viceroy might.
This street starts from the Sebeto, on the very outer
edge of the old city, at the Ponte della Maddelena, where
the road to Portici leads off. First it is called La Marinella, which used to be the old head-quarters of the Lazzaroni; but the Cantastorie have now taken possession of




76             ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
it, those marvellous public street-singers of Naples, who,
as Mr. Rochester told us, sing at this day the old mediaeval poem of Rinaldo and his Paladins.
Passing by the Castel del Carmine, Masaniello's stronghold, it becomes Stradas Nuova and Carlito; then it
reaches Porto Piccolo, the port of old Palepolis, the
conquering of which Greek town (323 B. C.) gave a
Roman praetor a triumph. The Molo follows, which is
now the rendezvous of the dying-out race of the Lazzaroni.
This brings us to the Castel Nuovo, built in that Italian morn of Dante and Giotto (1283), by the brother
of St. Louis, Charles of Anjou. A little farther on is
the Royal Palace, from whose Largo, or Square, springs
the Toledo, at which place this coast-street comes out to
the famous wharf of Santa Lucia, the great fish market
of Naples, where " fruits of the sea," - "frutto di mare,"
as they call them, are sold in great abundance.
Now we have arrived at the little promontory which
lies at the base of the Pizzofalcone Hill, on which stands
the Castel del' Ovo; and the road, as it sweeps around this
place between the foot of the hills and the little juttingout bit of land, is called Chiatamone.
After this central point is passed, there comes.another
pretty sweep around an indentation of the shore, which
is named Vittoria; then the street opens fairly into the
new town quarter, called Chiaja, at which place this graceful coast-road, or street, bears the name of Riviera di
Chiaja, Chiaja Shore; this part of it is the celebrated
promenade of Naples, and has on it the narrow strip of
a park, called Villa Reale.
Mr. Rochester traced out the whole route of this street
for us on a map this morning; then, when he reached




PLANTING ROOTS.                77
this point, he rolled the map-table to the balcony of his
library window, and pointed across the broad Riviera di
Chiaja, on which his palazzo fronts, to a villa, or park,
filled with a variety of shade-trees.
"There," said he, "is the Villa Reale. It is about
five thousand feet long by two hundred in width, and on
the sea side it has a fine wall and parapet. You see
sentinels standing at the gates of the iron railing which
separates it from the Riviera di Chiaja. Only the gentry
and nobility are allowed to use it. It is the only spot in
Naples into which the lower classes are not permitted to
enter. They may invade your court-yard, and even the
steps of your palazzo; keep house literally out on the
sidewalks of the finest streets; cook, eat, wash, live, and
sleep in front of the noblest palace; but into the Villa
Reale they cannot enter, except one day in the year, the
eighth of September, at the great festival of Santa Maria
di Piedigrotta.  It is an agreeable lounging-place, with
pleasant winding paths and fine broad walks, a terrace
running out into the sea, some grottos with statuary,
two small handsome temples to Virgil and Tasso, and
pleasant fountains. The trees are mostly acacias and
oaks, with some few Oriental shrubs.
"Now we will come back to the Riviera di Chiaja.
After you pass the Villa Reale, you will observe that it
divides into two branches; the left, or lower one, running
by the sea-shore, is called Strada Mergellina, - that is
where your palazzo stands. The right, or upper branch,
is the Strada di Piedigrotta; follow it some distance,
and you will arrive at Virgil's tomb, which stands at the
entrance of the celebrated Grotto of Posilippo, the one
Petrarch and Corinne made famous, - called also Grotto
di Pozzuoli. This is a tunnel, over two thousand feet




78             ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
long, and twenty-one feet wide. In the after part of the
daythis Grotto is lighted by the western sun, but during
the morning and midday, you will find it pretty much as
Seneca describes it,'Darkness made visible'; and to
foot-passengers it seems a terrifying place, for it is nearly
always crowded with two streams of people going and
coming, screaming donkey-drivers, carriages, and peasants. But once through the Grotto, the road leads off to
Pozzuoli, where it inds the little bit of Mergellina that
has been straying gracefully around by the sea. At
Pozzuoli the two join, and then, as the old song sings,
it goes,' Over the hills and far away';
out, if you please to follow it, Mrs. Dale, to that Euboean
coast of Curmre, where'the anchor with tenacious fluke
moored the ships of,AEneas, and the bending sterns
fringed the margin of the shore.'"
When we returned to the carriage, on leaving the
palazzo of the embassy, Venitia, with a playful, knowing
air, directed the driver to take us to " Detkens," as if
quite at home in this new city.' The truth is," she said, "that although I cannot help
feeling as Goethe did in Sicily, when you and Ottilie will
persist, like the Sicilian guide, in' marring, by your illtimed erudition, my refreshing feelings of peace, calling
up departed spectres, and reviving tumults and horrors,'
I must, in self-defence, do as the contradictory German
poet did at Palermo, rush off to purchase a Homer and
Virgil; for I find I am to be persecuted with learned allusions on all sides, in these eternally classic heights of
the ancient world.  So, while you and Mr. Rochester
were dancing stately tongue minuets a la cour, I learned
from his agreeable wife that this place, -' Detkens,'



PLANTING ROOTS.               79
to which we are now driving, is where bookish strangers
most do congregate, finding there all manner of nice
things."
To " Detkens " accordingly we drove, and Venitia
who has not Janet's cleverness in old tongues, never having been willing to study any but modern languages and
music, which have needed but little application on her
part - supplied herself with translations of all the old
poets and historians she could find.




ELECTRA.
A ENITIA is playing fugues. How positive the
dear girl is, but very clever and original. She
has just finished a fugue of Bach, with a throbbing beat in it like a full heart. It is the one
in the Chromatic Fantasia, - that Fantasia so soft and
tender and flowing in its modulations, that one would
scarcely imagine a single deviation had been made from
its fundamental harmony. He was, indeed, a great master, this same John Sebastian Bach. While listening to
his fugues I forget that they are exercises of deep
thought, great intellectual power, and profound knowledge, - mental musical feats, - for he throws into them
a rhythmical life that is full of freedom; they are not
mere themes transposed into different keys, one hand
following the other slavishly, but independent, reasoning
poems.
Of a totally different nature are Handel's fugues, and
yet, to my ears and taste, not less masterly. They are
not so self-contained or persistent, but quite as free and
strong. Some few of them give me more pleasure than
Bach's even, especially the one Venitia has just commenced, the superb fugue in E minor (mi); it sounds
like the concentrated roll of mid-ocean.
But I do not like her execution of fugues. She thinks




ELECTRA.                   81
they must be rigid, because they are exact. While she
executes other compositions freely, stamping them with
the sharp impress of her unmistakable genius, she shows
the student in these; you can hear the beat of the metronome through every measure. She needs emancipating, as it were, in almost everything. Not that she is
bound by Janet, or me, or any one; on the contrary, her
opinions are independent enough. She is a little dogmatica] and obstinate once in a while; at such times we combat her, but are very careful not to repress her in any
way. But she is angular, and hard, and too devoted to
technical minutiae. I feel discouraged sometimes, and
fancy that this enchantment results from the fairy-like
spell which extreme culture and exquisite surroundings
of social refinement exercise over some natures. There
have never been any rough points in her life since her
recollection; no heavy shadows to bring out rich, strong
lights; it is this smoothness of existence which deprives
her of comprehending some things in Art as well as in
Life, seeing only the cold, bald, matter-of-fact side of the
crystal, entirely losing sight of the beautiful prismatic
play of Fancy and Poesy. She would fain touch, hold,
weigh, and measure all things, never dreaming that the
sweetest, dearest, loveliest emotions in this existence are
but the shadows of a dream,- intangible, inexpressible,
like the faint odor of a rare fruit or flower, the delicate
droplet of a luscious grape, the perishable down on
Psyche's wing.
But to return to Handel's fugue.
There are some creations of Art which can never be
comprehended until one has been anchored as far out in
the deep waters of sorrow as the master who created
them; therefore I will not complain that Venitia is not
4*                          F




82             ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
capable of seizing the meaning of this great E minor
fugue. God forbid that she should ever have her ears,
eyes, and taste sharpened into consciousness on such a
brackish wave of grief as is contained in it! As I read
over the notes of the music lying near me on my writingtable, I think of the composer, and of his life, which was
so void of love and tenderness.  The solitary suffering
of Handel is betrayed in such passages as " He was despised and rejected of men," in the Messiah,- which he
is said to have written with hot tears raining down on
his manuscript, mingling with the ink, - and this fugue,
which makes every fibre in one's being vibrate with
emotion.
Poor, passionate Handel! A haughty pride, almost Satanic, made his life what it was. In his youth he loved
a beautiful young girl, and she adored him. Her parents
looking upon him as an inferior, insulted him. He never
forgave them. So keen was the wound that even when
at last they consented to the marriage to save her life, he
refused; and the poor girl died of a broken heart, - of
the harshness of her lover, not of her family.
Now go play that fugue in E minor, and think of this
opening theme in his life-fugue, - of his haughty reiterated anger, which, like that thrice-repeated B in the
music, led through all the stormy modulations of his
firce, contentious existence.  In every measure of it
you will hear the passionate love and passionate anger
which combated together, resulting in a life of sullen
loneliness for him, and death for the woman he loved.
We were talking of Vepres Siciliennes, after sunset,
" over our Hyson," as Lamb says, "which we are oldfashioned enough to drink unmixed still of an evening."
For we all love our tea; and Janet quotes with great sat



ELECTRA.                   83
isfaction DeQuincey's approving declaration, that "Tea
will always be the favorite beverage of the intellectual."
I had been singing the Bolero of Helbene, in the fifth act
of the Vepres. After I had finished it, I came out on
the terrace, humming the sparkling motivo of this enchanting passage, while I took my cup from Janet's
hand, she of course being tea-maker.
We drink our tea on the terrace, where we can look
over on Vesuvius, down on the gay-thronged Mergellina,
out on the sparkling bay, and up on the beautiful hills
and soft heavens. This glorious view, the delicious atmosphere, and this bewitching bit of melody combined,
touched Venitia unconsciously; for a few moments her
little silvery thread of a voice united gayly with mine,
in the passionate bursts of the short-lived joy which this
Bolero expresses.
"Bigoted as you think I am," she said, " I like the
7Vpres; it has the French elan in it.  It might have
been an early effort of Meyerbeer, when he was under the
influence of the golden Capri wine of Tancrede, in those
gay Ronzildo e Costanza and Crocciato days; and I am
giving it great praise when I say this. I know we do not
agree about Meyerbeer, but I think one cause of your
opinion is, that you have never heard his music as I have."
"You may be right, Venitia, for I have never heard a
MIeyerbeer opera to advantage."
"And I," she exclaimed, with enthusiasm, — "I have
heard the finest of them  in Paris, where they were
brought out superbly. Think of seeing and hearing that
grand creature, Viardot-Garcia, in' The Huguenots'!"
"She whose ugliness," interrupted Janet, with a laugh,
"is, according to Heine, noble; and'when she opened
her great mouth, with its white, sparkling teeth, and




84             ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
smiled with a horrible sweetness and gracious grincement,' made the poor nervous poet think of leopards,
giraffes, and young elephants."
"Yes, that same Pauline Garcia, whose ugliness is
beauty to my eyes," answered Venitia, seriously. "But
we were talking of Meyerbeer," she continued. "You
say he sounds labored, Ottilie; now, I enjoy his effets
d'industrie, because they result in such a marvellous
control and power of harmony. And yet the labor is
not without inspiration, for a divine unity of thought
exists throughout his compositions. His orchestra is one
grand whole; it is like a huge heart, palpitating and
bounding with every varying emotion, from the'Piff'paff del fuoco,' in the first act of' The Huguenots,' to
that solemn and grand fourth act of the same opera;
or that heart-rending Andante of Fides, in the famous
fifth act of Le Prophete.  Wait until you hear this
great master's gorgeous instrumentation, before you call
him labored, and wanting in clearness of thought. His
music is not sensational, like that of Verdi; it thrills
me, not to the heart, that would be momentary, but to
the very centre of my brain.  It is impossible to talk
while hearing one of his operas. You may take Verdi
for fidnering, but never Meyerbeer."
She was in one of her most dogmatical moods, so she
continued extolling Meyerbeer, his rich and powerful
sonorousness, his melodies so full of dignity. She expressed herself so prettily, too, that I liked to listen to
her, while my silence seemed to pique her on to a further
assertion of opinion.
" The melodic tissue of Meyerbeer's music," she said,
"is sown with seed-pearls; and rubies, diamonds, and
emeralds are strung and hung in glittering chaplets all




ELECTRA.                   85
over it, flashing out their various brilliant rays, each one
struggling with playful splendor for superiority. Then
his nuances are not shades; they are tints, for light mixes
with the normal color, as painters say, not black.  His
broad German manner, too, is softened by the modern
poetical fire which he possesses, and which gives lyric
effect to his superb instrumentation, thus satisfying both
mind and heart."
I could have overthrown her enthusiastic praise in two
or three weak parts; and Janet and I had exchanged
glances upon noticing the slips made by her youthful
earnestness. But it would have done no good; on the
contrary, chilled and mortified her. So I contented myself with stating a few instrumental facts by way of answer, first saying, as introduction," My dear, the very sonorousness which you admire
is as painful to my ears as too high and brilliant coloring
in a painting is to my eyes. His power does not lie, to
my seeming, where we are told it should, in the idea,
but in rich instrumentation "
I was about continuing, when she interrupted me
hastily.
" The coloring of modern instrumentation is not a
defect, Ottilie. A composer like Meyerbeer knows how
to use with masterly power the fine full palette of sounds
gained from modern orchestral improvements; his imagination finds new resources in them; and as to the idea,
how can you say that is feeble because it is decorated
with greater beauties? He has a right to use these fine
extensive powers of musical coloring; they are the natural elements of art."
" But the greatest masters, my dear, produced greater
effects without all this instrumentation. Let us run over




86             ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER
some of the masterpieces of Beethoven, Mozart, and
HIaydn, for example.  There is the grand Symphony
in A (La) of Beethoven; it has nothing but two
horns and two trumpets. The famous Symphony in
C (Do) of Mozart has no more, and yet on account
of its power and splendor it is called the Jupiter Symphony. Then I have read somewhere- I cannot give
you my authorities now, but I can hunt them up for
you- that only fifteen of Haydn's one hundred and
seventeen Symphonies have two trumpets; the remaining one hundred and twelve have only two horns. Venitia, if those old masters produced so fine an effect
with such simple coloring, how far superior must they
have been to our Meyerbeers and Verdis."
Janet here interposed, -
"'When we drive out, from the cloud of steam, majestical white
horses,
Are we greater than the first men, who led black ones by the
mane?'
"0  ye fanatics in music!  Why cannot you both be
more truly catholic?  These different masters are like
the various colors of the rainbow; some delicate, some
gorgeous, some delicious; celestial blue, golden, and
purple, with soft violet and the green of nature's garb,
each lovely in itself."
"You are right, dear Janet; your comparison is just.
The rainbow is a perfect type of Art, - manifold gifts
working resolutely and harmoniously for a great unity,
an everlasting and beautiful truth. Whenever I look at
a rainbow, I shall hereafter remember your art-type.
To me, as to all expectant souls, it should also prefigure
the mystery of the true life, and the longings of the
many-colored instincts of our varying hearts, which shall




ELECTRA.                   87
arrive in the end - but not in this world - at that
Unity, that great Light, which is divine."
"'But the music-rainbow," said Venitia, "let me divide
it. Mozart shall be the celestial blue of promise; Verdi
the soft, rich purple, appealing to our senses; Bellini
and Donizetti many-tinted, with the tender violet hanging
like a sweet atmospheric haze over them, as Capri looked
an hour ago; but to Meyerbeer shall be given the glory
that hung around the hills of Posilippo, gorgeous crimson
and gold. And now, Ottilie, I shall gratify you by my last
comparison: to Beethoven belongs the whole rainbow of
beauty."
She turned to leave the terrace, intending to go into
the salon, to the piano; suddenly she came back to the
window, and said, —
"O Ottilie, Mrs. Rochester told me to-day she has
heard Schroeder-Devrient in' Fidelio.' Just fancy what
a treat it must have been, listening to'Fidelio'-this
Comus of epic music, as'Adelaide' is the sorrowful
Lycidas Idyl —from the lips of such an actress and
singer. Remembering this has put me in the humor of
playing it."
She then went to the piano, and commenced at the
Introduction, or opening of the third act of "Fidelio."
She rendered it finely.  It is a touching scene, that
me'lodrame, where Rocco and Leonore are digging in the
subterranean prison of Florestan. I leaned on the iron
balustrade of the terrace while I listened, and looked up
at the slender line of smoke ascending from Vesuvius,
observing the faint, sudden fire-glow which pulsated from
time to time at the base of this waving column of vapor.
I drew a fanciful comparison between this vapor and fireglow and the effect produced by the violoncello and
double bass in this passage of "Fidelio."




88             ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
The double bass has an isolated part, broken by rests,
which throws the harmony, as it were, on the violoncello;
but the real bass remains, notwithstanding these interruptions, with the double bass. Thus this vapor, rising from
" Vesuvius's misty brim," continues forever streaming and
floating off into the heavens, as if it was the real flame;
but ever and anon, broken by rests, as it were, comes in
the gloomy, deep throb of true fire, - short, dull even,
but unmistakable, like the reiterated recurrence of this
passage,in all its various pathetic forms, broken and detached
though it may be, but showing that the true throb of the
volcanic heart of the music is there.
Venitia then modulated into some improvised studies of
curious bass passages, undoubtedly suggested to her by
this remarkable one; and Janet and I had a little talk,
which sent me to my room somewhat sad and dispirited,
although it was far from her intention to produce any
such effect on what she calls my "too easily impressed
nature."  The talk was something after this fashion.
I have been trying to forget it, by recalling the Meyerbeer argument, but in vain, and perhaps if I write it
down I may "lay the torturing demon." I have often
found my journal good for such purposes. Many a morbid evil spirit lies safe locked up in its various volumes.
As Venitia concluded the "Fidelio" passage of the
melodrame, Janet turned to me, and, resting her beautiful little hand half playfully, half caressingly, on my
cheek, quoted,



ELECTRA.                   89
"I loved Ophelia. Forty thousand brothers
Could not, with all their quantity of love,
Make up my sum."
" I was thinking of the burial of poor Ophelia, Ottilie,
during all that passage, and yet cheerful Shakespeare's'jocund wood-note wild' should not be recalled by Beethoven's music.  It is another Hamlet, —a religious
one.  Pascal I think of most often when listening to
Beethoven. Who was it, my friend, by the way, that
called Pascal a religious Hamlet?"
" Indeed, I do not remember; but Pascal was what
Goethe called Hamlet, -' a being possessed with a great
action, and incapable of accomplishing it.'"
" Both had such delicate organizations," continued
Janet, " as to be almost feminine, and both were called
upon to perform duties too strong even for the ruggedest
masculine natures."
" Hamlet's nature is indeed like that of some women,"
I said, half to myself, as if thinking aloud. "So many
women seem to be introverted as he was, and also, like
him, possess too great a sense of their own individuality,
which, if unaccompanied by great energy, is apt to create
morbidity, if not something worse."
Then, rousing myself, for I felt to what a painful end
the conversation was tending, I tried to divert it a little.
" I have been thinking lately, Janet, of Shakespeare's
skilful use of the supernatural in expressing to the reader
or the audience the secret workings of the mind. By
means of the Ghost in Hamlet, we are shown the struggle which takes place in a young heart filled with a craving for enjoyment of life, —a life of love and courtly
pleasure, - and the stern duty of avenging the death of
a father. The supernatural part gives us the key to the




90             ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
sorrowful and strange transformation of a dreamy, pleas.
ure-loving youth, tortured, like Orestes, by the furies of
his own imagination into a fitful, capricious monomaniac.
Hamlet, by the way, is a sort of Shakespearian Orestes."
" Yes, in some points; but there is this distinction to be
made between Greek tragedy and the romantic tragedy of
Shakespeare, - one is the classic Ideal, the other is pure
Nature.  Greek tragedy is like sculpture, — one idea,
and that carried straight without deviation to the end;
no vagueness, no doubt. The sin may have arisen from
Destiny; still it is sin, and must be punished by Death.
You hear the tramp of the guards from the opening
scene; you see the instrument of Fate ready to make
the blow; its shadow falls sharp and dark on the victim
from the first moment. But in Shakespeare how different!  How  like nature,- like that mysterious web
which we see woven in real life! With picturesque and
sometimes sorrowful fidelity, he throws in the mingled
weft of joy and grief; we have the same strange triumph
of the guilty, the incomprehensible suffering of the innocent, the tangled braid of light and shadow, the whole
weary, complicated life-knot, -all is shown in its utter
hopelessness, until we feel at last, as we often do in life,
that Death is indeed gracious in unknotting the tangle,
and that the peace and rest of the tomb is very sweet."
" Shakespeare was so great, Janet, that I am not surprised posterity has doubted his individual existence.
His plays display gifts and wisdom never before or
since combined in one human being."
" That is true; but you must remember his advantages
were greater than any other writer who ever existed.
United to his own superiority, the period in which he
lived was singularly adapted to a Prophet of the New




ELECTRA.                   91
Word. It was an age advanced in science and arts, and
still retaining all the picturesque character of the Middle
Ages; the very soil and atmosphere were ready for the
planting and growth of the romantic drama."
"The modern school of music, Janet, is like the romantic drama," I added, with a forced attempt at continuing the conversation, for I felt my sadness increasing beyond my control. " I mean the music commencing with
Beethoven; not the gay, joy-loving, Athenian Mozart,
but from Beethoven, the sad old giant, up to poor Schubert and Schumann and Chopin. There is a whole lifetime of woe, sometimes, in one of their shortest creations. I wonder, Janet, if the Greeks ever suffered and
sorrowed as we moderns do? They seem to have been
exempt from our curse; they worshipped' the beautiful,
and raised it to their altars, - made of it God."
" Their drama, my friend, was the voice of their ideal,
not of their real life. The moderns have indeed bowed
down before sorrow and pain, lifted them up to their
most holy of holies, and there they will remain so long as
the quick pulse of anguish throbs in man's and woman's.
heart. But why are you going? It is not late. Are
you not well, dear?"
" Quite well, thank you; only I wish to have a little
chat with myself in my journal, while I can have the
benefit of Venitia's music as an inspiring accompaniment.
Good night."
So here I came, and have been all this while striving
to write myself quiet, but in vain. The inward unrest
still remains. Venitia has stopped the fugue, and is now
playing a passage which sounds at times like poor Florestan's delirium, that grand air in "Fidelio" which is
" filled with such immeasurable grief." No, it sounds like




92             ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
the short Adagio in the Beethoven Sonate, which is twin
sister to the " Lauben Soenate" of the Countess Juliette
(Opus 2, No. 1, E flat).  De Lenz says, "It is a distant
echo of this great air of' Fidelio'; it is not the rhythm
or the tonality which establishes the analogy, it is the soul
of this Adagio which is identical with Florestan's aria."
Yes, it is that Sonate she is playing; and, as I listen
to her, my conversation with Janet comes up in my memory, like that mounting, syncopated passage of octaves
which Venitia has just grasped so finely; and I think of
Hamlet, and of Janet's likening him to a woman.  I
recall his sensitive, delicate feelings, his truthfulness,
honor, chivalric romance, deep love, high moral code, and
noble nature, quite feminine in its elevation and tender
purity. All this might well be likened, as it was by the
great German poet, to a frail porcelain vase, for to put
such a nature to stern uses is to shatter it.
And thus can we say of woman. Our code is nobler,
our moral nature higher than man's. In intellect he may
be stronger,- he is. We can freely cede him the intellect, so long as we possess the other.  We show this
difference thus: when a man feels he is wronged by his
brother man, resentment is natural; and n6t only that,
to right himself, even at the bitter expense of his enemy,
is a duty. It is admitted by the world's practice that
"society can justly be harsh upon a man for being tame
under insult or injury."   But a woman cannot right
herself as a man does, and preserve her interior peace.
No matter how just may be her cause, if she violates
the high code of her nature by leaping down from her
pure, still atmosphere into the hot, crowded arena, to
seize on or wrest justice from the hands of her oppressors, she comes out of the fray fatally wounded. Justice




ELECTRA.                    93
for her is as Prince Adeb's Imam,* - she must forego all
hope of it, and yield " the Imam for her own soul's sake."
Characters of delicate make and subtile stamp should
not, cannot contend; they must endure with patience and
courage, and look with sorrow and pity, not scorn and
anger, on their oppressors. Truly unto woman were the
words of Gospel law addressed: "Resist not evil, but
whosoever shall smite thee on thy right cheek, turn to
him the other also."
Woe unto that feminine nature that is forced by necessity, as was Hamlet, to right a great wrong. Intense
mental anguish must result; and even when the assistance of the Most High seems vouchsafed by the gift of
courage and the mysterious power of holding the poor
bewildered mind well balanced, — even then she is fated,
as Electra, to a solemn state, dedicate as it were to sadness. All glad, joyfi feelings are hushed, and she will be
as " an angel who has lost its way from heaven, and its
wings also, looking perpetually up, with a sigh and a
longing to return."
Why did I touch on this nerve, and set it to aching so
fiercely? Venitia's music is ended. She and Janet have
gone to their calm, quiet sleep. On the still, soft spring
air comes the noisy throb of a steamer passing near the
coast, sounding like the throes of some huge animal in
mortal anguish. But physical pain is weak when compared with this agony of the lonely, heart stung with
the necessity to perform a stern duty, and filled with
wild, passionate memories of a past forever gone,-a
past which planted no seed for a future in this life!
Beat, beat, beat, comes that sorrowful steam-throb on
my ears, and to its melancholy sough my heart replies
* Boker's " Prince Adeb."




94               ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
sullenly back a dull, slow pulse. Poor heart! It sits,
like Electra, mourning rebelliously over its griefs.
The steamer has passed, and I now hear the cool, passionless ripple of this tideless sea breaking on a shore
strewn with mysterious fragments of a long lost past!
"And the stately ships go on
To the haven under the hill;
But O for the touch of a vanished hand,
And the sound of a voice that is still!
"Break, break, break
On thy cold gray stones, O Sea!
But the tender grace of a day that is dead
Will never come back to me."




THE TITAN'S CHILDREN AND CAPRI
THE SPHINX.
HIS delicious climate of Naples is to work
wonders upon me; — so says Mrs. Rochester,
the agreeable wife of the Minister.  She
paid us a visit last evening, and gave us
much clever information on the character of the atmosphere, and the various winds that blow over and around
this beautiful boot-like promontory of Europe.  The
climate, from its lively action on the skin, and the variety
of impressions it makes on the body and mind, is capitally suited for alleviating the suffering arising from all
sorts of melancholy, and every kind of neurotic intermittent produced by mental causes.
Naples, more than any other place in Italy, is strongly
influenced by two great powers,- the volcanic soil and
the wind. The atmosphere is constantly filled with various gaseous emanations, sulphuric and the like, and carbonic acid is spread throughout the air.
The account Mrs. Rochester gave me of the winds of
Naples interested me exceedingly. The gulf or bay is
open to the west and southwest. The hills of Posilippo,
extending around to Capodimonte, protect the city from
the north wind, and Monte Somma is a shelter against
the east; but the northeast, southeast, west, southwest,




96,         ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
and south meet with little obstruction, especially the west
and southwest, which come in from the sea. The south
and southeast winds, called mezzogiorno and scirocco
by Italians, are the most disagreeable and injurious, especially to the natives; they are hot and damp, favorable
to vegetation, but enervating and exhausting.
"They are, in truth,' winds of idleness' in every sense
of the word," said Mrs. Rochester. "You can feel them
most sensibly at the entrance of the Toledo, and near the
Royal Palace. I have often stood there during the blowing of a scirocco, and noticed with curiosity the warm,
half-visible vapor which seemed to bathe everything; it
permeated, like a subtile fluid, not only my whole physical
nature, but also my mental, - prostrating muscular energy, and even vivacity of thought. I have often believed
that this wind might be the unrecognized cause of Neapolitan indolence and Oriental fatalism, for these people
are much more affected by it than we forestieri, or strangers. During its blowing the sky is of a dark leaden hue."
"This scirocco, which is so overwhelming here," remarked Janet, "is our old friend the:f6hn of Switzerland. There, however, it is of great service."
" Yes," said Venitia, " I remember, when I was a little
girl, and we were living for a season or two in the Grisons, hearing the peasants there saying,'that without the
fdhn neither the good God nor a golden sun could do
anything."'
" This scirocco of Ttaly, and fdhn of Switzerland,"
continued Janet, "is the same thing as the simoom of
Africa; it springs up in those immense sand-plains of
the Sahara, which lie exposed to the rays of a tropical
sun, and are easily heated. Just opposite Sicily and
Italy the Atlas Mountains of Africa lower their peaks,




THE TITAN'S CHILDREN AND CAPRI THE SPHINX. 97
and through this passage the simoom reaches the Mlediterranean; then, after pouring its hot breath on the Peninsula, it sweeps up the Rhone valley as through a tunnel, and spreads over Switzerland.  It is the saving wind
of the Suisse; for, without its gracious presence, the snows
on the Alps would never melt, and the glaciers, constantly increasing, would in time invade the valleys, and make
an ice kingdom as fearful as Dante's description of Lucifer's abode in the lowest depth of Hell,Where all the shades beneath the frozen tide
Transparent shone, like straws in crystal clear.'"
After this little episode on the scirocco's wanderings,
its good and evil doings, we returned to the other children
of the Titan who visit Naples. The notus, or mezzogiorno, south wind, first cousin to the scirocco, blows
oftenest in autumn.  It is gentle, but oppressive.  The
libeccio, or southwest wind, is stormy. The northwest,
or maestro, is not a pleasant wind in Naples: its passage
over the sea makes it damp. Our palazzo is so situated
on the Mergellina that we shall not feel it, nor do those
suffer who live near the Villa Reale; but around the
Chiatamone this wind is very unpleasant, and causes such
a lively effect on the skin and nerves as to prevent some
persons from living there. It is a noisy, glacial, squally
wind, which makes dolce Napoli as disagreeable as any
" common vulgar town'"; in autumn and winter it visits
this place about one day in four.
The tramontana, or north wind, is cold, but dry and
invigorating, and serves as an antidote to the scirocco
(southeast) and mezzogiorno  (south).  But the most
pleasant wind in Naples is the west, or ponente. It is
the conciliatory one, for it softens the cold and tempers
the hot blasts; under its sweet influences the Cantasto5                             G




98             ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
rie, or street-singers, pour out their medimeval melodies,
the women dance the Tarantella, and everything goes as
merry as a marriage bell. It is blowing now, making
the bright, sunshiny morning delicious; and Venitia is
standing at my room window informing me of it, repeating at the same time snatches of Owen Meredith's " Seaside Song."
Now she walks away, paying the sweetest compliment
to this young poet that he could receive, - reciting his
beautiful poetry in the soft morning air, and she as lovely
as the poetry. I wish she had a lover for whom she felt,
as this song says, " this joy of life." She is walking with
all the gentle dignity of a graceful young empress up and
down the terrace; her step is queenly, and yet without
any affectation of dignity or consciousness of its fine air;
it is a simple, natural motion, resulting from her wellformed limbs and perfectly proportioned body.  She is
just pronouncing these words, with a sweet beat and
rhythm as musical as her gait:" For o'er faint tracks of fragrance wide
A rapture pouring up the tide, -
A freshness through the heat, - a sweet
Uncertain sound, like fairy feet, -
The west wind blows my love to lle."
We spent a day at Capri last week, in company with
the Rochesters and some other friends. On reaching the
island, we visited first the far-famed Grotto Azzurra, or
Blue Grotto, one of the old haunts of Roman luxury.
Who does not remember Hans Christian Andersen's
lovely story of the " Improvvisatore," with its Blue Grotto
episode? Venitia, who had never read this book, sat
up all the preceding night to finish it; but brows never
ache, nor eyes grow heavy, at twenty, so she looked




THE TITAN'S CHILDREN AND CAPRI THE SPHINX. 99
nearly as fresh as usual, the next day at noon, when we
entered the Grotto.
The opening of the cavern is so low and narrow that
we had to lie flat in the boat to enter. It is to the form
and peculiar position of this opening that some heliographers attribute the fabry-like atmosphere of the Grotto.
They say the sea is deeply imbued with light at this entrance, and emits it at every flow inside the cavern. The
best hour for seeing the cave is "at silent midday,"
" The hush of noontide quiet ";
then the waters are sapphire-hued, the walls of the purest blue, - that India shade which the Chinese call "the
blue of the heavens after a rain," - and the ceiling is like
the empyrean. It was at this hour we went, and seemed
suddenly transported to a land of dreams.
We dipped our hands in the magic stream, and they
became as alabaster, with a blue light playing through
them. With these spectre-like fingers we dashed up the
waters playfully; we seemed to be tossing up liquid
gems, sapphires, and bluish pearls.
There was a sparkle on everything, as if a blue flame
was lighting up and playing upon the glittering surface
of crystal. The whole atmosphere seemed charged with
blue, and the vaulted ceiling looked as if made of some
azure-hued, transparent substance as clear as crystal,
lighted by fire-rays from above, shining down on it.
After leaving the Grotto, we loitered up the steep walk
to the hotel, stopping from time to time to enjoy the
divine bits of landscape which came in at the spaces made
by the lowering of vineyard walls. After luncheon, I did
not accompany the rest of the party to Lo Capo, where
are to be seen the remains of the famous twelve palaces
of Tiberius. The noon-day visit to that enchanted Grotto,




100            ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
followed by the long walk, had caused total physical prostration; but the repose which I took while they were
gone, and the full goblet of amber-hued, fragrant Capri
wine,
" With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,"
which I drank, restored me so completely, that I was able
to be up and walking on the terrace of the hotel, when
they came back from their sight-seeing.
The party returned full of the subject of Tiberius and
his history, each one with a learned speculation. As I
sat listening to their various opinions, I remembered Jean
Paul's words, -" Sphinx-like Capri, lying on the broad
plain of the Mediterranean, as a beautiful sphinx, forever offering up to man the solving of her Tiberius and
Blue-Grotto riddles."
" It is a beautiful spot," said Mr. Rochester, leaning on
the terrace-rail, and looking off into the distance. " From
the heights of this island, on a clear day, can be taken in
at one view the whole Italian coast, from the promontory
of Circe to the temple of Paestum. There, on one side,
stretch out the Apennines, away back to the Lucanian
Mountains, while Vesuvius stands fronting the eye, an
ever-smoking altar. Here to the south lies the Mediterranean, and, with a little exertion of the imagination, one
can almost see the fair coast of Sicily.  I was reading
yesterday a glowing description.of Capri in Merivale's'Rome.' He speaks of the island as fronting the Sorrentine promontory with bold beauty, advancing forward,
as some lovely nymph proud of her charms."
"Yes," replied Janet, "I remember the passage. I
recalled it as I stood at Lo Capo, and the same associations he writes of came to my memory. On these exquisite heights the pedantic but scholarly Tiberius must




THE TITAN'S CHILDREN AND CAPRI THE SPHINX. 101
have thought over many a grand old heathen legend, as
he gazed on the various points in the landscape which
told of Circe and Ulysses, the old poem of the'Odyssey,'
and the new one of his uncle's laureate, Virgil, the'IEneid,' which sang the works and exploits of his own
fabled ancestor, IEneas.  Recalling all these tales, he
could well perplex his parasites with his favorite insoluble questions on the subjects of the sirens' songs and
the name of Hecuba's mother."
This beautiful island of Capri — so called from the
wild goats which inhabit it, capree - produces many
excellent things. Its olives and white figs are far-famed;
its wines, both red and white, are luscious, -the red
smells and tastes of raspberries, but the white wine has
the taste and aroma of violets, and is a drink fit for the
gods and goddesses of Hellas. While talking of the
productions of the island, Mr. Rochester observed, -' In our frigid climates we can form no conception of
the delight of simple living and breathing in this part of
Europe. The earth yields its fruits a hundred-fold: for
example, there are three vintages a year, in December,
March, and August; a very little suffices for existence,
even for the poorest, and such an existence as cannot be
found elsewhere."
"In our Northern countries," I said, "physical necessities being great, we have to throw out all our strength
to meet them, and the superfluous force spends itself on
those painful and fatiguing subjects, human liberty and
human progress. Here the people trouble themselves
little, and purchase pleasure, or rather accept it. What
do they care for freedom and the march of mind?  Happy souls! they leave that illusion, that Sisyphus labor
of life, eternal progress, to nations whose rugged, inhospitable soils force them to advance."




102            ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
"I hardly agree with you," replied Mrs. Rochester;
" or, rather, with that which your words imply. Little is
done here, it is true, for those great life-works, human
liberty and human progress, because the people are lying
fallow.  They may need a red fallow of blood yet to
clear out the weeds; but I believe Italy will some time
in the future revive her past; and surely, when we recall
that past, we, who are only beginners, have need to be
patient."
Janet looked triumphant at this earnest reply to my
heresy. I shrugged my shoulders, laughed, and remained
silent; while Mr. Rochester, with the pretty, attractive
gallantry of a husband, came to his wife's aid.
"This little peninsula," he said, "and its surrounding
shores have produced more eminent men than any other
country on the face of the globe. Art and love of Nature were earliest and best developed here; and history
can prove that it was the leading country in all civic and
political activity in the early and middle ages of our era.
Its history is the base, and gives the key-note to all aesthetical and philosophical study.  It is the intellectual
home of all artists, where they can best commence true
study, and develop themselves most satisfactorily. Many
nations have often governed the world by fraud, or force
of arms; but only twice in the range of ages has the gentle rule of the Fine Arts held sway. Here in this little
quarter of the globe the fair throne of Parnassus was
raised; and the world shall ever remember those two
epochs, the age of Pericles and the age of the Medici."
Just then some Italian gentlemen passed beneath the
terrace, conversing earnestly, pouring out, -like rich oil,
their beautiful language.
" Listen!" said Venitia, in a low voice; " listen to the




THE TITAN'S CHILDREN AND CAPRI THE SPHINX. 103
music of this tongue. Notice its rhythm. Its very prose
sounds like poesy."
This reminded me of a fine description I had heard
of the Italian tongue, and I repeated it to-them.  "It is
by turns royal as the Eridan, boiling like Vesuvius, but
always harmonious as the voice of the wind in the great
pines on the shores of the Chiassi."
Mr. Rochester quoted to us passages from the Greek
poets, to prove to us the analogy between these two
tongues in sound. The spoken Greek sounded no more
satisfactory to my ears than its tantalizing hieroglyphics
appear to my unlearned eyes.  But I am  as Uncle
Miramont, in Fletcher's " Elder Brother,"
" Though I can speak no Greek, I like the sound on't,
It goes so thundering as it conjured devils."
No signs of the word tongue are so despairingly provoking to me as Greek characters. They have a mysterious beauty too. Those eternities of o's; those X's,
looking, with their tails upturned, like frolicsome dolphins in the waves of a Grecian archipelago; the prim
co's, with their various accents, seeming to hold a great
secret as Lara's nodding steward; busy spider e's, weaving, Arachne-like, interminable webs of mystery; incomplete A's, like Schumann's mute, questioning chords; WI's,
silent as the weird columns of the Serapedn; the subtle,
serpent-like forms, I, 0, p, and those reflective 71, u, p, with
"their tenacious flukes mooring them to the shore" of
some mighty thought.
I made Mr. Rochester laugh by telling him this, and
his wife added, -
"Yes, you are right; these word-symbols are as lovely
and deceptive as'those ivory gates of sleep, through




104            ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
which come false dreamt to mortals.' Whenever I meet
with a Greek passage in my reading, it seems as if it intended to resolve itself, just for me alone, into full and
perfect meanitg; and the sparkling and pretty-winged
accents, that hover over the hieroglyphics, wink with
seductive familiarity, wooing me on,- in vain; the vision passes, and it all remains as incomprehensible as
the great stone sphinx which gazes out alone over the
desert so silently, - and looking almost scornfully too,
fobr every passage seems to resolve itself into those
ominous characters pointed at my vulgar ignorance, ol
7roXoi! "
"But luckily a path for deliverance remains, ladies,"
said Mr. Rochester.  "Being women, you are not expected to understand Greek. Remember what that great
master of our strong Anglo-Saxon tongue, De Quincey,
says:-' Fair reader, our sex enjoys the office and privilege of standing counsel to yours, on all questions of
Greek. We are, under favor, perpetual and hereditary
dragomans to you; so that if by accident you know the
meaning of a Greek word, yet by courtesy to us, your
counsel, learned in that matter, you will always seem not
to know.'"
And thus passed away this lovely day. We returned
by moonlight, and the stars and the sea-ripples shone
with a golden sparkle; even the pure moon-rays, as they
fell on the tideless Mediterranean, broke into a flood of
gold.  Part of the company walked the deck of the
steamer, chatting gayly; the rest of us remained at the
upper part of the boat, and fell into a sweet silence. I
passed off into a reverie that was too full of fine visions
to be called ordinary slumber, unless it was as Endymion's magic sleep, —




THE TITAN'S CHILDREN AND CAPRI THE SPHINX. 105
" Great key
To golden palaces, strange minstrelsy,
Fountains grotesque, new trees, bespangled caves,
Echoing grottos, full of tumbling waves
And moonlight; ay, to all the mazy world
Of silvery enchantment!"




NE W FRIENDS.
-     ENITIA is reading Pope's Homer with great
interest, and her remarks afford us much
amusement. She laid down the book just
now, and, walking across the terrace to the
window where I am at my writing, said: "Ottilie, in
the Iliad I notice, more than in anything I ever read,
the great power, the irresistible influence, exercised by
beauty, breeding, grace, and gentleness. Before these
the haughty rage of Hector bows, and Priam's afflicted
anger melts. Even Troy's matrons accept the naughty,
unchaste Helen, won by her unassuming loveliness and
lowly grace.  Paris, so courtly, gentle, and beautiful,
disarms all attacks, however well merited, and yet he
shows so much dignity in his meekness as to maintain
his position as a gentleman."
I had to laugh at this conclusion.
" Why, listen," she continued earnestly, half joining in
my laugh, and taking up her Homer. "You remember,
in the sixth Book, the stern, stormy Hector gives the
naughty' Phrygian boy' a sound berating, which it must
be admitted the lazy, but charming, young fellow had
richly deserved; but how ashamed the Trojan chief and
the reader feel of his violent epithets, when the graceful
Paris answers:




NEW  FRIENDS.                  107' Brother,'t is just.
Thy free remonstrance proves thy worth and truth;
Yet charge my absence less, O generous chief!
On hate to Troy, than conscious shame and grief.
Here, hid from human eyes, thy brother sat
And mourned in secret his and Ilion's fate.'
Now pray what reply could be made to such a gentlemanly waiving aside of well-merited reproaches?"
" Look out on the terrace, both of you," cries Janet,
"and admire my sweet flowers.  You can quote your
Pope's Homer over them."
She is watering her pot-plants and flower-beds, for she
has quite a hanging garden on this lo-vely terrace. The
morning sun is peeping around on them, and the air is
filled with their fresh fragrance. I look up at her, and
acknowledge the loving thoughtfulness she displays by
having a huge box of blooming mignonette, violets, and
hyacinths placed beside my window; and after Andrea,
our waiter, has arranged it to her perfect satisfaction, she
strikes a pretty attitude before it, and repeats, with playful emphasis, -
", Thick new-born violets a soft carpet spread,
And clustering lotos swells the rising bed,
And sudden hyacinths the turf bestrow,
And flaming crocus makes the mountain glow."
We have formed and renewed some pleasant acquaintances. I say renewed, because Janet has met some English friends whose acquaintance she made during her
husband's life. Among them is a Mrs. Folham, who,
like ourselves, is making a tarrying-place of Naples.
She has a daughter, Florence, with whom we were very
much pleased the few times we saw her. She has gone
on a journey of a few weeks through the Abruzzi, with




108            ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
an uncle and aunt. When she returns, we hope to have
much pleasure in her society, as, added to her being an
agreeable, pretty, and well-bred girl, she is something of
a musician. We found her a pleasing singer, with a so:f,
delicious voice, just a little veiled and well-trained.
Mrs. Folham had a the musicale - as her pretty little note of invitation called it —just before Florence
left, a few evenings since. At it we met Tito Mattei, a
young Neapolitan pianiste, whose execution, when he was
a boy, attracted the attention and praises of Thalberg
and his father-in-law Lablache.  Mattei is about three
or four and twenty, quite youthful in appearance; his
face has a frank, boyish expression, with more simplicity
and good nature than deep feeling or vivacity.
During the evening, being asked to play, he executed
a fragment which puzzled us, for the accessories of execution created a contest with, and partly veiled, the
musical thought. The idea contained in the piece was
masterly, and provokingly familiar to us, but we could
not seize it as a whole, so as to give it its proper name.
This happens to me often, however, for I have a curious
difficulty in commanding the names of pieces when I
hear them unexpectedly, which is very tantalizing to one
who has studied music so closely as I have.
Venitia is never at a loss. Her musical information
is not packed, labelled, and docketed as mine is; it lies
out near at hand.  Thus, when the unexpected or unknown comes suddenly upon her, she is quite ready to
encounter either. This exact memory and quick reading on the keys which she possesses, and is naturally so
proud of, arise, I think, partly, if not entirely, from her
being so fine an executante; she applies everything she
studies in music instantly to the piano, - indeed, studies




NEW FRIENDS.                 109
through it and through her ear.  I, on the contrary,
am an indifferent performer, and have enjoyed music for
many years, as I do books, in silence and to myself, independent of all instruments; thus, the notes appeal more
forcibly to my mind and fancy than to my ear, and
when I hear the full battery of sounds I am a little bewildered. But on this occasion Venitia could not name
the fragment either, and it vexed her, for she felt all the
pride of an executante, and did not like to find herself as
confused as a mere carpet knight, such as she regards me.
The passage was brief, breathless, and full of vigor,
and Mattei played it well; but, just as it would be putting. aside its mask, like a sprightly Venitienne at a carnival fete, in order to show its bewitching self, he would
throw over it a gorgeous mantle, studded with brilliant
octaves, and embroidered with graceful arabesque scale
forms, while his thumb flashed like a little demon Ariel
from one end of the piano to the other, just in the most
difficult and unexpected places, and the curious but beautiful fragment would peep through here and there with
a mocking smile, then dance off in bewildering zigzags
in company with chasing scales, showing itself only in
sparkling bits. After a while, the first and second passages of the opening gleamed out again, and, melting together in sorrowful minor, closed in the most fragmentary doubt. When Mattei arose from the piano, some
one asked him the name of it.
"The motivo was a passage from Beethoven," he answered, with a frank smile.
" O, to be sure!" exclaimed Venitia, impulsively, to
me, as if provoked with herself for not recognizing her
old friend. It was the finale. to the first Sonate in Opus
10, C minor, the Prestissimo, you remember."




110            ST. MARTLN'S SUMMER.
He started, for he had overheard her, and turning half
towards us, said to Mrs. Folham and her daughter,
" Mademoiselle is a musician."
Mrs. Folham  presented him to us, and we entered
into conversation.
" You have of course read De Lenz?" I remarked to
him.
" Plait-il? " he replied, with that blank expression of
countenance a person has when he does not comprehend
even your words, much less your thought.
"The man never read anything in his life, my dear,
I'll wager a bright golden guinea," whispered Janet in
English, "except probably his Book of Prayers. His
music nascitur non fit, of course."
Choking down a laugh, I extricated myself in a few
words of explanation, telling him as simply and concisely
as possible, that De Lenz was a clever German musical
writer, who had published a useful book on Beethoven's
Sonates, and had said some nice and suggestive things
about this very Sonate, the finale of which he had been
playing. He listened to me as a person looks in the
dark, and, when I had finished, shook his head wistfully,
as if just understanding my words, and no more. Then
he turned to Venitia, and they talked about different
piano-forte compositions.
While they were talking, I seemed to be listening to
them, but I was really thinking of what a different thing
music was to each of us. To him it was innate, and
seemed to require no mental nourishment, nor give rise
to any ideas or feelings out of and beyond it; he was
not a creator, but a gifted executant, who controlled the
instrument as a member of his body, and bent and
moulded the musical ideas of masters at will into num



NEW FRIENDS.                  111
berless forms of beauty, like the Florentine artist-goldsmiths of the fifteenth century, who took precious ore,
and worked it into beautiful and graceful garlands for
fair women.
But music to me is a language, and though, so far as
my own fingers are concerned, it may be a dead one, it
is like the ancient tongues to a classical scholar, —the
beautiful
"fluent Greek, a vowel'd under-song ";
and tells me through my eyes and my mind of diviner
thoughts and things than any living spoken words can
breathe.
"Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on,
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endeared,
Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone." *
We found Mattei intelligent enough about everyday
musical matters, and tolerably posted in the history of
his noble old Conservatoire. I made his inexpressive
dark eyes glow with something like emotion, when I told
him of the younger Trajetta dying in indigence and obscurity, at an advanced age, some years before, in America, and he listened, as if deeply interested, to my account
of Trajetta's mode of training the voice, and the beautiful Solfeggi he had given me to study. When I ended,
he said, in a pretty, tender, half sad tone," He was one of our holy men in art, and he died far
away there, unknown and poor. Mais que voulez-vous,
Mesdames?  We poor artists! So we go!"
He shrugged his shoulders, threw up his hands with
the palms outward, raised his eyebrows, and pouted his
lips in the true Neapolitan sign-language, indicating, even
* Keats's Ode on a Grecian Urn.




112            ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
stronger than words could, sympathy with the master's
sad fate, reverence for his memory, all united to a calm
acceptance amounting to fatalism; which last, I have no
doubt, he inherited from nature, for his face bore that
half vague, half indifferent look which is entirely distinct from the dreamy expression of the poet, or the
hopeless look of the discouraged: it is the unmistakable
sign of the born fatalist.
Venitia talked with him about Thalberg, Liszt, Mendelssohn, and Chopin, but it was difficult to get his individual opinions about any one of them, though he was
quite willing to tell what other persons thought. We
asked him if he played Chopin much. Then came again
his expressive shrug, and another motion of the hands,
with a smiling elevation of the lips, meaning, as we
translated it, that however he might admire Chopin, he
was not his own master as to what he should play for
the public; indeed, the remark he made a few moments
after these graphic gestures had finished, confirmed us in
the truth of our interpretation.
" Chopin's music," he said, " is not popular in Naples.
After all, it is the music for the virtuoso, Mesdames, not
the multitude."
Some one addressed him, and he turned away from us,
which gave us an opportunity to speak of what we cannot
help noticing constantly in Naples, this curious sign-language. All the lower classes, especially, use it with great
skill. One of our anteroom windows looks over into the
court-yard. I often stand there, watching, through the
blinds, with great interest, the coachman, grooms, servants, and porteress, engaged at their various occupations,
talking together, and I have observed closely their use of
this mysterious means of communication. They seem to




NEW FRIENDS.                113
have certain gestures for a whole phrase. Indeed, I have
often seen one of them stop when half-way through an
animated sentence, as if words were powerless, and finish
his meaning by a few rapid, fierce gestures, which seemed
to be perfectly comprehended by his companions, and
much more effective too than the words had been, judging
firom the flashing of their keen eyes. Thus, when Mattei
left us, we talked about it, and Janet said," This sign-language is not original with these modern
Neapolitans. I have no doubt it is a descendant of the
sign-language of ancient Italy."
"I wish I understood it better," I remarked, "for I am
sure a knowledge of it would make the symbolism of the
old painters much plainer to us."
" The other evening at Mr. Rochester's," said Venitia,
" a gentleman told me that when Ferdinand I. returned
to Naples, after the downfall of Murat, he addressed the
people from a terrace or balcony of the Royal Palace
entirely by signs; he gesticulated furiously and rapidly;
conveyed his reproaches, promises, and reconciliation
entirely by these motions of the hands and muscles of
the face; and although he did not speak one word, they
perfectly understood him, and gave him shouts of applause expressive of their satisfaction and admiration."
"That was what made him so popular with the lower
classes," observed Janet; " you remember it was said the
lazzaroni were faithful subjects of a king who made a
lazzarone of himself, meaning this Ferdinand I.; but they
obeyed grudgingly a lazzarone who had been made a
king, meaning Murat."
"But what a droll sight that must have been," I remarked, " that royal pantomime! Their replies, however, should also have been mute. Fancy, my dears,
H




114            ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
how excessively funny it would be to see such a townmeeting, with the vox populi having no vox at all, and
speech and applause going on by gestures.  I should
think a great deal of violence might be spared, if all
popular assemblages had orator and audience limited to
motions and gestures."
"Not at all," said Janet; "noise might be prevented
probably, but not violence, judging from these Italians;
for you know very well that here the blow can come, and
does, without the word."
Just then our hostess asked Venitia for some music;
and I noticed with pleasure that Mattei stopped his conversation in the anteroom where supper was served, and
came into the salon to listen to her. Notwithstanding he
had said Chopin was not popular in Naples, all the company appeared charmed with her execution of the Romance from the Concerto dedicated to Kalkbrenner by
Athis composer. Her beauty and calm self-possession increased very much the effect her music produced. She
looked like a young Sibyl as she sat at the piano, still
and fair as a piece of sculptured marble, her glorious full
eyes gazing out into the beyond, while her fingers seemed
to draw from the instrument this charming passage. Her
playing makes me understand what Heine felt when
he said of Chopin's own execution: "Whilst Chopin is
playing I forget entirely that it is the performance of a
pianiste whose reputation is that of a master, and I bury
myself in the sweet abysses of his music, in its sad delights, which are as exquisite as profound. Chopin is the
great musical poet, the artist of genius, that can only be
named in company with Mozart and Beethoven."
As Venitia finished, a gentleman came in, who was received by the family and musical circle with great friendliness, and kind reproaches for his coming so late.




NEW FRIENDS.                115
"Our friend, Mr. Luini," said Mrs. Folham, coming
to Janet and me. "I was afraid we should not have the
pleasure of seeing him this evening. An exceedingly
nice person, I do assure you. Yes, Mr. Luini."
Mrs. Folham has a droll way of repeating the motivo
of her remark, as a sort of refrain, looking around the
room as she does it, as if driving four-in-hand, and watching her leaders.
" Luini!" I repeated, in a stupid way I have of thinking aloud; "Luini, I wonder if he is a descendant of
the Milanese Raphael!" for in Italy we are constantly
startled at hearing names used familiarly, and applied to
living, breathing human beings, no better than ourselves,
which we have been accustomed to seeing only in books,
and there applied to the great landmarks in history and
art, setting such brains as mine to work in the most absurd manner, framing imaginary genealogies.
" Milanese? " asked Mrs. Folham, in the most ridiculously practical manner; " quite likely, my dear." (She
had lost the word " Raphael," and, if she had not, I do
not know that it would have been of much use to her.)
"Mr. Luini is a Milanese by birth; probably he knows
the family to which you allude,' and may be a kinsman.
Let me present him to you, and you can ask him."
And to my intense amusement and embarrassment she
bustled off to fetch her friend. Mrs. Folham is a very
intelligent woman, so far as all ordinary practical subjects
go. But it must be confessed that everything relating to
what she calls, with amusing emphasis, "the Fine Arts,"
is about as clear to her comprehension as " Shakespeare
and the musical glasses."  She looks upon "the Continent " - another English expression of hers, as if there
was but one continent on the globe - as a vastly agree



116            ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
able place for persons of failing health or invalid income,
a capital place indeed for educating children, and I sometimes think she hopes to make it an available place for
picking up a. count or a baron for her pretty blonde,
Florence.  Galleries of pictures and statuary, ancient
ruins, and old churches, she regards as accessories to the
country, like bowling-alleys, the shows, and exhibitions of
a watering-place, gotten up by the natives as amusements
and attractions, and quite likely she shrewdly suspects
them of being speculations on the easily-gulled travellers,
who are not as clever about those sort of things as she is.
Thus, my allusion to the celebrated pupil of the great
Leonardo da Vinci, Bernardino Luini, was Greek and
Latin to her ears. As Mrs. Folham left us, I looked at
Janet dismayed, and yet the mistake was so absurd we
had to laugh. While we were in the height of our merriment, imagining what possible explanation I could make
to the strange man about the mythical Luinis in question,
we saw Mrs. Folham approaching, leaning on the arm of
her friend.
" He is very handsome, at all events," whispered Janet.
Mrs. Folham presented him; and just as she was about
speaking of my unfortunate Mrs.-Harris-of-a-Luini, that
Providence who watches so kindly over the halt and the
blind of good society, interposed in my favor, in the shape
of her youngest boy, un vrai enfant terrible, and she disappeared hastily with him, saying, as she did so, in the
best satisfied manner imaginable, — "Now, my love, ask
MIr. Luini all about your friends.  Yes, your firiends."
And she nodded her head encouragingly.
As our ridiculous position presented itself to us, good
breeding, self-control, every discipline of courtesy, and
Mrs. Grundyism, which keeps us poor human beings




NEW FRIENDS.                117
in check and good order when we meet together in those
crowds called " society," was forgotten, - no, not forgotten, but completely swept aside by the torrent of fun
which rushed over us both, and Janet and I astounded
our new acquaintance by the merriest peal of laughter
he surely had ever heard.
He opened wide his cold blue eyes on us; but I saw
creeping around his handsome mouth quiverings which
showed he should like to know the cause of our mirth,
that he might enjoy it also. This encouraged me, for I
had been afraid of encountering an Italian, not only as
innocent of "the Fine Arts" as poor Mrs. Folham, —
no uncommon thing, by the way,- but equally innocent
of appreciation of humor. After the first burst of laughter had subsided, I controlled myself sufficiently to speak,
and said, —" Really, we must appear very rude. You
must excuse us. I am almost sure the same cause would
make you behave just as badly."
"I have not the slightest doubt of it," he answered,
with a cordial laugh and the loveliest voice I ever heard
in man or woman; then he added, "Permit me to take
this seat beside you, and pray let me into the secret of
this merriment. Food for fun, you know, is not to be
found every day."
In a few moments he was laughing as heartily as we,
and our rather noisy laughter attracted Venitia's attention.
She was standing at the piano with Florence and her
mamma, and she reports that Mrs. Folham said, "Yes,
my dear, your friend knows some relatives of Mr. Luini.
How lucky, to be sure, for he is an exceedingly nice person. We have known him these two or three years. In
Rome we first met him, was it not, Florence? Yes, my
dear, - Mr. Luini, - in Rome, - a Milanese by birth, I




118            ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
am pretty certain. A very proper person, I do assure
you. What did you say, Florence?  An artist?  Beg
pardon, my love, you are entirely in error"; then she
added, in a solemn and reproachful tone, as if Florence
had accused him of some sin or dishonor, " An artist! no,
indeed; on the contrary, comfortable means, lives very
handsomely, quite the gentleman.  Plays finely, to be
sure, but only en amateur.  I have heard," here she
lowered her voice confidentially, " that he is noble "; and,
with a little nervous laugh, like Toots's " no consequence,"
she added, " He may be a prince in disguise, or something
of the sort, who knows? But, at all events," here she
resumed her ordinary hearty English tone, " he is a very
nice person, - very; - yes, - Mr. Luini, - O no, not
an artist at all. By no means; — quite the gentleman,
on the contrary; — amateur, that's all."
Mr. Luini and we were capital friends from the start.
When we bade him good night, we invited him with sincere cordiality to visit us.
"Yes, my dears," interrupted Mrs. Folham, "Mr.
Luini shall fetch me some time very soon to see you.
Pray, what evenings are you receiving?"
The kind, pleasant woman had all the proper feeling of
an English person about it, and by offering to have him
"fetch" her, as she expressed it, she wished frankly to
assume any responsibility there might appear in the sudden acquaintanceship.  The next day, when we returned
from our morning drive in the Toledo, where we love to
see the motley cr6wd, we found his card.




SPIRITISM AND DREAMS.
E have been having a strange and interesting
conversation this evening, arising out of our
meeting to-day with Mr. H  -, the celebrated
ltI o-z~  Spiritist. This gentleman has lately arrived
in Naples, and his sayings, doings, and movements are
so freely talked upon, that he seems to be the public
property of the English and American society collected
in this city. We hear more of him than others, because
he is very intimate with our friends the Rochesters.
He is not in full possession of his powers at the present moment, they say. He has held only two or three
seances since he came, and these have been strictly private, at Mr. Rochester's palazzo, at which no one has
been present but the immediate family of the Minister
and the King's brother, Prince Luigi, for whose gratification they have been held.
The reports of these seances have made us curious to
meet this spiritual lion; but although he told Mrs. Rochester he would call on us with her some day, sans ceremonie, his promised visit has been deferred fiom time to
time, for he is as the man in the parable, " marrying a
wife and cannot come."  His intended bride and her
family, with whom he is travelling, — wealthy Russians,
— are making excursions to Amalfi and Psestum, Sor



120            ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
rento and Capri, Pozzuoli and Baie; thus every moment
of his time is occupied.
This morning Mrs. Rochester called and told us that
MIr. H - had asked Mr. Rochester to present him to
Mr. B-, the distinguished American poet, now also in
Naples; that he was to call on this gentleman and his
family this afternoon, and that she had come to invite us,
in their name and hers, to be present at the interview.
Accordingly, at three o'clock we went to Mr. B.'s
apartments at the Hotel de l'Europe, where we were
received cordially by him and his ladies. We arrived
a little before the expected visitor, but a few moments
after Mr. H-   and Mr. Rochester were announced.
When Mr. H —         was presented to Mr. B -, I
noticed that he took a rapid, keen survey of the poet, -
who has as distinguished a presence as name, -just as if
he were weighing and measuring him mentally. "You
are very cunning and clever, young Aureolus, doubtless,"
I thought, "but you cannot measure that man."
Only a few moments passed during the presentation,
and no one seemed to notice, as I did, the sharp weightand-measure glance that flashed out of the bright, blue
eye of the young Spiritist, as he scanned the patriarchallooking poet, who received his boyish guest with simplicity and loyalty of manner, as if he respected himself
and his surroundings, and was willing to extend the same
feeling to all who approached him; but short as the moments were, this look made a strong impression on me.
As I noted the young man's expression, there rose to my
lips the words which Browning puts into the mouth of
Paracelsus, when he first sees Aprile the poet, -
" Art thou the sage I only seem to be,
Myself of after time, my very self,




SPIRITISM AND DREAMS.              121
With sight a little clearer, strength more firm,
Who robs me of my prize, who takes my place,
For just a fault, a weakness, a neglect?
I scarcely trusted God with the surmise
That such might come."
During the first part of the interview I examined the
personal appearance of the young man.  He seemed
about five or six and twenty; had light brown hair and
blonde complexion; a frank, boyish countenance; and a
quick, bright, blue eye, clear as the waters that wash the
base of a granite mountain. His voice was ringing, and
had a cordial tone in it; and his laugh was the fresh,
throaty one of youth, as if no care or sorrow had sent the
laugh lower down for springs to feed it.
A genial, merry manner, an egotistical freedom in talking of himself, which had the appearance of hearty, innocent candor, also struck me; but for the sharp expression
which I had observed on his face when first looking at
him, I probably should not have examined him closer,
but have listened to, and regarded him as an imaginative
person, possessing a great deal of this mysterious magnetic power of which so little is known, and using it with
the unconsciousness of a real childlike nature.
But the recollection of that look remained; and after
the first survey of his person and manner, I returned to
the examination of his face, to find out where lay the
sharpness and shrewdness. At last they were discovered
in those glancing blue eyes, and frank, laughing mouth; —
there, around the eye and mouth-setting were numberless
little foxy lines, which gave a curious, cunning, knowing
expression to the face, strangely at variance with its surface-character.- They were the marks left by the constant
use of a subtile and intuitive power of penetration into the
6




122             ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
characters of others,- that strange, bland, and noiseless
gift, the practice of which is called shrewdness by some,
dissimulation by others, but is, after all, best named tact.
"Has for genius no mercy,
For speeches no heed;
It lurks in the eyebeam,
It leaps to its deed.
Church, market, and tavern,
Bed and board it will sway;
It has no to-morrow,
It ends with to-day." *
How curious is the history that each human face tells!
No matter how hidden the labor, how strong the will,
how stern the self-control, the murder will out in some
little leaf of the countenance.
I looked from the Spiritist to our Minister, from him
to the Poet, and contrasted the three remarkable men.
Mr. Rochester's face is dreamy, speculative, and almost
poetical; but there are certain hard lines about the mouth
and square wrinkles on the brow which tell of the struggle
that may have gone on in his nature between wild, Utopian visions and sober common sense. This struggle has
transformed a vague, youthful dreamer, who would have
spent his life in trying to carry out impossible schemes,
into the practical, acting man, fit to be what Madame de
Stail said his great preceptor, M. Fellenberg, desired
his educational system to produce: "A liberal bond between the inferior and superior classes; a bond which
should not be founded only on the pecuniary interests of
the rich and the poor." t
Mr. BI's face and head are as satisfactory as any
admirer of the great poet could wish. He has a fine, high
* Emerson.        t Madame de Stahl's " L'Allemagne."




SPIRITISM AND DREAMS.            123
brow; a head as classic in its outline as an antique; a
calm, reflective eye, so serious that but for its serenity it
would be stern; inquiring in its expression at times, not
so much of outward things, but as if communing with the
high and beyond; a mouth expressing sensitiveness and
purity. Gray hair clusters around his fine head, and he
has a patriarchal beard, which is as oddly at variance
with the fire of his eye as Richelieu's eye and voice were
with his tottering gait.  His manner is calm, simple, and
plain; but the simplicity and plainness arise from high
breeding and culture, and an inherent self-respect, which
is unobtrusive but none the less felt. I have heard him
described as cold, stern, and exclusive; to me he always
seems serene, self-poised, and just.
From his quiet face, expressive of that perfect wisdom
which results from a constant communion with good, true
thoughts, I shifted my eyes again to the young Scotchman, whose success in Spiritism has made him famous
enough to be mentioned hereafter, in the history of this
unknown, magnetic human atmosphere, when future discoveries have made it as " natural" and " easy to believe"
as steam and electricity.
While the young man's tongue was running with voluble facility, his eyes were scanning closely and keenly
his audience; the graceful form of the poet's invalid wife,
who lay upon the sofa, her delicate, lady-like features and
exquisite little hand and foot, which peeped out from the
folds of the soft, silken dressing-robe, -all these attractions, I felt certain, were noted, as that sharp, blue eye
swept over her.
One by one he took in each member of the company,
and I observed that he remembered exactly which lady
among us was the great poet's daughter. He had a word




124            ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
for each and all; in proportion to our ranks, however,
for intellect sat on that American throne, — a B.-,
not a Bourbon.
He talked of a living double he had, with frank fun, as if
he heartily enjoyed the thing, - some charlatan who was
pretending to be Mr. H. This person had played
numberless pranks, which were even rascally and dishonest, - such as introducing himself into families, getting
invitations to stay all night, and decamping before daybreak with the plate and other valuables. This double
had visited Florence, Marseilles, and various other
places.
"' And so droll! " said the young man, with a burst of
innocent surprise, as if all the world should be familiar
with his personal appearance; "-so odd! the descriptions
given of this person show him to be totally unlike me,
for they all say he is a middle-aged, large, dark-haired
man."
He talked of his matrimonial engagement with delicious naivete; said, with a merry laugh, that he had only
known the lady six weeks. "Although," he added, with
a little dash of the chin up, and toss of the head, "we
had known each other by reputation long before." It
was inimitable. He said he was born in Scotland, had
been taken to the United States in early childhood, then
returned, while yet young, to his native country.
There was none of the accepted notion of a magician
about him. Indeed, it seemed strange, while looking at
this eager, boyish, apparently enthusiastic youth, to think
of him as.the man who had been consulted seriously by
the long-headed Louis Napoleon, and had been invited
by persons of the highest rank in Europe to visit them,
all treating him and his faith and powers with respect.




SPIRITISM AND DREAMS.            125
He did not, during the whole interview, say one word
about Spiritism. He spoke of himself as well known,
not with offensive conceit or presumptuous vanity, but
with the frankness of a youth. Notwithstanding all this
openness, he impressed me with the thought that he was
sharper and cleverer than this air implied. There was
certainly method in his manner.
He made the conversation as general as possible, for
he. held the reins in his own hands. He seemed to possess, among his other gifts, that art de causer, which De
Tocqueville defined as that charming science which consists in touching upon and agitating a crowd of ideas,
without dwelling in tiresome detail on any one; with
this difference, that Mr. H —-—'s talk touched on personalities, not ideas,-things, not thoughts. He kept the
ball rolling swiftly, and even when speaking of himself
left no room for suggestions, or the natural remarks or
questions that might have arisen from such a personal
style.
After talking an hour or so, Mr. Rochester reminded
Mr. H-  of the time. He arose with a quick, alert
movement, which was quite in keeping, and took leave of
Mr. B — and us with the fresh, eager manner of a very
young man, who had not been long enough in society to
grow conscious or affected, but entirely free from awkwardness or shyness.
Of course, we "talked him over" after he left, and
among other things that were said and told of him was
this pretty story: —
One evening in Florence Mr. H-  was visiting two
distinguished English authors, husband and wife. While
talking with them, he played idly with some fresh leaves
that were lying near him, forming them into a wreath,




126             ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
which, after he had finished, he threw carelessly on the
table, and turned to play with something else; for this
thoughtless, unconscious handling of cards or little table
ornaments and trifles while he is talking is said to be one
of his peculiarities. A low exclamation from the one
"who mutely sits
Musing by the firelight, that great brow
And the spirit small hand propping it,"
attracted the attention of each one present to the little
leafy wreath. It was rising in the air without the help
of any visible hands. It rose gently, swayed an instant
to and fro, as if a soft breeze half lifted, half impelled it.
It moved slowly along, each one watching it earnestly,
until it hung directly over the head of the lady he was
visiting; then it fell eddying down, like the leaf commemorated in the beautiful poem  "By the Fireside," and
rested on "that great brow," mingling its soft, green
leaves with the hair,
" So dark and dear, how worth
That a man should strive and agonize,
And taste a very hell on earth
For the hope of such a prize."
We all united in the opinion that Mr. H-t's powers
had never been better employed than in making his
"unseen spirits of the air" crown
" My perfect wife, my Leonor."
This evening Mrs. Rochestercame to talk over with us
the visit of the day; and while we were drinking tea on
the terrace, she told us of some strange things which had
occurred in her drawing-room during the late seances held
there for Prince Luigi. Shapes like baby hands had
appeared under the table-covering, supposed to be spirits




SPIRITISM AND DREAMS.            127
of children 1Mrs. Rochester had lost by death twenty
years before! Their small clenched fists had played in
the silk flounces of the mother's dress, their little unseen
forms had nestled down beside her.'Kerchiefs had been
snatched up by invisible hands, and knots were tied in
them with unseen fingers. An accordion was held beneath the table, and the little invisible spirits played on
it a broken but sweet minor melody, - only a few measures; then the instrument trembled, as if held by tiny
hands too weak to bear its weight, and fell to the ground.
After MZrs. Rochester left us we remained on the terrace talking.  Janet said: " Spiritism has its root in
the imagination, and this root is as old as humanity itself.
In every age a new shoot comes up in some form or other,
but the root remains the same, — the same burning desire
to know and determine the future. It is but a repetition
of that old longing which impelled the astrologists'on
the mooned plains of Chaldea, and by the dark waters of
Egypt, to penetrate into the womb of Event.' "
" But this Spiritism," I replied, " does not seem to be
a very poetical repetition of that glorious astrology, and
its evidences are more positive and tangible, while they
are not so elevated as those which the learned philosophers of old exhibited.  The greatest charm in the
supernatural for me, however, lies in losing sight of the
Before and After. I long to soar into a realm of eternal
Present, where I can be free from the goading sting of
the snake Memory, and the delusive dream of Hope."
"Wait patiently," said Janet, with serious tenderness,
" and that great Present will come. When the undetermined hour strikes, our Past and Future will be shown
to us as one divine Whole!"
We talked of Life and Death with sweet solemnity.




128             ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
"Dissolution, Ottilie dear, is not death nor birth," said
Janet.  "Life - that is, what we call Life in this world
— is a transient division from  the creative power, and
Death is simply a reunion with it." Then, in her pleasing, speculative way, she rambled on something after this
fashion:-  "Life, real, true life, is like a beautiful tree
bearing one matchless flower. It takes ages to perfect
root and tree-stem, branch and leafage, and, in fine, the
blessed blossom. Each being is a contribution towards
this purpose, and the warmth of countless suns is needed
for its glorious ripening, for' I doubt not through the ages one increasing purpose runs,
And the thoughts of men are widened with the process of the suns.'
Each earnest life-labor goes towards this increasing purpose, and each complete existence is as a snowy petal
opening in perfect whiteness to help the expanding of the
one great thought-flower."
We talked of dreams and the inexplicable influence
arising from them, which constitutes what Lewes calls
" the atmosphere of life."  I remarked that in dreams we
seem to be completely disengaged from the distractions
of common life; nothing exists but ourselves, our very
spirits, without contact or mixture. "La bete," as De
Mfaistre wittily called the body, lies senseless and helpless, while " l'autre" is free and soaring.
" Some physiologists think," said Janet, " that dreams,
instead of being a reflection of spontaneous will,, uninfluenced by the narrow experiences of the hour and surrounding circumstances, are simply an organic action, a
reflex movement of the nerves, an automatic operation of
the brain."
"It may be," I replied, " a sentiment of the difficult or
easy, strong or languishing, course of organic life. I




SPIRITISM AND DREAMS.              129
have noticed that trouble often makes the sleep as heavy
as if it resulted from an opium draught; petty annoyances, on the contrary, cause wakefulness, and so does
gayety; but deep grief, after it has had its full sweep,
mercifully turns and spreads the dense covering of a
leaden sleep over the prostrated mind and body."
" Descartes said that sorrow and danger, or disagreeable business, made him both hungry and sleepy," remarked Janet.
"Have you ever noticed," I asked, "the sensations following sleep? Sometimes I awaken with the current of
life flowing abundantly and with facility. I seem to be
hearing the inspiring murmurs of a far-off ocean, and the
mysterious sounds fill me with a strange gladness, an unaccountable light-heartedness."              /
"As if," responded Janet, resting her hand affectionately on my shoulder,"' Though inland far we be,
Our souls have sight of that immortal sea
Which brought us hither;
Can in a moment travel thither, -
And see the children sport upon the shore,
And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore.'"
"Then at other times," I continued, "I awaken with
lead in every little organ-pipe of nerves, the current of
life flows languidly, and I seem plunged into a state of
insurmountable melancholy. I am apt to fancy that only
the body has awakened, and the soul is still lingering in
that home, where Rahel Levin said'it goes in sleep to
recruit,' and that the animal spirits are waiting in sadness for their Prospero, to relieve them from the gnarled
oak-like prison-house of matter."
"Do you remember, Ottilie," asked Venitia, " old Volkt6*                            I




130            ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
man in Bulwer's Godolphin? He talked of'girdling our
sleep with dreams,' and when the wished for dream glided
into us, our souls walked with the Spirit of the Vision.
I cannot help indulging in a little fanciful superstition
about dreams, it is so pleasant. In the morning I often
find myself thinking if the last night's visions are of good
or evil omen. Indeed, I have never removed this ruby
ring at night since I heard that the ruby gave pleasant
dreams."
" But, Venitia, if you observe yourself closely, you will
find that you rarely admit any dream to be positively illomened.  Cunning Hope always contrives some little
loophole to let in on it a bright glimmer of good meaning."
"Let me tell you a strange dream I had once," said
Janet. "The clock is striking midnight; it is the very
hour for a weird story, and this terrace has a ghostly look,
with the phantom-like vapor of Vesuvius flashing out on
us its fierce fire-eye. One evening, some years ago, I sat
alone at bedtime, thinking how happy I was, how well in
mind and body. I was leading a comparatively solitary
life, for we were at Paul's country home in England, and
my days and hours were flowing by silently and sweetly.
I went to bed and fell asleep.
" I dreamed I was standing on the door-sill of a strange
house, looking out into a garden which I had never seen
before, but I did not feel any surprise at being there. A
servant told me that a certain woman, who was in some
way associated with me, I cannot tell how, —for, of
course, you have observed how vaguely information is
conveyed in dreams - we accept everything without any
of the'whys and wherefores' of waking life, - that this
woman had just passed out with a strange-looking snake




SPIRITISM AND DREAMS.            131
following her. I ran into an adjoining arbor, or summerhouse, and looked after this person.
"I saw her very near where I was standing. She was
walking slowly away, and beside her, as if listening to
and following her, was a horrible little Cobra de Capello!
It was about two feet in length, and it leaped along with
a bold, agile movement, that had a strange fascinating
grace in it. It stood half upright, the slight undulatory
body supported on the foot-like tail, the hood dilated,
showing plainly the black curved line and spots, and
they had the mysterious expression that is seen on a
mask. The yellow color of the serpent's body glowed
like fiery gold, and the delicate black stripes and spots
on it flashed and glimmered as if each possessed individual fiendish life. As I looked at this fearful creature, I
heard distinctly a faint stridulous sound, resembling the
staccato note of a treble hautboy, and I remember saying
to myself,'That is the voice of the serpent! It is answering the woman, and they are talking about me!'
I was seized with a feeling of insurmountable terror, and
an apprehension of coming evil.
" I returned to the house. Soon after, this same woman
entered the room where I was. She looked like some one
very different in character, for she had taken the form
and manner of my dead mother; but I was not deceived,
and kept myself on my guard. She came up to me with
the tenderness of a mother. I tried to avoid her, but
my precautions were all vain! She succeeded in resting
her hands on my forehead, then passed out of the room
silently, looking back at me with an air of sly triumph.
" Something seemed to inform me that this touch had
put me in great peril, for by it the serpent could recognize me. I was almost beside myself with terror. Just




132            ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
then I heard the Angelus bell of a neighboring church.
On the instant I resolved to go and put myself under the
protection of the sacred roof.
"In olden times, I said, the sanctuary was a safeguard,
the very Spirit of Evil itself falling powerless at its
threshold; and although no Catholic, I seemed to have
unwavering faith.
"I went to the church and became a resident, for there
was a religious order attached to it, and also many buildings. This order seemed to have secular as well as religious occupations; it was a large community.
" Soon after, I was standing in one of the reception or
business rooms. A strange woman, looking like a traveller, entered, and asked to rent one of their halls; she
wished to exhibit to the towns-people some curious things
she had for show. The business arrangements were concluded. As the woman was leaving the hall, one of the
members of the community came to me, holding in his
hand a placard, printed in gay colors, saying,'There
is to be quite a curious show to-morrow evening,' and
handed me the placard.
" It was an advertisement or bill of the woman's exhibition. To my horror, I saw at the head of it, in red letters, that seemed to scintillate, these words:'A very
curious Cobra de Capello, that is perfectly tame; so docile that it will perform anything its mistress bids it, as
an intelligent dog would.'
"I let the placard drop, and, trembling in every fibre,
looked towards the woman.  She was just leaving the
room, and her eyes rested on me with a smiling, triumphant expression. She was dressed not only plainly, but
commonly; her face was perfectly unknown to me, yet I
knew it was SHE! She had on her arm a small wicker



SPIRITISM AND DREAMS.            133
basket with lids, but both lids were thrown back, and I
saw that the basket was empty. She left the room.
" Just as I was trying to command my agitation, I felt
a sharp, stinging bite on the back of the upper part of my
left arm. I groaned, for I knew on the instant the cause.
The Cobra had found me. And lo! out from the thin
mull sleeve of my gown crept the horrible snake; and
before we could recover presence of mind, it had glided
out of the half-open doorway, and disappeared, no one
knew whither.  We heard very plainly, however, the
clear, treble, hautboy note of its voice, which sounded to
me like the exultant cry of a fiend. This strange sound
passed through the building as a swift wind, then died
away, with a faint wail, into utter stillness.
" Death seemed inevitable. I felt the bite burning and
aching intensely.  I plucked off my sleeve, and there
upon my arm was a yellow spot as large as a pea, with
skin and flesh bitten out, and the hollow filled with the
angry poison of the serpent. I was taken to the infirmary of the establishment. Two members of the community said I must have a place two inches square cut out,
and a hot iron applied; this must be done immediately,
otherwise I had only thirty minutes to live.
"I was stretched on a bed; and watched them as they
sharpened their instruments for the excision, and heated
the iron for searing. The serpent poison was beginning
to act upon me; this, added to the dread of the approaching suffering, overpowered me, and I fainted.
" When I recovered my senses, I learned that the operation had been performed successfully, the poison completely extracted, and I was safe; for they told me that
some days had elapsed during my insensibility.
" Soon after, I awakened, trembling from head to foot.




134            ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
I was unable to arise, and was ill for some days; indeed
many weeks passed before I recovered my usual health
and elasticity; and, strangt to' say, for a long while after
I felt a pain in my left arm, and a sensitiveness to the
touch in the spot where the dream-bite had been, though
there was no mark or bruise perceptible.
" My physician, to whom I told my dream, said my
whole nervous system was as much prostrated as though
I had really suffered the terrible serpent bite, excision,
and cauterization which I had imagined with such vivid
power in my dream. So, Venitia, my rubies did not save
me from that dream trouble, you see."
"Ah," answered the girl, with a pretty look of half
superstition, half playfulness, " but in your ring the rubies
surround the ill-omened opal, - that unlucky gem that
brings the wearer disappointment and fallacious hope."
And thus closed our midnight talk.




HUMAN FAME.
ALKING of the Toledo crowd, " what a sight
it is to be sure," as Mrs. Folham says. Every
clear morning we drive through it, getting out
of the carriage occasionally to hunt up old
buildings, or spend an hour or two looking at the wonderful things contained in the Museo Borbonico. The
bronzes, and marbles, and pictures, and precious relics
of "those palimpsests of Nature," — as Heine so finely
called Herculaneum and Pompeii, — " where the original
old stone text is brought out," - these are all safely deposited in the fine halls of this building, and displayed
there with striking effect.
But most often we go and study in the churches; for
study indeed it is, to hunt up the old tombs and monumental marbles contained in them, and link correctly
together the double and treble chain of the artist who
carved the story, of the man who lived it, and the full
period of history which rounded it into a whole.
Persons who visit Naples are hardly aware of the vast
amount of sepulchral wealth contained in her churches.
They are lined and floored and almost roofed with tombs,
sarcophagi, statues, bas-reliefs, and stone chests, covered
with fine old monumental sculpture, the works of the
artists of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries.  We




136            ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
go again and again to certain favorite ones.  Santa
Chiara, for example, is an unexplored mine of curious
beauty and wealth. The old pulpit and bas-reliefs overhanging the western entrance are fine leaves, as it were,
in the history of Middle-Age sculpture, for they are the
works of the elder Masuccio, who died on the threshold
of the fourteenth century (1308).
By means of ladders and glasses we examined both of
these old relics. The bas-reliefs contain the whole of the
beautiful legend of that learned and saintly woman, St.
Catharine of Alexandria, - she whose history has inspired so many great artists. The daughter of a king,
and renowned for her beauty, her learning, and her
pride, when a mighty prince asked her in marriage, she
refused him, saying she would take no one as her husband unless as noble, as rich, and as wise as herself.
Some time after, her mother, the queen, sent her to
see a holy hermit, who, having promised her a spouse that
should be not only her equal, but far exceeding her in
rank and all beauty of mind and body, then showed her
a tablet on which was traced an image of the Mother of
God, holding her Son in her arms. The princess returned home, and dreamed that the figures she had seen
on the tablet came to her, as if alive; and when she went
to receive the lovely Child, he turned from her, saying
she was not beautiful enough.
Through her mother's prayers, and the intercession of
the hermit, she was secretly converted to Christianity;
then again she had a vision, and in it Christ's Mother
came to her with her Holy Infant, who held a ring in his
little hand, and the royal maiden was wedded to him with
that ring, which the Child put on her finger.
All the principal passages in her life are told with




HUMAN FAME.                  137
touching simplicity in these bas-reliefs.  Her first visit
to the hermit, her visions, her mystic marriage, her great
dispute with the learned heathen doctors, her scourging,
exposure to the wheel, and the angel of God breaking it
to pieces, her martyrdom, - each one is sculptured with
curious grace. They seem uncouth and rude to some
eyes. Venitia, for example, sees no beauty in them; on
the contrary, she considers them barbarous and frightful.
But to Janet and me they unveil all the lovely thought
and feeling which lie folded up in them, as the manyhued petals of the flower in the green bud-sheath.
The secret is, we love the old masters who lived in the
early ages of art; we reverence their labors and' their
memory. These are the master-keys of entrance into the
closed chambers of Art's mansion. Some one has beautifully said: " These old sculptures and frescoes remind
one of'the beneficent fairies, who appear disguised as
withered hags, and bestow diamonds and pearls on the
discreet maidens who accost them with reverence."
These bas-reliefs of Masuccio I., rude and unattractive as they may seem to modern eyes, have served, as
Spenser said of Chaucer, as a " well of sculpture undefiled" * for great artists. The famous Florentine painter,
Masaccio (1402- 1443), one of the great founders of a
dynasty in art, whose age was an epoch, who had his
successors hailing from him like a mighty emperor, and
whose frescoes greatly influenced Leonardo da Vinci,
Raphael, and Michael Angelo, not only studied, but
borrowed freely from them for his frescoes at Rome in
San Clemente. When we go from such old works to a
church filled with modern sculpture, such as the Santa
Maria della Pieta de' Sangri, with its figures covered
* "Well of English undefiled."




138            ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
with veils and nets,- feats of skill rather than fruits of
genius, - it is like passing from fresh, pure, mountain air,
into the oppressive atmosphere of a conservatory.
After seeing these bas-reliefs, we never rested until we
had hunted up all we could find of Masuccio's works.
We left Santa Chiara without examining the beautiful
royal tombs sculptured by his nephew, Masuccio II.;
they must take another day of study, we said, and we
drove off to the cathedral to find his labors,there.
The cathedral or Duomo building was designed by him
for Charles of Anjou, in 1272. The troubles arising out
of the " Sicilian Vespers " (1282), which cost Charles the
central gem of his newly-acquired crown, Sicily, prevented
both king and architect from seeing it completed; it was
finished, however, by his nephew, the younger Masuccio,
during the reign of Robert the Wise, grandson of Charles
of Anjou (1316).
Several earthquakes damaged the original edifice so
much as to require frequent rebuildings; thus its original
character is nearly destroyed, little remaining of Masuccio's work except the four lofty towers in the centre of
which the architect placed the church.  It is a Latin
cross, with a nave and two aisles. There are one hundred and eighteen columns in these aisles, of Oriental
or Egyptian granite, and African and Cipollino marble,
taken by Masuccio I. from the ruins of the temples of
Neptune and Apollo, on whose site the cathedral was
built. The baptismal font at the entrance, over which
we lingered, is a beautiful antique vase, of Egyptian basalt, with a porphyry pedestal, and sculptured with Bacchanalian masks, thyrsus, and festoons of ivy, showing
that it must have been a lustral basin in one of the
old temples.




BUMAN FAME.                  139
Not wishing to have our chains of dates hopelessly tangled, we did not stop to look at the numberless points of
attraction which beckoned to us at every footstep, but
proceeded to the Minutoli chapel, to see the tribune, or
Gothic altar, and crucifix, with its statues of the Virgin
and St. John, which are said to be by Masuccio I., though
Lord Lindsay attributes these statues to his friend Pietro
de' Stefani.
Under the tribune of this chapel is inserted the tomb
of the Archbishop Filippo Minutoli, by another of Masuccio's pupils, Bamboccio.  I should not have noticed
it, but Janet, with roguish eyes dancing merrily, said,
pointing to it:" O, those naughty, wicked poets! How their bright
fun intrudes into these sacred places!.Look, Ottilie.
This is the very sarcophagus Boccaccio describes in his
story of the Jockey of Perugia.* This fellow, Andreuccio by name, came here with two robbers, the night after
the Archbishop was buried, to steal a ruby ring of great
value which was said to be on his finger. They made a
cat's-paw of Andreuccio; but he was more cunning than
puss in the fable, for although they frightened him into
entering the sarcophagus while they lifted the lid, they
could not make him give up the ring. After he found it,
he secreted it, and declared.it was not there. They did
not believe him, of course, and became so provoked that
they let the lid fall, and left him, half dead with fright,
shut up with the dead body. But they had scarcely gone,
when another set of robbers, headed by a naughty priest,
entered this chapel on the same errand. They lifted the
lid, propped it up, and the priest entered the sarcophagus
boldly. Andreuccio said not a word, but gave a furious
* Decam, Giorn. II. Nov. V.




140            ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
gripe on his leg, and the priest, being suddenly seized
with faith, howled from terror.  Making a desperate
effort, he broke loose from the Evil One, as he supposed,
and rushed off, with his three companions, as if demons
were pursuing them.  Andreuccio quietly stepped out
of the sarcophagus with the ring, left the chapel and
the cathedral, and walked straight out of Naples; the
next day he was hard on his way to Perugia. Are you
shocked, my dear? Well, never mind, I will stop remembering these wild, wicked, witty stories; though, I assure
you, your half-serious, half-amused look is very provocative. You know you enjoy them."
Of course I laughed heartily at the Boccaccio interlude,
and replied: -
"I do not object to hearing it.  Boccaccio, with all
his naughtiness, was, I fancy, a better believer than many
more straight-laced persons.  In his day, faith had a
living, breathing existence. The poet loved his Church
so dearly, and believed it to be so true a thing, that
he dared to take liberties with its objectionable accessories. He did not feel afraid of hurting that which he
held as immortal, and above all harm. But let us go
see the crucifix in the Caracciole Pesquizi chapel; that is
another work of Masuccio II."
While looking at it, a longing took possession of us
to see the miraculous crucifix that spoke to St. Thomas
Aquinas, and which is preserved in the Church of San
Domenico Maggiore; supposed by many to have been
made by Masuccio I., and by others to be the work of
his unknown master, that aged artist of the semi-Byzantine succession, whose fame, but not his name, is faintly
whispered down through Time's long, dark corridor. We
drove to San Domenico Maggiore, and had a long and




HUMAN FAME.                   141
patient search for it; at last we found it, hanging over
the main altar of the Capellone del Crocifisso, - Chapel
of the Crucifix, - a small side church attached to the
main building.
"Now I am no Catholic," said Janet, as we stood in
reverential silence before this wonderful old painting,
"but I can never look unmoved on such relics as these;
they stir up my whole being; mind and fancy both begin
to work.  How beautiful the story of this crucifix is,
Ottilie. Before it the learned monk St. Thomas Aquinas
studied and prayed; and after he had finished his great
theological work, the Summa, he fell down humbly before
this, offering up himself and his labors to the Lord. The
scene took place on this identical spot, the sacristan says;
at all events, it could not have been far off. While the'Angelic Doctor,' as men called him, lay prostrate in
prayer, one of the brethren entering, Dominick Caserte,
beheld the holy man lifted from the ground in ecstasy,
and heard a voice from the crucifix saying tenderly and
soothingly,' Bene scripsisti de me, Thoma; quam mercedem accipies?' And the great Father of the Thomists
answered meekly,'Non aliam nisi te, Domine."' *
After a little pause, Janet, who was bubbling over with
Montaigne's sparkling folle de logis, -" bright nonsense
and humor full of wisdom," as some one has prettily translated this quaint old expression, - said: —
" I must tell you another droll story, Ottilie; not a
naughty one, but very apropos. Let us leave this sacred
old place, and go into that long hall of the sacristy we
passed so hurriedly through a little while ago. We can
sit down in' those old oaken stalls, under the crimson
* "Thou hast written well of me, Thomas; what recompense wilt
thou receive?" — " No other than thyself, 0 Lord."




142            ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
chests in which rest the dust and ashes of the Aragonese
dynasty."
Three sides of this sacristy corridor to which Janet alluded have rows of coffins on narrow shelves, near the
ceiling, covered with faded crimson velvet; on them are
the effigies of a sceptre and crown, telling us of the high
birth and royal rank of those who were laid away there
to sleep, before our western continent was discovered.
It was the third royal burial-place we had been in that
morning. Two were of the Anjou family, which governed
Naples from 1266 to 1435. Over the principal entrance
of the cathedral we had seen the marble chest or tomb of
Charles of Anjou, the founder of the house, the brother
of St. Louis of France (1266-1285). At Santa Chiara
we had left abruptly the famous and beautiful monumental
tomb of his grandson, Robert the Wise (1309-1343).
Now we seated ourselves under the remains of the poor
descendants, as they claimed to be, of that Manfred
Dante sang,* and of those glorious Hohenstaufen Barbarossas whose deeds in the Middle Ages history loves to
dwell on (1194-1266).
With the last one of these unhappy Aragonese princes
the romantic Middle Ages ended. Naples, too, ceased to
be a kingdom, and for nearly three hundred years swung
back into the humble state of a Spanish and German
possession (1496).
These wooden coffins, with their shabby velvet and
tarnished gilt ornaments, tell as well as history does of
the ruin of the house. In Sicily, costly sculptured marbles and precious porphyry columns commemorate the
resting-places of the Suabian Hohenstaufens from whom
these illegitimate Aragonese were descended. Crumbling
* Dante's Purgatorio, III. 112.




HUMAN FAME.                143
wood and decaying finery point out gloomily the end of
the reigning Neapolitan branch.  Illegitimate and unfortunate, it was time for it to cease.
The sacristan demurred a little when we seated ourselves in the oaken stalls for a comfortable chat; but, telling him we wished to rest awhile, and giving him " that
metall," as old Froissart says, "whereby love is attayned
both of gentlemen and poor soldiers," he left us undisturbed, and Janet told her story:"After I repeated that dear old legend of St. Thomas
Aquinas and the miraculous crucifix, and was thinking
how many persons would laugh at it, an anecdote flashed
into my mind. The winter after the war with Mexico
was over, I' met an American gentleman in Paris, who
told it to me, and vouched for its truth. This is it. In
one of the battles during the war, a colonel was severely
and dangerously wounded; he was taken to a neighboring hacienda to be nursed.  This hacienda, or plantation, was some distance up in the country, and its
master, a wealthy Mexican, had lived on it all his days.
He was a gentlemanly, pleasant person, and did all he
could to make the stranger comfortable. After some delay and doubt, the colonel was pronounced out of danger,
but his convalescence was slow. The Mexican showed
him every courtesy. As the invalid grew better, and as
the host was a tolerably intelligent man, the two gentlemen naturally fell into conversation over their wine and
cigars.
"The Mexican loved to hear his guest tell of the various
improvements modern science had made in the machines
and engines-used for manufactures and commerce by men
in that outer world of which he knew so little.  Born
and brought up on his hacienda, quite out of the reach of




144            ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
modern books and journals, he was entirely in the dark
as to all these things. So the American officer, being a
fluent and graphic talker, described, agreeably to his host,
the steam-engine and its various uses, and many other
wonders, which sounded to the Mexican as marvellous
and much more exciting than his holy legends and church
miracles. He listened to his guest with a childlike faith
that was interesting, never doubting a word he said.
"One beautiful moonlight evening, they were walking
the full length of the long gallery surrounding the house,
smoking, and enjoying the freshness of the air after a
heavy thunder-shower.  The lightning still played in
some clouds along the horizon, and, as the colonel looked
at it, he commenced describing to the Mexican the electric telegraph. The profound silence of his host made
him more earnest; he grew even eloquent, and gave a
glowing account of its discovery, application, and use.
When he arrived at the close, noticing that his host did
not ask the usual questions, he said,' Is it not wonderful?'
"' Yes,' answered the Mexican coldly, taking his cigar
from his mouth, and leaning his back against a pillar of
the high gallery.'It is very wonderful.  Everything
you have been relating to me, Colonel, is wonderful. But
I will tell you what is more wonderful still, your powers
of invention. I have been listening to you now for some
time, not only enjoying your fine conversation, but believing with the innocence of a child all the great things you
have been describing. I might have known they were
fables, but I did not; nor should I have suspected you,
if you had not created this last story. Now I know that
they are all untrue.'
"It was useless for the colonel to assure his incredulous




HUMAN FAME.                 145
host; he never gained any credence after that last great
demand on his faith. I often think of this story when I
hear the marvellous old legends which have come down
to us from that saintly age when sweet Faith was what
Science is now, the sovereign ruler of men's minds and
hearts.  The world was benighted then, according to
modern views, - the Dark Ages! And yet that blessed
sun of Faith must have thrown lovely lights.  Now it
is twilight; and our lamps of Science show us that the
branches, and leaves, and ground are not pure gold, as
those beautiful rays made them appear; but it seems we
walk darkly, notwithstanding all our lamps and all our
knowledge."
Before leaving the sacristy, we stopped to look at one
of the coffin-chests resting on a balustrade against the
wall. Above it was a portrait of a fine soldierly-looking
man, in a Franciscan habit, with a banner and a sword.
As with one thought, we both exclaimed, " Francis Pescara, O unconquered peer!"  It was the tomb and portrait of the celebrated Ferdinando Francesco d' Avalos,
MIarchese di Pescara, who died, in the flower of his age,
of the wounds received at the battle of Pavia (1525), after contributing greatly to the capture of Francis I. He
was the husband of Vittoria Colonna, the woman who was
adored by Michael Angelo, and reverenced by Ariosto,
and all the great men of her day. The conjugal love between Francesco d' Avalos and Vittoria has always been
a subject of comment and admiration.  When he was
taken prisoner at Ravenna (1512) by the French, he
addressed to her a beautiful dialogue on love.
Vittoria was only thirty-three when she lost him; and
though living many years after, and wooed and wor* Ariosto's Orlando Furioso, Cant. 37, Stan. 20, Rose's trans.
7                           J




146            ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
shipped by poets, artists, and famous men, she remained
true to her husband's memory. She was a gifted poetess,
as well as a beautiful and virtuous woman; and sung
her love, her loss, and her sorrow, over on that island
of Ischia, in lines that won not only Ariosto's praise,*
but gained her the title of " Divine" from her contemporaries.
It is true Aretino calumniated the wife, and Guicciardini said very harsh things of the husband; but the historian must have been blinded by political prejudice; and
as for the infamous Aretino, as a witty Italian said, " he
satirized every one except God, whom he spared only
because he did not know him."
So we stood a little while before the coffin-chest and
portrait, remembering only the beautiful things which had
been said and believed of this great general and his noble
wife; for the woman graced with Michael Angelo's love
and reverence, and the man adorned with Ariosto's praise
and friendship, could not have been wanting in honor and
excellence..The next day we returned to Santa Chiara to look at
the royal tombs which we had left so abruptly the day before. They were sculptured by the nephew and successor
of Masuccio I. This Masuccio the younger was patronized by Robert the Wise, Charles of Anjou's grandson,
he who afterwards gave royal favor and reception to
Giotto and Dante, Petrarch and Boccaccio, for he bad a
long and a prosperous reign.
When the king and the architect were young, they labored together for God's and Art's service, in completing
the cathedral, which had been commenced by the grandfather of the one and the uncle of the other, as I have
* Ariosto's Orlando Furioso, Cant. 37, Stan. 16 et seq.




HUMAN FAME.                 147
mentioned before. Then when the young king had passed
early manhood, and reached his first grief, - the death of
his only son, the Duke of Calabria, - Robert sent for his
favorite artist to come and sculpture a fitting monument
for this beloved child, who had lain down to sleep just as
manhood was beginning.
Masuccio sculptured a beautiful sarcophagus to the
memory of the prince, and laid the stone image of the
young man on top of it, clothed in royal robes, which are
spotted with fleurs de lis. On his head is a crown, and
two angels draw aside the veil from the body. A basrelief in front represents the young Duke as a sovereign,
surrounded by his court; at his feet are a wolf and a
lamb drinking together at a fountain, emblematical of the
peace and good-will which would have resulted from his
justice. Columns supported by lions uphold the sarcophagus, and the whole is placed in a recess to the right of
the main altar, which recess is a lofty Gothic arch.
After Masuccio II. had finished this work, he showed
to the king a design which he had made for a monument
to be placed over Robert when he lay down to rest beside his child. The king was pleased with it, but said
"it was too magnificent for a man of little merit in the
sight of God." But after some years the good king died,
and his lovely but unfortunate granddaughter, Joanna I.,
commanded the sculptor to erect it to the memory of that
beloved grandfather who had reared her so tenderly, as
the only child of his darling son, and left her such a perilous inheritance as a kingdom. Poor queen! All the
sorrow which her young father escaped by his early death
must have been held back in store for her, as she had
more than double the anguish that falls to the lot of mortals, even when grievously afflicted.




148            ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
On approaching the church, we tarried awhile in the
close, to look at the Campanile, also said to be a work of
Masuccio II. It remains unfinished, as Robert the Wise
died before its third story was completed.  Masuccio's
design gave it five stories, each bearing one of the five
orders. The arrangement of the capitals on the third or
Ionic story is attributed to Michael Angelo.
Upon entering the church, to our vexation we found
the place around the high altar and tombs filled with
persons preparing for a grand fete. There were ladders
leaning near the gaudy modern altar, which stands in
front of one of the tombs, and upholsterers on scaffolding, hanging rich draperies of crimson, sewn with gold.
We feared we were to be baffled, but Janet and I are
equally pertinacious; so, by a judicious and generous application of old Froissart's " rare metall," we secured even
a better view than we could have had on any other day,
for they allowed us to mount the ladders and walk on the
scaffolding; thus we got so close to the upper parts of the
sculpture, that we stood face to face with the marble effigies, and touched them with our hands.
They are fine specimens of Gothic beauty, when we
remember the early age in which they were done (1350).
The modern altar stands in front of and hides King
Robert's tomb. It is a stately pile of marble, full thirtyfive feet high. The king is seated on his throne, clad in
royal robes; he lies extended also on the sarcophagus,
wrapped in the monkish habit which he assumed a few
weeks before his death, —the Franciscan gown. There
are apostles, saints, and various other emblematical figures distributed around the tomb. Every part is conscientiously worked; the back, which is far away from sight,
is just as perfect as the front; and, as I stood on a sway



HUMAN FAME.                 149
ing ladder, I passed my hands around the decorations of
the royal chair and upper part of the monument, and
found that nothing was left incomplete, all was as perfect
as if intended for the most exposed part of the tomb.
The artist had worked for himself and Art's holy service. On the tomb is this line, which is said to be by
Petrarch: -
CERNITE. ROBERTVM. REGEM. VIRTVTE. REFERTVM.
On our return home, we stopped at Detken's, and were
lucky enough to find a copy of Cicognara's Revival of
Arts in Italy, in the first volume of which is an engraving
of the tomb of the Duke of Calabria, Robert's son. I
cannot pretend to do justice to either of these stately and
beautiful tombs; but if ever monumental art should revive, become again a living work, and there should be
Pre-Angelites in sculpture as there are now Pre-Raphaelites in painting, Naples will be their Mecca.
While at Detken's, I purchased a book, which I am
reading with great interest, - General Colletta's History
of Naples, which is the popular one of the day, especially
among liberalists. It was recommended to us by "that
vigorous-minded little person, Mrs. Rochester," as Mrs.
Folham, with true English expression, calls our agreeable Ambassadress. Indeed, it was through her husband's
kindness that I obtained the work, as it is, of course, a
forbidden book; he ordered it for me from Paris, through
Detken; and, being for the American Ambassador, no
questions were asked.
Mrs. Rochester, by the way, is really full of intelligence and esprit; as clever in mind as a man, and naive
as a gay girl. Her social position, with its attendant duties, she being " La Doyenne," or eldest resident of the




150             ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
diplomatic circle, separates her a little from our daily
course; but she loves nothing better than to throw off
the trammels of her position once in a while, and onjoy
what she calls "true life" with us.  She has lived in
Naples several years, and is quite familiar with the country and its history in its various remarkable phases, -
its classic, mediaeval, and modern, - so that with her assistance, added to our own previous and continued studies,
we find out nearly all we wish to know.
She told me a curious story about this Colletta book.
General Colletta, its author, was an officer in the Engineers, who served under Murat, and distinguished himself. In 1820, after the return of Ferdinand I., he was
banished from Naples. He went to Florence, and soon
found his way infto the literary and political society of the
Palazzo Buondalmonte.
Now I must make a little digression to explain what
this Palazzo Buondalmonte was. It was literally a great
literary workshop, belonging to a Genevese, Jean Pierre
Viesseaux. In 1820 he took this palazzo, and divided
it off to suit his purposes.  On the ground-floor he put
his printing-presses; on the next was a circulating library,
of great extent, with magazines, reviews, and journals
from every part of Europe spread out on the tables, - a
public reading-room. The upper stories were devoted to
his editors, press-correctors, secretaries, clerks, in short
all the staff of an extensive publishing business. The
Anthologie, a review something like the Revue des Deux
Mondes, was published by him. When it had reached its
thirteenth year, it was suppressed to gratify the Czar of
Russia, who thought it had treated him and his affairs too
familiarly in one of its numbers.  Cavour was one of its
contributors, when Predari was its editor, somewhere
near 1846 or 1847.




HUMAN  FAME.                       151
But to return to the Palazzo. Its reading-saloon has
always been the rendezvous of the literary and political
men o..the day.  Giordani, Nicolini. Leopardi, Poerio,
and many other Italian notorieties, could be found there.
A gentleman carrying a letter of introduction to M. Viesseaux would always receive an invitation to his Thursday
reunion of artists and savants.  IIe was a generous and
intelligent publisher, not only helping authors to means,
but to fame.* His encouragement and good advice developed General Colletta into an historian, for he felt a
great sympathy as well as friendship for the old man.
* Viesseaux had some happy days at the close of his long life. In
1859 he completed his eightieth year, on which occasion his friends
presented him with a gold medal, bearing his profile and this simple
leogend: -
Per quarant' anni benemerito
Dell' Italiana CivilitU
Compriva 1' Oltantesimo della Vita
I1 29 Settembre 1859.
Before he died the old man had the satisfaction of seeing his friends
who had been disgraced and persecuted for politics' sake high in favor,
and foremost in rank, - Peruzzi twice in power, Ricasoli at the summit. The great work was accomplished, the dream verified, and Viesseaux could sing the canticle of old Simeon, and go to sleep in triumph.
One morning in 1863, Victor Emmanuel arrived in Florence, and
Viesseaux seemed to have grown sixty years younger. His serene
joy burst out into youthful gayety. He invited relatives and friends
to reunite at his house the next day, and rejoice with him over the
attainment of National Unity. But on that very evening the old man
was stricken down with apoplexy, from which blow he never arose,
and the 30th of the same month a funeral procession from a mourning city followed the remains of this great publisher to the Protestant
cemetery of Florence.
Up to his last moments he retained his faculties and mental strength.
His correspondence extended over two hemispheres, and was with high
and low. M. Marc-Monnier, from whose article in the Revue Germatnique, 1 July, 1863, the facts in this note are taken, mentions that he
has upwards of twenty letters from Viesseaux, written just before
his death, the handwriting of which is firm and clear.




152           ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
Soon after Colletta became a habitue' of the Palazzo
Buondalmonte, finding his companions were all great
authors, a natural spirit of emulation made him desire
to be one also. And two greater reasons than mere ambition impelled him, - a need of support, and an earnest
desire to tell his country's story, which he felt he knew
by heart better than any one else. The brave old soldier
had never read a book in his life but Tacitus. This was
nothing. He resolved to write his nation's history, taking up the thread where Giannone had stopped, and continuing it up to 1825; for, he thought, in that period the
causes of many present evils could be found, the palliation of many sins discovered, and, from them, future help
and improvement be obtained. So he set to work boldly.
When he brought the manuscript of his first volume
to his literary friends at the Palazzo Buondalmonte, to
his extreme mortification they condemned it. Leopardi,
it is said, even discouraged him from continuing. The
style was stiff and diffuse, the stories prolix and dull.
But the kind, good publisher would not listen to his
giving up the work. He encouraged him, and roused
anew the old man's flagging energy. Accordingly, the
brave soldier set to work again courageously from the
very beginning.
" Write your story as you tell it; that's all," said the
practical Viesseaux.
And he did. He tore up the stilted pages of the first
volume, and put down on paper his own simple, but fiery
and rapid words. He recast the whole work, and grouped
facts with soldierly precision together. The result was a
striking, well-written narrative, that was applauded highly
by the very ones who had condemned the first attempt.
Viesseaux did not think it prudent to publish the book




HUMAN FAME.                153
in Florence, so he sent it to Geneva to be brought out.
The good old man, like Byron, awoke one fine day and
found himself famous. The free tone of the work delighted the large body of Liberalists throughout reading
Europe; and the book was gladly received, as it contained
just the information everybody wished to know. But its
stern condemnation of the poor Bourbons created a great
alarm and enmity. The good-natured Grand Duke found
himself forced to banish the author from Florence, even
before his work had appeared in the city.
But the order of exile, and the fame, and the worldly
prosperity arrived nearly too late.  When the officer
came to deliver the Grand Duke's message, he found the
poor old man in bed, dying.
"Ask his Highness," said Colletta, " to grant me the
delay of a few hours. In that time I shall have departed
for an exile where no police will trouble me again."
A little while after, the stout-hearted old soldier lay
stiff and dead. He never had the gratification of seeing
his fine History in print; but the coming sound of its future fame reached his dying ears, and, I hope, it gave
him much peace and content.
7*




"NOBILE  OZ I O."
APLES is the very place in which one can
best enjoy Machiavelli's nobile ozio, -  "a noble idleness of delightful society, with classical associations, under a heaven of beauty."
The weather is delicious just on the threshold of May,
- a pleasant season in most countries, but in this paradise particularly lovely.
" Soft, silken hours,
Open suns, shady bowers;'Bove all, nothing which lowers."
I have already told how we spend our mornings. Late
in the afternoon we drive on the Chiaja, and out to Posilippo, or loiter through the long alleys of the Villa Reale,
which, " with its ever green groups of holm-oaks and lau-'rels, its fountains and sculptures, its temples sacred to
Virgil and Tasso, lies along the shore of the Mediterranean like a string of emeralds." *
Sometimes the morning's occupation keeps us out so
late that we feel indifferent about the drive to the Posilippean hills; then we meet on the terrace, to enjoy the
sunset, and watch the stream of elegant equipages rolling
along the smooth lava pavement of the Chiaja and Mergellina, and look at the groups of idlers lying down or
* De Reumont.




"iNOBILE OZIO."               155
sauntering about, - the thriftless, do-nothing Neapolitan
masses.
Over on the Mergellina bank are crowds of fishermen
and boatmen, preparing for a sail or row, either to take a
party of pleasure or to follow their fishing trade. This
Mergellina beach is their only home; they know no
other; here are their children playing in the pebbles and
shells, their wives lounging and gossiping, and their
gray-headed grandmothers spinning with the old distaff
of Clotho, looking as if they were grim Fates, attending
the coming destiny of this doomed land, - the fulfilment
of that fearful old oracle,
" Some day, around the Siren's stony tomb,
A mighty multitude shall meet their doom."
These common people of Naples are a strange race;
full of contradictions; lawless, demanding liberty even to
license, and yet king-loving; a religious nation, full of
faith and devotion, but quite devoid of piety. They can
no longer be called Lazzaroni, for they are losing fast all
claim to that title. Indeed, on a grand fete-day there is
not a lazzaro to be found in all Naples; every man is
dressed, and going as swiftly as he can on his road to the
tiers etat, or Third Estate; that is, so far as decent appearance is concerned.
General Colletta, in his History, speaks very bitterly
of the origin of the name of these " Sons of Lazarus."
"They," he says, meaning the Spaniards, "called them'lazzari' (for lazzaroni is only an augmentative), a word
borrowed from the language of these superb tyrants of
ours who insulted a misery of which they were the authors, and made its memory eternal by this name.
"A man was not born a lazzaro. The lazzaro who
applied himself to a trade lost his name; and the man




156            ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
who lived like a beast, became a lazzaro. These Lazza.
roni increased to an innumerable swarm; for how was it
possible to take the census of such a semi-savage, vagabond population? At one time, it was believed they
amounted to thirty thousand; poor, audacious, eager and
greedy in robbery, and ready for every sort of disorder."
Under the Spanish vice-regal rule (1502 - 1700),
which was the period of time when the Lazzaroni flourished in fullest force and vigor, this wild set had a species
of government, an organization as strict as that of the
thieves in the Paris Cour de Miracles, during the reign
of Louis XI.*
Every year a chief (capo lazzaro) was elected, charged
with the duty of defending their interests before the viceroy. One of the most famous of these capo lazzari was
the fisherman of Amalfi, Massaniello, the chief of the
great revolution in 1647.
" By the fruit judge ye the tree," says a French author, alluding to this curious clan of people.  "The
Lazzaroni were the fruit of the Spanish vice-regal government. Naples has often been reproached with the shame
of having produced this race of white negroes. This reproach is unjust. The plant flowered and bore fruit at
Naples, it is true, but the seed came from Spain. The
Spaniards carried it into Italy as their garrisons and vessels have so often taken the plague there."
This Spanish vice-regal government was the saddest
and most injurious rule in its effect that could have been
inflicted upon a people; it lasted two hundred years (1500
- 1700). Spain held Naples all this time by virtue of a
right derived from Ferdinand the Catholic, who was the
legitimate representative of that Aragonese house which
* Notre Dame de Paris, of Victor Hugo.




" NOBILE OZIO."                 157
traced its genealogy back to Constance, the daughter of
the great Roger of Sicily, daughter-in-law, wife, and
mother of the three famous Barbarossas of the "splendid Suabian house of Hohenstaufen" (1194-1250), —
she whom history and poesy has contributed to make
immortal.
"quest' B la luce della gran Gostanza
Che del secondo vento di Soave
Generb il terzo, e 1' ultima possanza." 7
I will turn back the pages of history rapidly to repeat
over the story of the kings of Naples deposed by Ferdinand the Catholic in 1500. Those poor crumbling coffinchests, covered with faded velvet and adorned with tarnished tinsel, which we saw the other day in the Sacristy
of San Domenico Maggiore, hold the remains, as I mentioned then, of the illegitimate branch of the family which
came in possession of the throne in this way.
Joanna II. (1414 - 1435), great-great-granddaughter
of Charles of Anjou, left as one of her heirs Alfonso,
king of Sicily, the descendant of that Hohenstaufen family just alluded to, from whom her ancestor, Charles of
Anjou, had wrested the kingdom of Naples (1266).
This king of Sicily, called in history the Magnanimous,
reigned in Naples until 1458. When he died, Sicily reverted to his brother, John II., king of Aragon and
Navarre, father of Ferdinand the Catholic; and Naples
also should have gone to him, but Alfonso had a natural son, Ferdinand, who had been legitimated by Pope
Calixtus III., fourteen years before his father's death,
and to him Alfonso left the crown of Naples.
* "Great Constance' light is this; who to the blast
Which second came from Suabia's kingdom, bore
The mighty power that proved the third and last."
Dante's Paradiso, III. 118, Wright's trans.




158            ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
From 1458 to 1490, this illegitimate branch held Naples, when the last one, Ferdinand, Prince of Almatura,
was expelled by the son of John II., king of Aragon and
Navarre, who had succeeded to his father's dominions
and claims. This son is well known in history; he was
Ferdinand the Catholic, husband of Isabella of Castile,
— Columbus's queen, —representative of the old Suabian Hohenstaufens, and grandfather of the Emperor
Charles V.
After some contests between Ferdinand and Louis XII.
of France, arising out of the Partition Treaty of Granada
(November 11, 1500), in 1504 the kingdom of Naples
became, like Sicily, a Spanish province or possession.
The "Great Captain," Gonsalvo de Cordova, whose
military skill and success had secured this rich kingdom
to his royal master, Ferdinand of Aragon and Castile,
was the first Spanish viceroy (1504). With him commenced this unhappy rule of Spanish viceroys in Naples,
the injurious effect of which can be seen to this day, for
they oppressed the people with taxes, and degraded the
nobility by encouraging them in vice and extravagance.
Among these viceroys, however, some honorable exceptions can be found; for instance, Don Pedro de Toledo, who was the father-in-law of Cosmo de' Medici, first
Grand Duke of Tuscany, and representative of Charles
V. (1532 - 1552).  Over three centuries have passed
since this vice-regal sovereign held rule in Naples, and
yet the impression remains sharper in its outline and
deeper in its stamp than the rule of any later governor
or king, except Don Carlos, the founder of the present
Spanish Bourbon family (Charles VII., son of Philip V.
of Spain, and his. queen, Elizabetta Farnese of Parma,
1734).




" NOBILE OZIO."               159
In walking through the streets of Naples, and visiting
its public buildings, we find that these two men, Don
Pedro and Don Carlos, stand out prominent as almost
fathers and founders of the place. Their respective eras
are two hundred years apart; but the traveller unites the
two in his mind, and wishes this beautiful- place could
have been blessed with a long line of such wise and just
rulers; then would the peninsula have been a governmental reality instead of a mere "geographical expression."
" No ruler," says De Reumont,* " ever had such despotic power, or exercised as great an influence over the
fate of Italy as this first Toledo. He governed the Neapolitans for their own benefit, and not for the king
of Spain only. He treated the people with so much favor, and the depraved nobility with such severity, that
the barons offered the Emperor a million and a half of
ducats to relieve them from his surveillance."
But that Emperor was Charles V., who, although he
was one of those " great royal devourers of the people,"
ate them after a generous, soldierly fashion. He was a
wise prince, so far as kingcraft was concerned; he knew
Toledo's value, his fitness for his place, and paid no attention to the complaints urged against him.
So Don Pedro reigned twenty years, and steadily built
up for himself and his descendants fame and fortune, as
he thought. In the most enviable and beautiful principality in all Italy, - Tuscany, - he placed one of his
daughters, the unhappy wife and mother, Eleanor de
Toledo, Duchess of Cosmo de' Medici, first Grand Duke
(1537 - 1574). But what matter if sin and sorrow and
* "Carafas of Maddaloni, Naples under Spanish Dominion," by Alfred de Reumont.




160            ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
fearful tragedies did flow in a thick-clotted red current
around this Grand Duchess's daughter; the golden and
purple drapery of rank and royal station enveloped her
and her griefs in their gorgeous folds; was not that
recompense? - Heart-breaking anguish, enough to shake
her reason from its balance, crimes that make the reader
of history shiver and close his eyes in disgust, and shut
the chronicle with a sickening loathing, whether it be
that fearful scene in the hall of the Ducal Palace, at
hot noontide, which the painter Vasari saw from his scaffolding where he lay half asleep, after his ceiling fresco
labors of the morning, or that of the fratricidal son clinging to the robe of his mother, - poor Eleanor de Toledo,
- for protection against the uplifted and relentless dagger of his crime-stained father! O no, these were nothing
when weighed in the balance with success and power!
Don Pedro neither saw nor thought of any of these
sorrowful attendants on his firm, granite built grandeur.
He gave this beautiful daughter a rank which was almost equal with a queen, and saw his son viceroy of
Sicily; resisted Pope Paul III.; put haughty Neapolitan
nobles to the torture; reformed the laws; remodelled the
town; built castles and fortresses and watch-towers on all
the coast around, in order to protect the country from the
ravages of the Turks; opposed and prevented the establishment of the Inquisition in Naples; and this, too, in the
very teeth of his royal master, Charles V., a monarch
that not many men dared brave or oppose; and, through
all his stern, iron, but just rule, kept the confidence and
favor of this master, and held also his almost kingly office
from middle age up to his death.
Full of years, honor, and success was this great Don
Pedro when they brought him to the palace of his daugh



"NOBILE OZIO."               161
ter at Florence to die.  As commander-in-chief of the
emperor's forces, with his ducal son-in-law, Cosmo di
MIedici, serving under him, he had been enforcing submission on the Republic of Siena, the brave old man!
Though threescore years and ten, he was taken from
the battle-field to his death-bed, dying with the harness
on (1553).
Mrs. Rochester loves this grand old Viceroy's history
and memory. The other morning she took me to the
Church of San Giacomo degli Spagnuoli, in the Largo
del Castello, to see his tomb. This church was built by
Don Pedro, in 1540, as a church for the use of Spanish
soldiers. The architect was Manlio, pupil of Giovanni
Merliani, or da Nola (as he was called, from his birthplace). This church, and Santa Chiara, are under the
jurisdiction of the Papal Nuncio.
The tomb is the masterpiece of Giovanni da Nola, who
is called also the Neapolitan Michael Angelo (14781559); it is covered with fine sculpturing, and surmounted by kneeling statues, full life size, of Don Pedro
and his wife. It is behind the grand high altar of the
church, in the place called the choir. We sat for some
time in the beautifully carved stalls, and examined leisurely this fine work of monumental sculpture, while we
talked together about Don Pedro's eventful, successful life.
"Soon after I came to Naples," said Mrs. Rochester,
"becoming interested in this great Spaniard's history, I
searched out faithfully every trace of his career. I found
this tomb by chance.
" One day my friend A     and I had been groping
about down in the old quarters of the town near the sea.
We had been hunting up the cloisters of Mont' Oliveto,
that old garden where Tasso had mourned and held
K




162            ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
mysterious intercourse with the unseen spirit who visited
him in those last sorrowful years while he was waiting
for the peace and rest of death to come.
"I love to recall the morning of which I speak.
A      and I had heavy loads of trouble weighing us
down at the time; but we shook them off, and were as
gay as girls, while we hunted up the old gardens and
cloisters. At last we found them; but they were wofully
changed into a fruit and vegetable market, filthy and
muddy of course. We bought apricots, figs, and green
almonds; leaned against the columns of the cloisters while
we ate our fruit, and listened to the screaming, shrill talk
of the people around us.
" A     contrasted these unmusical tones with the
sweet sounds which. had filled the place when the dying
poet found tranquillity under the shadows of the trees
long since dead. We bought some flowers, too, I remember, -for it was only a little later than this in spring,
- June roses, in memory of those famous white and red
ones which had grown in Tasso's time in this now crowded
and dirty market-place, where nothing thrives but petty
trade and vile dirt. Very different in that time was it,
indeed, - not only for this market-place, but for everything; grand old tyrannical days were they, when, as
you and A     say, if great wrongs and great sins were
committed, the acts and works of Poesy and Art were
correspondingly magnificent.
" But to come back to my story, - what little I have
to tell. After leaving the desecrated garden of Mont'
Oliveto, we rambled through one or two of the old quarters of the town, which you know bear this day the names
of the callings or trades to which they were formerly
devoted, - the Guantai or Glove quarter, and the like.




"NOBILE OZIO."               163
About midday, we came out on this Largo del Castello,
hot and tired enough, I assure you; the air from the
Mole was'very pleasant, and the sparkling water in the
Fountain Medina was. refreshing to look at. I think the
jets darting up from the stone trident of Neptune, and'
the spouting tritons on the sea-horses in the centre of the
fountain shell, never looked so beautiful to me as they did
on that hot June noonday.
"On our way into the Toledo, where we intended going to rest at the nice cake-shop on the corner of the
Strada Chiaja, we stumbled on this church. We were
attracted by those sarcophagi in the entrance-way.
A-  asked a man the name of the church.' San Giacomo degli Spagnuoli,' was the reply.
" We were just linking Don Pedro's history together;
and, tired as we were, we could not resist the temptation,
like children reading a fairy-tale at bedtime, to turn over
just one leaf more.
"' Here is where Don Pedro is buried,' I said.'This
is the very church we have been intending to search for.
Come, let us go in for one minute at least.'
"We entered, and spent a full hour feasting on this
huge sarcophagus. Look at the grand old Viceroy, —
the Imperial Commander! There he kneels, opposite
his young wife, - not the beautiful heiress bride of his
boyhood, the one he wedded when he was only thirteen,
and who brought to the favorite little page of King Ferdinand the Catholic- this second son of the ducal house
of Alva - a title, a fortune, and fair sons and daughters
who were born to reign and sorrow. No, not that wife:
she had been dead some years, not only before her Tuscan duchess daughter wept tears of blood over incest, and
fratricide, and all those shivering sins, - but also in time




164             ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
to give her husband another fair young wife to cheer his
martial old age.
" Very meek this second wife, Donna Vicenza Spinelli,
looks in that sculptured image of her. See, she is bending over her book of devotion. And then the old soldier
Viceroy, bold and resolute is his air; he leans on the hilt
of his sword, and gazes around with pride, as if he tasted
and loved his power, - while the young wife prays.
Great need for prayer there, Ottilie. Fcr, powerful and
successful as was this Don Pedro, ruin and disgrace flew
fleet as hounds on the heels of his posterity. It is a superb monument, is it not?"
Mrs. Rochester then pointed out to me the bas-reliefs
on its base, and read to me from her active brain and
memory the sculptured history. All Toledo's proudest
deeds are there recorded in stone, - his enterprise against
the Turks at Otranto, his, victory over Chayreddin Barbarossa, and his triumph over his enemies, after the Inquisition insurrection, when the Emperor Charles V. made
his grand entry into Naples, leaning on his proud Viceroy, and saying, with grim pleasantry, "Don Pedro, you
are not the fierce tyrant they have described you."
Neither of these two men indulged in pleasantry often;
when they did, it was for a more serious purpose than
mere mirth.  Both were solemn, stern, warlike, and full
of unwearying activity. Life was no holiday for them,
no merry fete, but a strife for dominion and success, —
a season for the planting of that sorrowful vine, climbing
ambition, which yields a sad vintage, and did for the
posterity of both these men, - imperial master and viceregal servant,- for their second generation drank the
bitterest draughts of the blackest sorrow; from the golden
cup of high station, it is true, but so bitter and black as




" NOBILE OZIO."               165
to make the most ambitious recoil from rank and high estate, if such penalties must come with them.
Just two hundred years this vice-regal government
lasted, during which time Naples was treated by Spain
as another Mexico or Peru, — used and abused.  Her
nobles sacrificed their fortunes, and sometimes their lives,
in foreign wars, — in the military service of a foreign
government, - or remained at home, in idleness, deprived
of all political employment and influence. The people
were oppressed by taxes and degraded by the bad example
set by their rulers, -the example of loose morals, not only
in politics, but in their daily domestic and social life; and
all that Naples gained, by having established the political
succession of the Spanish house of Aragon, in 1490, were
humiliations, misery, and a demoralizing servitude of two
centuries, the corroding marks of which chains can be
seen festering at this very day.
During these two hundred years of Spanish tyranny,
two great insurrections broke out, which were remarkable
for two curious things; they took place exactly a century
apart, and were each headed by a popular leader bearing
almost the same name.
The first one was the Inquisition revolt during the
viceroyalty of Don Pedro in 1547,- the insurrection
that set Tasso's father on his wanderings, by ruining his
patron Ferrante Sanseverino, Prince of Salerno, teaching
the poet and his father Dante's bitter experience,
" how salt a stranger's bread,
How hard a path still up and down to tread
A stranger's stairs."
The leader of the Inquisition insurrection was Tommaso Annello of Sorrento, who had not, however, the
ruinous success and unhappy fate which attended the




166            ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
leader of the great second rebellion a hundred years after, Tomaso Anniello of Amalfi, so well known as Massaniello, a name formed by a union of the diminutive of
the first name with the surname.
This second insurrection, headed by Massaniello, broke
out in 1647, under the viceroyalty of the Duke d'Arcos,
and was caused by the heavy weight of taxes, which had
grown to be so painful a load as to make restive even the
patient, good-natured Neapolitan human mule. "Everything was taxed," says De Reumont, "even the light of
the sun."
This last Massaniello insurrection is famous also for
having had among its rebellious numbers a little group
of artists, whose names, especially one, Salvatbr Rosa,
are associated more with fine works of art than patriotic
street-fights. They banded together, and called themselves by the murderous name of "Compagnia della
Morte," Company of the Dead. Salvator Rosa's master,
Aniello Falcone, the great battle-painter, headed this little band; he was a relation of Massaniello; the cavalier
Calabrese (Mattia Preti) and Mico Spadaro were also
members of this company. These artists were all friends
and boon companions of the unfortunate fisherman of
Amalfi. Mico Spadaro's fearfully graphic pictures of
this insurrection and the plague which ravaged Naples
ten years later can be seen in the first room of the "Early
Neapolitan School," in the Musee Borbonique; also a lifelike portrait of Massaniello, smoking his pipe.
We were talking of this fearful insurrection to-day at
dinner; and Janet suggested that the sudden and mysterious madness of this ill-fated capo di Lazzari might have
been caused by that subtle power, so well known, and employed with such fearful sang-froid by the rulers of that
day, - poison!




"NOBILE OZIO."               167
At last an end came to this vice-regal rule. In 1700
the Spanish or elder branch of the house of Austria
ended with Charles II. of Spain. By the will of this
monarch, the Spanish kingdom, with all its possessions,
went to Philip, Duke of Anjou, who was his grandson
and the son of Louis XIV. Philip's mother was Louis
XIV.'s queen, the Spanish Infanta, Maria Theresa, daughter of Charles II. This prince ascended the Spanish
throne as Philip V., the first of the Spanish house of
Anjou. But, when he proceeded to continue possession
of the Neapolitan part of his dominions, Leppold I. of
Austria, who had married a younger daughter of Charles
II., disputed his claim, presenting his son the Archduke
Charles as the rightful heir, under a will of Philip IV.,
father of Charles II.
Then came a long war, called in history the " War of
the Spanish Succession," in which figured "the crafty,
uncertain, fascinating hero," Marlborough, and the highminded, noble Prince Eugene; it lasted until 1713, when
it was partially terminated by the Peace of Utrecht; but
only partially, because neither of the two leading governments engaged in the war would yield its pretensions.
Austria continued, however, to hold Naples until 1734,
under a succession of German viceroys. Then a gallant,
bold young paladin of a prince, scarcely eighteen years
of age, conquered, by his sword, what he considered his
birthright, the Neapolitan throne. This was the great
"Don Carlos," Charles de Bourbon, founder of the Neapolitan Bourbon family, son of Philip V., by his beautifill
second wife, the ambitious and clevei Elizabetta Farnese
of Parma.
In this chivalric young prince the Bourbon blood of
France and the Aragon blood of Spain were centred.




168            ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
He was one of those great breakwaters in history which
seem to rise up suddenly while the waves of political
events are sweeping noisily and confusingly on, as if
created for the occasion, either to stem and check the tide
of some overwhelming chaos of rebellion run riot, or to
establish a new dynasty.
There was no reason why this young Bourbon prince
should not have been one of the same royal figure-heads
that had preceded him in the Spanish family. In his
veins ran the same sang azur, and he had fed on the
same white bread. But Nature needed a man, and it
suited her waywardness and caprice just then to toss
the soul of a conqueror and a hero into a royal cradle,
instead of a bourgeoise bed.
His life was one of those military romances common to
the close of the eighteenth and opening of the nineteenth
centuries; since then Europe has relapsed into the old
way of statecraft and policy, and has more heroes of tools
and protocols than heroes of the sword. While reading
his dazzling career we seem to be transported to mediaeval
times, even to that far-off Norman era of his ancestors,
commemorated by the Monk of Monte Cassino,* when
the " forty valiant pilgrims appeared in the world, a thousand years after our Saviour's death ";- the Boemond
and Tancred of Tasso's song, and Robert of Guiscard,
and the great King Roger of Sicily, who conquered the
fair Neapolitan dominions from " Paynim dog," just by
way of employing their swords, for "they were on their
road home from Jerusalem," says the old cloistered chronicler, "where they had been to worship Jesus Christ";
and, as their vessels came up the Tyrrhenian sea, and
* L' Ystoire de Normant, etc.; par Aime, lMoine du Mont Cassin,publide
par M. Cham2pollion-Figeac. Paris, 1835.




"NOBILE OZIO."                 169
they neared the lovely coast of Salerno, they found their
old enemy the "Paynim  dog" at his favorite work of
oppressing Christians; so they tarried, and unsheathed
their swords, delivered their brother Christians from
" horrid heathen rule," and gave them, in lieu of it, their
own adventuring selves for masters.
One of these heroes, King Roger, was an ancestor of
the young Don Carlos de Bourbon; and it may be, his
ambitious, beautiful young mother had fed his mind, in
boyhood, with these stories from old historic legend,monkish chronicle and poet's song, - for surely no ordinary mental food had nourished such a youth. At eighteen years of age the boy-conqueror was crowned at
Palermo; ten years after, in 1744, when only twentyeight, he routed the Austrians at Velletri, and expelled
them from his kingdom; and, at the Congress of Aix-laChapelle (1748), Europe acknowledged him as Charles
VII.,* King of the Two Sicilies.
For twenty-five years Don Carlos reigned wisely over
Naples.  But the romance was not ended then.
" Glamis, and thane of Cawdor:
The greatest is behind."
When only a little over forty, he succeeded to the Spanish throne of his ancestor, Charles V., by the death of
his half-brother, Ferdinand VI. This succession requiring that the king should reside in Spain, Don Carlos
gave up the Neapolitan part of his dominions to his third
son, Ferdinand I., —as he is counted in the Neapolitan
Bourbon house, —who was only eight years old at the
* He was Charles VII. of Naples, in order of succession, and by the
Bull of Investiture of Pope Clement XII.; but he is generally called
Charles III. by the Neapolitans, because that was his title on the
Spanish throne.




170            ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
time (1759). Don Carlos had commenced life so early
himself, I fancy he did not think the boy too young; but
Nature had stopped her grand work in that quarter, and
the succeeding Ferdinands of Naples have relapsed into
the old mould of royal figure-heads.
A succession of such kings as Charles III. would have
ameliorated many of the national ills; but this lovely
peninsula seems to have been born in that unlucky daydawn of nations just as
"' Pale Hecate, star of the sorceress,"
was flying before the spirits of the new revelation, and
her angry eye of malediction fell upon this fated land;
for, as we look back upon its history, we see but a succession of short-lived promises of good, followed by long
seasons of misrule and misfortune.
During Charles III.'s reign a new element entered political life, - the Bourgeois, or Tiers Etat, - whicht then
took position and rank. To be sure, under the Spanish
vice-regal government, the throb of this great social pulse
could be seen by the appearance of such men as the lawyer and historian Giannone, the jurisconsult Gravina, —
Metastasio's beloved patron and friend, -and the professor and rhetorician Vico; but these were exceptions, and
not a class, as now. The effect of this new element, which
has been steadily working for years, is now showing itself,
not only in Naples, but all over the peninsula, and will
cause material changes both in the governments and the
people before long.  In the present day, however, this
same Tiers.Etat is a very necessary element in all European states. As Janet said to-day: "It gives the backbone to all the new governments of this old continent.'
The history of Naples since the reign of " Don Carlos"




"NOBILE OZIO."                171
is short and inglorious. During the minority of the young
king, the government was directed by that wise minister
of Charles III., Bernard Tanucci; but, though he ruled
well over the country, he left one duty unperformed, the
proper training of his royal ward.
When this young Ferdinand I. reached the age of
seventeen, - a year younger than his great father was at
the period of his crowning at Palermo, - he completed
his minority, and the following year married an Austrian
archduchess. This archduchess, Maria Carolina, was the
unworthy daughter of Maria Theresa, the unwomanly sister of Maria Antoinette, the fit friend of the infamous
Lady Hamilton, and the bad queen of a weak husband.
Ferdinand allowed her to assume the control, for she
had the same desire for rule which characterized her
mother, but she lacked Maria Theresa's ability.  Her
first exercise of power was the dismissing of Tanucci;
and the result of her ill management was not only injurious to the kingdom, but to her own interests, for, when
the terrific political European earthquake of 1789 burst
out, Naples was in a weak and unprotected state. Nature
had played truant then; there was no " Don Carlos," no
Vanucci, to hold the government firm when the revolutionary tide swept over the peninsula; and the feeble
king, with his unwise queen, had to fly from Naples for
their lives.
Then followed the Parthenopian republic, established
by the French General Championnet, which failed, for
Naples is essentially a king-loving place. After its downfall, Ferdinand returned for a little while, but was soon
driven out again, to make room for Napoleon's brother
Joseph. When Joseph was transferred to Spain, Murat
succeeded him; then came Napoleon's downfall, and with
him his little family of sovereigns.




172             ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
At the Treaty of Vienna, in 1816, Ferdinand recovered his throne. To him succeeded his son, Francis I.,
who reigned only five years; then Ferdinand II. ascended the throne (1830).
There have been short-lived rebellions in the mean
while, and it is said there is no stability now.*   The
Bourgeois, and even the fobility, are tired of the Bourbons; and "the innovation-loving, excitable, loquacious,
and unsteady Neapolitan people" are also quite ready
for any change. But look,
" What envious streaks
Do lace the severing clouds in yonder east.
Night's candles are burnt out, and jocund day
Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain-tops."
I have been so interested in my nobile ozio as to write
all night, a poor preparation for to-morrow's - nay, today's - sight-seeing.
1* 858.




STONE TONGUE.
HAVE received great assistance lately in this
examination of Neapolitan churches from our
new friend Mr. Luini. New  friend? He
does not seem new to me. It is not more than
two months since I first met him at the Folhams, and
yet I feel as if I had known him years instead of weeks.
There are many reasons to be offered for the close intimacy which is fast growing up between us. We are of
the same faith, and hold'similar views about our grand
old religion. Then we are travellers, not residents, and
acquaintances ripen into friendships on journeys much
more quickly than by firesides.
Janet rallies me playfully on my enthusiasm about him
once in a while, although she also likes him very much;
but I retort quite good-humoredly by quoting Jean Paul
to her.
"There is a sacred fault noble maidens have of forming too enthusiastic conceptions of their friends. Married
women rarely do this, because ordinary men check and
discourage all feminine enthusiasm which is not for themselves, and sometimes they weary of that."
Mrs. Rochester teasingly says, " Are you not afraid of
spoiling Mr. Luini?"
And I reply, with one of my strong human faiths,



174            ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
"It is the way to test him. Great natures are never
injured by appreciation and preference, even when frankly and openly expressed; on the contrary, they are encouraged by it, and grow nobler, nor do they ever misunderstand it. It is only the petty, inferior mind which puts
a wrong construction on such regard, and wounds us by
its vanity and conceit."
He appears to have made Naples his home, for the
present, at least. He has a pleasant suite of apartments
in a palazzo on the Chiaja, near the Church of San Pasquale, not far from our friends the Rochesters. He has a
very fine library, judging from the nice works he lends
me: indeed I cannot mention a book of reference, without receiving it from him immediately, - handsomely illustrated old folios, such as St. Non and Montfaucon, together with modern works like Cicognara, and all the
standard histories, Guieciardini, Giannone, and the like.
He is very intimate with that excellent man, the Saint
Charles Borromeo of the present day, the Archbishop of
Naples, Cardinal Duke Sforza; and when any surprise is
felt by his acquaintances at his perfect independence of
life and opinions, his intimacy with this prelate seems to
be the satisfying reason. I fancy, however, that the intimacy has no more power than this; the Cardinal knows
him to be a prudent, wise, good man, and such men command independence of mind and action everywhere.
There is some mystery, I believe, about his " antecedents," as we Americans say; and, although an Italian by
birth, he has very little intercourse with resident Neapofitans. His intimacies are mostly with foreigners, especially the English. This arises, I suppose, from the fact
of his mother's having been an Englishwoman. She
must have been a person of high culture and great love



STONE TONGUE.                175
liness, for he has spoken of her to me with an affection
amounting to veneration. She died while he was quite
young; for he has passed the age of early manhood,
being now about thirty, or may be a little older.
There is a rumor that he was interested in the Milanese political troubles of 1848, and this same rumor makes
the story complete by supposing him to be one of the discontented noblemen, who preferred withdrawing from a
rule they could not endure to keeping up a disturbed condition of affairs in the present unripe state of the times.
Whatever may have been his past, it is shrouded in impenetrable silence, which in him is not at all melodramatic. I suppose - nay, I know - that rumor has some
foundation for its stories about him. He has tasted of the
enchanted plant of our day, Liberty, and, like the Chevalier of the Saint Esprit in the old legend, has dreamed of
finding the lost Grayle, and bestowing on all humanity
the blessed draught of Love, Fraternity, and Equality.
After his political disappointments he retired from the
world for some time, and found peace and consolation in
meditation and books. Like Kenelm Digby, Montalembert, and De Broglie, he is a thoroughly educated, devoted Catholic, but unlike them, he has no desire, it may be
he has no power, to express himself to the world. He
has by degrees passed into the role of an intelligent spectator, and has lost all taste for action, while he has gained
more capability for, and pleasure in, thought. He often
quotes Goethe's expression, "Thought expands, action
narrows."
His study of, and belief in, human individual liberty,
have led him to prefer almost the tyranny of the masses,
sooner than accept the old rule of the privileged. Only
certain, urgent circumstances, I am sure, could make a




176             ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
protninent political man of Luigi Luini. It may be he
is deficient in political instinct. But I think, under different and happier circumstances,> he might have been useful to his kind, and covered himself with distinction, for
he has the calm, self-poised, honorable nature of a wise
ruler.
He began life as a politician,- that is, in the highest
sense of the word,- he devoted himself to the study of
governing.  While analyzing men and mhking himself
familiar with the general laws which rule their mobile
natures, his far-seeing mind displayed to him a higher,
wider scope of thought and labor: it showed to him
" The very pulse of the machine."
Gradually as his pure nature has soared aloft from
one range of mighty thoughts to another, he has become
indifferent to the passing struggles of the day. He sees
a mighty moral law which is unceasingly governing Nature.
" Beautiful, careless, ever fertile Nature!" he exclaims sometimes in our conversations. "She is like a
lovely Undine. She displays her exquisite resources
under a million of forms. She feels in herself unexhaustible powers, and therefore throws off failures and
successes with the same bewitching indifference; sometimes it seems she loves the fascinating wrong the best.
But, my friend, her vagaries are all divinely corrected.
There is a power which follows her as a loving mother
does a charming child, purifying, governing her, directing
even her follies to good, and in some blessed future she
will possess herself and gain her soul, as did the lovely
creation of the German."
But such speculations, while they enrich his mind and




STONE TONGUE.                 177
heart, take from him the desire for action or creation.
He loves to hear all great acts and doings in the world,
to gather from all sources the works of men in every
quarter of the globe, having some sublime consolatory
word to offer for the fearfulest human folly; but he no
longer thinks of playing a part in the life-drama, — his
work seems ended, - he only remains, as he says, in the
present existence.
Luigi, - for this is his beautiful first name, - viewing
thus all things from an elevated point, is happily relieved
from that curse of clever men, - ambition. There is a
calm, tranquil look from his blue eyes which is as limpid
and smooth as the surface of deep waters.' His moderation is not timidity or caution, but a quiet consciousness
of interior strength too deeply felt to need assertion. He
is enthusiastic too, quite enough so to satisfy even me; but
his enthusiasm has no feverishness, and his fine imagination, quick taste, and keen appreciation of the beautiful
are tempered by that rare gift, - good sense. He is practical without being narrow, and self-contained without
being cold or selfish. In society he must always command the love as well as respect of his associates. He
startles the most artificial, and even the most doubtful and
desponding into human faith.  He possesses that powerful magnetism which enables some persons to pierce
through the cold surface with which society, like the globe,
is enveloped; and he touches the warm current which
flows burning in every one's heart, though covered over
as with a lava crust, by the conventionalities of out-door
existence.
I have known him but a little while, to be sure; the
instincts of a woman, however, are as quick as they are
keen in action, and stand her in lieu of reason, which is
8*                            L




178            ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
slower in its judgment; thus she is enabled to discern
character much more speedily than man can.  Besides,
the calm Janet, who is almost his feminine counterpart,
agrees with me in my opinion of him.
During one of our first conversations he discovered my
interest in the history of Naples, written so marvellously
in stone, as Dumas says of Florence,-" on its palaces,
its statues, and its tombs, and we jostle against these
stone leaves at every step we take in the streets and
public places." Since then he has gone with me to several old churches and palazzos.
During Holy Week, at the close of Lent, he kindly
gave me opportunities of not only enjoying the ceremonies of our church at that solemn period, but also of seeing many things which, as a stranger, I could not have seen
or known. Every evening of the week I went with him
to the old Celestin Church of San Pietro a Maiella, adjoining the Musical College, to hear the scholars of the
Conservatoire sing the music appropriate to the season.
One evening they executed a most unmistakable Stabat
Mater of [Mercadante. I say unmistakable, because Rossini's, though a fine thrilling composition, is the song of a
triumphant Christian describing imaginary sorrows; some
of its passages are almost exultant, they are so full and
rich; while this of Mercadante, though cold and scholarly, is solemn and religious in its character. How different both are from the Stabat of Pergolesi, which is simple and tender, and yet the grief it expresses is as mild
and intense in some of its bursts as a woman or young
child might utter under the sting of deep anguish.
Another evening they sang a Miserere of Zingarelli, the
Master of the Conservatoire, who preceded Saverio Mercadante. The accompanying ceremonies, the darkening




STONE TONGUE.                179
of the chapel, and the extinguishing of the cruciform tapers, were very effective; then, added to these, was a
harp accompaniment of Mercadante, which sounded like
what I suppose persons mean when they speak of "the
music of the spheres," but I should have rather listened to
the Miserere without it, although I have no doubt the harp
accompaniment is more popular.
At the present day persons will not inquire into the
whys and wherefores of certain traditions in art, and by
demanding that which is superficially pleasing, they are
fast losing the true spirit. By this means art is ceasing
to be a revelation; it may produce fruit after its present
nature and be a willing handmaiden to us, but it is no
longer an inspiration.
But to return to Naples " sight-seeing."  It is an "embarras de richesses " here. One grows stunned, as it were,
with the fast-thronging memories that crowd the brain at
every turn.  Greek, Roman, Barbarian, Medieval, and
modern traditions and remains jostle each other, mingling dates, incidents, and names in the most bewildering
manner.
One morning in Easter Week, which is just over, I stood
on the grand stone platform leading into the Church of
San Paolo in the Strada Tribunali, and resting my hand
on one of two old blackened and broken columns, I gazed
up at the architrave, and then down at the crowd of
Christians pouring like a stream up and down the spacious broad stone steps, sweeping a living tide every little while against those pillars. Then there arose in my
brain a " sweet pain of mental wilderment" as I recalled
that on this very spot where we were worshipping the
despised, crucified Nazarene, had stood in olden, olden
times, a temple of Castor and Pollux, and these shattered




180             ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
columns and remnant of an architrave remained to tell
us, in their mysterious stone tongue, which thrills every
fibre of our being, the tradition of that heathen faith and
that heathen day. Then, mingling with the crowd of
visible mortals, in my fancy arose a ghostly multitude,
fleeting fast along, like the water-shadows racing swiftly
over the bushes beside a running stream, and there sounded a dim distant chant which uttered,
"There to the Great Twin Brethren
Vow thou thy vows and pray,
That they in tempest and in fight
Will keep thy head alway." *
I went afterwards into the cloister, looked at its twentyfour granite pillars, and remembered that there had stood
the Theatre, on the stage of which Nero had played.
Three hundred years my memory had swiftly stepped
over in passing from the platform of the great entrance
of the church into the cloister. I leaned dreamily against
one of the columns, imagining the scene so graphically
described by the historian, - Nero, the poor crazy Emperor, -" mounting the stage, tuning his lute with much
care, and flourishing before he began his part. About
him were his companions; the cohort of guards was also
there, with tribunes and centurions, and Burrus, praising
his master, but grieving for him." t
After lingering some time in the cloister we were taken
into the Sacristy to see some pictures and frescoes. We
found it thronged with clergymen, not priests of Castor
and Pollux, "clad in purple and crowned with olive," but
* "Battle of Lake Regillus. Lay sung at the Feast of Castor and
Pollux on the Ides of Quintilis, in the year of the City CCCCLI." -
Macaulay's Lays of Ancient Rome.
t Tacitus, Book XIV.




STONE TONGUE.                 181
simply dressed men, whose long closely-buttoned black
cassocks clung to their bodies from the throat to the foot,
servants of that New Faith now near two thousand years
old.
On a stand was a superb church vestment of cloth of
gold, embroidered and studded with precious stones; little sapphires, rubies, emeralds, and diamonds flashed out
from the gorgeous mass of work; over one corner of it
had been flung a magnificent worked white linen alb, with
a heavy broad fall of rich antique lace, whose creamyhued Spanish point told out well as it lay on the gold of
the vestment.
At the head of the room some of the clergy, with some
gentlemen, were assembled together admiring an exquisitely wrought gold chalice. Luigi was among them.
Seeing us he stepped forward to show us the costly and
beautiful thing, worthy in workmanship to have come
from  the skilful fingers of a Cellini. I held it in my
hands while they told me its history, not one word of
which did I hear; for I was thinking of the old worship
of the proud Ides of Quintilis, and ringing in my ears
came the verses,"While flows the Yellow River,
While stands the Sacred Hill,
The proud Ides of Quintilis
Shall have honor still.
Gay are the Martian Kalends:
December's Trones are gay;
But the proud Ides, when the squadron rides,
Shall be Rome's whitest day."
And then flitted again before me the sorrowful Imperial
displays of the poor degraded grandson of that proud, but
pure, good Agrippina, Germanicus's wife, surrounded by




182            ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
his Rosencrantzes and Guildensterns, with poor mortified
Burrus, applauding but grieving for his royal master's
shame, - and I wondered what new faith shall be worshipped here after the tide of two thousand years to come
had swept over this spot.
Now how can one return home and sit down leisurely,
and in cold blood to hunt up dates and parcel out historical information from books to fit this church, or that
statue, this palazzo or that fountain? The labor would
be wearying in the extreme; moreover, I should not
enjoy as I do now this delightful half-dreamy feeling
which steals over me while listening to the conversation
of such a man as Luigi Luini. In nervous, picturesque
language he tells me the history of each spot or work of
art which attracts my notice or admiration, and much better, too, than I could find it in books. Then he revives,
as by a magical touch, all my own knowledge, and has that
happy faculty, not often possessed by clever men, of drawing out from his companion, by his own suggestive remarks, the most delightful talk.
This is a feminine gift, by the way. Men generally
are monologists, they deal only in large bills and notes of
language. Some witty Frenchman has said that an intelligent woman can always seize the thoughts of a man,
and give him back immediately the small change. Blessed little word-brokers it makes of us to be sure, but
how could society get on without such bewitching bankers?
The streets of Naples are becoming so thickly thronged
to me with old historical memories that sometimes, as I
lean back in the barouche and gaze up at the palazzos or
churches, I fancifully compare them, as the carriages
sweep by, to the rapidly turning leaves of a gorgeously




STONE TONGUF4                 183
illuminated missal, or some brilliantly decorated Pugin
Glossary, whose vivid colorings of old diaperings and
monograms flash on the eye with a painful pleasure;
therefore it is a luxurious relief to have such a person as
Luigi Luini beside me, to hold down as it were, one of
these stone pages, and shade its brilliant past by the calm
recital of its history, so that I can look and learn, or remember without bewilderment or confusion.




"CASA DELLA SIRENA."
UST as we were starting out on our afternoon
drive to-day, Luigi entered the court-yard.
He helped us into the barouche, then stood
for a few moments talking, and resting his
delicate, graceful hand on the low door of the coach;
for he is not large, nor is he under size, but he is slender,'
and has all the patrician marks of form, - small hands
and feet, suppleness of limb, and grace of motion.
" Why cannot you go with us, Mr. Luini? " asked Janet, as he bid us good day, wishing us a pleasant drive,
for, Janet attends to all the inviting and etiquette business of our little community, Venitia being too young,
and I now-a-days am too dreamy and forgetful.
" Should you really like to have me.?" he answered,
with a bright smile, which lighted up finely his handsome
face.
"I should not ask you, I am sure, if I did not," replied
Janet, with a natural abruptness, which is always softened
by her musical laugh and cultured voice; "and as for Ottilie, I know I can answer for her gratification."
He opened the door of the coach without saying another word, and took his seat beside Venitia, thus giving me
a chance of enjoying the good looks of both, for he is as
handsome for a man as she for a woman. I repeated to




"CASA DELLA SIRENA."              185
myself his name as I looked at him, and recalled what
Poe had written of a beautiful Italian woman's name, —
"Two words, two foreign soft dissyllables,
Italian tones made only to be murmured
By angels dreaming in the moonlit dew."
But I thought "Luigi Luini" sounded best when pronounced by waking, loving, human beings, in their sincerest, most cordial tones.
Our carriage swept out the Strada Nuova along the
fine, broad road that skirts this picturesque coast, in and
out its various little indentations, which shows the skill
that has been displayed in the making of this grand
route, the- broad pathwvay of which has been gained in
many places from the rocks themselves.  High up in air,
on our right, rose gracefully the green hills of Posilippo,
crowned with elms and beautiful villas; and as we came
around the Punta di Posilippo, the setting sun shot brilliant rays on the beautiful old ruins of the Palazzo della
Regina Giovanni, as it is called, which lay to our left.
The sparkling sea flowed into its marble-paved court,
and plashed restlessly up against the foundations.
" Casa della Sirena," said Luigi, " should be its name.
It is not known certainly that it ever belonged to either
of the Queen Joannas, although both were unhappy and
unlucky enough."
This led us to talking of the beautiful unfortunate
granddaughter of Robert the Wise, Joanna I., the tombs
of whose father and grandfather in Santa Chiara I have
already mentioned.   She was also great-great-granddaughter of that bold adventuring brother of St. Louis
of France, Charles of Anjou, Count of Provence, and is
the Mary, Queen of Scots, of Neapolitan history (1343 -
1345). No matter what may have been the shortcom



186            ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
ings of this unhappy queen, one thing should be remembered of her.  When her bitter enemy, Charles of
Durazzo, her cousin, was besieging the poor lady, she
shut herself up in one of the fortified palaces of her city.
The people came clamoring at its gates for admittance,
praying for protection and food.
"Open the gates," said the weeping, beautiful woman.
" No, your Majesty!" replied her counsellors, "that cannot be done, for, added to our having only enough food
for ourselves, barely sufficient to last until aid comes,
if we open the gates the enemy may also force an entrance."
"And they are to suffer and starve! " she cried. "0O
no, there are women and young children among them;
open the gates and let them enter! I cannot leave my
people in danger to preserve my own safety."
The gates were opened, and while the populace rushed
in, clinging with tears around their beloved queen, the
enemy did indeed force an entrance; the poor woman
was seized by her cruel kinsman and brutally murdered.
But the mangled remains of that once lovely form, the
queenly presence of which glows down upon us firom
the ceiling of the Church of L' Incoronata, made immortal
by Giotto's pencil, found rest at last in the same stone
coffin where lay her dead mother beside the high altar of
the Church of Santa Chiara.
After we had dwelt on her history tenderly and charitably, we talked of the second Joanna, the weak, vain
daughter of this cruel Charles Durazzo, almost as beautiful and almost as wretched as the first one, for fate
seemed to wish to avenge on her the wrongs and cruelties her father had inflicted on her predecessor (14141435).




" CASA DELLA SIRENA."              187
This occupied us while our carriage rolled around the
promontory of Posilippo, and we came out on a full view
of Cape Miseno, Procida, and Ischia, with the pretty little
Nisita close in shore.
Nisita, with its sweet, sad memories! Joanna II. had
a gay villa there, in the days of her prosperity; but far,
far back, fourteen centuries before that, the stern Brutus
did there fulfil his tender promise to his Portia, on the
eve of their final parting before the battle of Philippi
(42 B. C).
"And by and by thy bosom shall partake
The secrets of my heart,
All my engagements I will construe to thee,
All the charactery of my sad brows."
The sun gilded every tree that lay against the western
horizon, giving them a true leaf-glory. Janet of course
quoted Virgil.
"' See!" she cried, "'the gold sprouting forth on the
shady holm-oaks, and the metallic leaves tinkling with
the gentle gale.' The decorations of the hero's tomb are
gone,- the sculptured oar and trumpet,- but, as the
Mantuan poet said,' the lofty promontory, which from him
is called Misenus, shall retain eternal through ages the
memory of the son of' Eolus, whom none excelled in
rousing warriors by the brazen trump, and kindling the
rage of war by its blast.'"
"I wonder," said Venitia, with a shy playfulness quite
new in her manners, but very becoming, "whether the
trumpeter, if he has lain under that lofty cape all these
long ages, has made the acquaintance of old Typhon, -
poor, oppressed giant, with all these burning loads of the
Crater Bay resting on his shaggy breast!"
We talked of old myths awhile, then, looking over at




188            ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
Ischia, recalled some of its pleasant, historical memories,
and dwelt longest on that part of its history which relates
to the three beautiful women, whose names will hang forever over it as a halo, - Costanza d' Avalos, the sister of
the hero of Pavia Francesco d' Avalos, Marquis of Pescara; Vittoria Colonna, his wife; and Mary of Aragon,
his cousin.
First, Costanza, who so valiantly defended the Castle of Ischia against the army of Louis XII., preserving
thus a home for Frederick of Aragon when the Partition
Treaty of Granada, between Louis XII. and Ferdinand
the Catholic, left this poor Prince of Altamura homeless
(1500).  Her famous brother, the hero of Pavia, was
born at this Castle (1489), and the government of the
island remained in the family nearly three hundred years
after Costanza's display of valor and fidelity.
Twenty-five years after, her beautiful young sister-inlaw sought a home of consolation in the island. When
I described the Marquis of Pescara's coffin, and banner,
and sword, which we saw in San Domenico Maggiore, I
told then of Vittoria Colonna's going to Ischia to mourn
her youthful wedded lover, and how she sang, like "the
nightingale with its breast against a thorn," her husband's
virtues and valor, in verses which a famous poet said
should give her so much honor that they should
"....burst the tomb and live through every age." *
WTe dwelt again on the sweet story of this lovely woman,
quoting Ariosto, and talking of Buonarotti's pure love, and
of the great sculptor's presence at her death-bed, watching with reverential tenderness for her last sigh and last
breath.
Then we had a merry laugh over the third beautiful
* Orlando Furioso, Canto XXXVII. St. 16.




"CASA DELLA SIRENA."             189
widow whose memory is connected with Ischia; the lovely
Mary of Aragon, Marchese del Vasto, who followed Vittoria's example when left a widow in 1548. She went to
this island to grow old gracefully, and succeeded so well
that Brantome said, "her autumn surpassed the spring of
other women." It was she, who at sixty was so irresistibly attractive, as to charm the heart out of a grand Prior
of France, who should have been thinking of other things
than of delectable feminine amaranths.
Yes, we talked of all these pleasant memories, sweeping over the first three quarters of a century, which followed the termination of the Middle Ages (1490-1560),
and which saw the firm establishment of Spanish rule in
the Land of the Sirens, the age of Ariosto, and Angelo,
and Raphael.
" Casa della Sirena, House of the Sirens," exclaimed
Luigi as the coach, whose horses' heads were now turned
homewards, came near again to the beautiful ruin outside
of Punta di Posilippo, and we listened to the history of
this ill-fated Palazzo in the Sea, which looked gray as
the shades of evening gathered around it, and solemn
sounds of warning seemed to breathe through its ruined
halls as the sullen plash of the waters of the Crater Bay
could be heard against the Siren rocks of the foundation.
The lofty arched windows and empty niches, the heavy
projections and peculiarities which it displays of that seventeenth-century architecture,- grand and splendid like
Genoa's magnificence, but not equal to Venitian glory and
beauty, - were all noticed as though we had looked on it
for the first time, and might never see it again. We gazed
earnestly, too, at the "various desert and rocky little
islands which are called the Sirenusae," on which this ill.
fated palace stands.




190            ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
As far back as anything is known of this castle, the
tradition tells of ill luck. It might seem that those
transformed Sirens possessed power to harm, though
stilled into solid rocks. Every owner of the place has
had ruin to track him to his doom. Outlawry, death, and
disgrace have steadily followed its various masters and
their descendants, even more relentlessly than sorrow attacks other mortals. At last, by some chance, it came
into a family whose name is more frequent and continuous than any other in Neapolitan history, - the Carafa.
These Carafas were a grand old set of people; generation after generation made their mark on history
faithfully. Nature never forgot them, through ages
of change and extinction of other families. The last
"Duke of Naples," who in the year 1130, after a long
and heroic defence, yielded to the superior strength of the
Normans, and delivered the last Grecian free state of
Italy up to King Roger of Sicily, was a Carafa, - Duke
Sergius Carafa.
Then in 1435, a Lord Malizia Carafa was sent by the
poor childish Joanna II. - the last queen of Naples,
indeed the last of the Anjou-Durazzo family- to summon her cousin Alfonso of Aragon, king of Sicily, to
be her heir and protector. His monument, with other
fine ones of the family, is in the Carafa Chapel at San
Domenico Maggiore, a sculptured knight under a canopy,
with a sepulchral urn, and his arms folded quietly over
the cross he loved and served.
The Carafas swept grandly along through the Aragonese dynasties, both legitimate and illegitimate, and also
in the hard iron Spanish times, managing to be loyal
through all changes, - that is, faithful to the reigning
power, but never failing to give history in each generation a landmark.




" CASA DELLA SIRENA."            191
One of this great family was so famous, he must have
more than a mere mention of his name. TIhis was the
austere friend of St. Cajetan of Thiene, Gian Pietro
Carafa, Cardinal Archbishop of Naples, who, with his
holy and dear companion, founded the order of the Theatine Monks (1524), that great and noble " Seminary of
Bishops," formed " of men of noble birth who might have
revelled in the enjoyments of life, but who began to seek
out the sick in their habitations and in hospitals, and administer the last consolations to the dying." * They lived
in profound solitude and extreme poverty, never asked
alms, and studied closely the Gospels, then went down in
the cities to preach.
Cardinal Carafa himself appeared with cap and cross
and clerical habit in the pulpit, and "poured forth that
copious and vehement eloquence which distinguished him
till his death." He did not produce mere excitement and
ebullitions of feeling in his auditors, but a deep impression. He was "tall and thin, moved quickly, appeared
to be all nerve," had an iron will, " was never known to
have made a concession or compromise, and always acted
on his opinions with the utmost vehemence." Men said
he led a strange and austere life, he slept by day and
studied by night, and, what is rare with such solemn, stern'
men, he was gifted with a flow of words that was filled
with earnestness and freshness, and which poured out in
a powerful stream, influencing every one who came within his reach. Of course Charles V. hated him, for Cardinal Carafa was a man free from selfish ambition, but
full of holy zeal and ardor for the restoration of the
Church to its original purity; therefore he felt a contempt for the double-dealings of the ambitious Emperor,
* Ranke's History of the Popes.




192            ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
and despised the game of fast and loose with Protestants
which Charles played so skilfully to suit his kingcraft and
policy. But notwithstanding this, Cardinal Carafa was
elected Pope in the very teeth of Charles V.'s power
and disapprobation, and will be known to all ages as Paul
IV. When the Imperial Ambassadors warned him that
their master would never consent to his election, the bold
prelate answered, - "If God wishes me to be Pope, no
emperor can hinder me from being so; but for myself his
opposition will be so much the better, for then I shall owe6
my elevation to no human power."
Stout words these for an old man of seventy-nine.
Whatever may have been the influence, human or divine,
he was elected Pope; and the same life and death struggle which the haughty Hildebrand, Gregory VII., had
fought nearly five centuries before with the Hohenstaufens, was renewed by this Pope with the Hapsburgs.
That grand old Pope, Paul IV., with his strong Italian nationality, religious fervor and zeal, and Brutuslike severity to his unworthy kinsman, stands out in bold
relief, even in the sharply-chiselled history of that day,
and for three things shall he be remembered; as the undaunted opponent of Charles V., the dear and loving'friend of St. Cajetan and St. Charles Borromeo, and
one of the leading, indeed most active, spirits of that
great Council which was intended by the wise, earnest,
and pious churchmen of the day to assist in the reviving of a true catholic and apostolic spirit, —the Council
of Trent.
Like all great Popes who have ever been at the head
of the Church, he was an earnest opposer of foreign rule,
whether French, Spanish, or German, and a warm advocate of Italian union and nationality. He called " Italy an




"CASA DELLA SIRENA.',            193
harmonious instrument with four strings,- Rome, Venice,
Milan, and Naples," and looked upon Lodovico Sforza,
the Duke of Milan, -" I1 Moro," as he was called, - and
Alfonso of Aragon, as eternally lost for having destroyed the harmony of this beautiful instrument by their
divisions. "Infelice quelle anime di Alfonsa d' Aragona e Ludovico duca di Milano che furono ii prinzi che
quastorono cosi nobil instrumento d' Italia." *
He said of the French, what will apply to them at this
day, " The French break off in the middle of their work,
and do not stop even where they are tightly bound."
Only a little over four years did this resolute, strongwilled old man hold the Papacy, but in that time he made
a stamp on history which will remain deep and clear for
ages. He died in 1559.
Along through succeeding generations came this rich
old Carafa blood, until in the second quarter of the seventeenth century, -at that period when Vandyke, and
Poussin, and Domenichino were painting, and Calderon
singing, and Richelieu governing, and Charles I. and his
beautiful Henrietta losing a fair kingdom, while Queen
Christina of Sweden was receiving one to play with as
a toy, — in 1630, the Carafas, Princes of Stigliano, the
main branch of the family, brought short up in the presence of a young, golded-haired, beautiful girl, Anna Carafa, who was not only a Carafa, but a granddaughter
of Vespasian Gonzaga, one of the most illustrions men of
his day; her mother was Elena Aldobrandini, niece of
Clement VIII., and she was the richest heiress of all
South Italy.
She was sought in marriage by a nephew of a Pope;
an Austrian Archduke; a Prince of Poland; a reigning
* Navagero.
9                           M




194           ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
Duke of Modena; a son of a Spanish viceroy; and her
own handsome cousin, the brilliant, dashing Diomed Carafa. But she married none of these. After much stormy
wooing, in 1637, the heiress beauty was at last wedded
to the Duke of Medina de las Torres, and became ViceQueen of Naples.
Whom the gods wish to ruin, they first drive mad, and
so it was with this beautiful young girl and her Viceroy
husband. Their immense wealth and dazzling position
bewildered them. They made all Naples even, so accustomed to Spanish display, stare at their magnificence,
which was more than regal, and to this day their extortion and dishonesty are remembered.
Into the hands of this young vice-regal Duchess had
come, with her other possessions, the sorrowful Casa della
Sirena. A Ravaschieri, too prudent to defy destiny, had
sold it to Donna Anna's grandfather, Prince of Stigliano,
and straightway commenced that "waywardness of fate
which baffles all human calculations." His son, the father
of Donna Anna, a prosperous, brilliant man, with fair
sons and daughters clustering around like strengthening
young branches to the Carafa house-tree, was soon after
snatched from him by death, and also every child except
this young girl Anna, felling the poor old Prince Stigliano to the earth with grief, just in the very hour of his
brightest prosperity; he left the world and his great possessions and went into a Jesuit monastery to die. I remember the other day standing by his monument, which
is also in the Carafa chapel at St. Domenico Maggiore.
He was buried in the ground under the chapel.
But the daring young Vice-Queen would not see illfortune in the beautiful ruin; nor would she hear the
song of the mysterious Fate, who, it was said, could be




"CASA DELLA SIRENA."                195
seen sitting on those rocks spinning, through the long
watches of the night, like the fearful vision of false
Sextus:
"A woman fair and stately
But pale as are the dead.
"And as she plied her distaff,
In a sweet voice and low,
She sang of great old houses,
And fights fought-long ago.
So spun she and so sang she,
Until the east was gray,
Then pointed to her bleeding breast
And shrieked and fled away."
Donna Anna commanded a goodly palace to be built
on the foundations of that fearful place, in which she
vowed she would dwell in royal splendor. She sent for
the great architect, Cosimo Fanzaga, and made him sketch
a fine plan for her daring castle. Then four hundred
workmen were set to work at its stately arches; and Naples was robbed of ancient statues to fill the niches, and
of rare pictures to adorn the walls.
The beautiful, golden-haired young girl developed rapidly into a covetous, tyrannical woman. She oppressed her
subjects, and joined with her husband in every scheme of
selfish exaction and extravagance that could be thought
of.  Only seven years ran their brilliant, comet-like
course; then the Duke of Medina was recalled to Spain
in disgrace, and his vice-regal office taken from him.
This disgrace was keenly felt by his haughty young
wife. Not that she had ever loved her husband, nor had
their marriage been a happy one.  She had loved her
brilliant cousin Diomed, - he who had wooed her, so like
a knight of old romance, - with his painted felucca sailing up and down the lovely coast, a Cleopatra's barge in




196            ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
luxurious magnificence, dedicated to her honor, whose
music and songs in her praises came wafting over sea and
land, - the gallant young Carafa of Maddaloni, who, to
win her hand, out-rode, out-feasted, and out-fought the
princely foreign competitors.
But in an evil hour she had listened to the voice of
ambition rather than love.  Probably there was some
pique, some lover's quarrel, which, instead of ending in a
wild, keen joy of reconciliation, had snapt off suddenly
in eternal silence. Whatever may have been the cause,
she, instead of being the happy, loving wife of Diomed,
and probably a better woman, had become a Vice-queen,
and sought bitter remedies for the stinging pain of her
heart, in the fierce, dangerous game of selfish ambition.
But how could it be otherwise?
"So spun she and so sang she,"
that Siren fate, who sat invisible to mortal eyes by the
rocky foundations of the Palace in the Sea.
Thus when her husband's sudden downfall and ruin
came, she had nothing,  not even poor despised love to
sustain her. A few months after the Viceroy was recalled, and while he was standing his trial at Madrid, the
lovely Anna Carafa, whose beauty poets had sung, and
dukes and princes had wooed, and in whose veins flowed
the richest Italian and Spanish blood, was lying in a villa
at Portici, dying, almost alone! For if the unprosperous, even when good, are apt to be deserted, how can the
wicked, when sorrow comes to them, expect to reap that
which they never sowed, - grateful, devoted friendship?
On the Christmas-eve of that year, 1645, at midnight,
Donna Anna Carafa, Duchess of Medina de las Torres,
Ex-Vice-Queevr of Naples, was buried privately, and




"CASA DELLA SIRENA."              197
without honor, in the church of the barefooted Augustinian monks, at Resina, at the foot of Mount Vesuvius.
"And the Casa della -Sirena?" asked Venitia of Luigi,
who was telling us this sad story, whose tragic fatality,
aided by the melody of his rich voice, touched us deeply.
"It remained unfinished of course," he replied. " The
earthquake of 1688 made a complete ruin of it. It stood
a long while unappropriated. At last, as years went by,
the Mirelli, Princess of Teora, bought it, tempted by its
small price.  The same ill-fortune attended them that
has visited every owner of this' House of the Sirens,'
rapid prosperity and sudden ruin. Then it remained unclaimed for a time, and was afterwards used as a glassmanufactory, - a fitting use surely to put it to, -the
fabrication of that frail, glittering substance which has
been compared to successful ambition. Now the report
is that the ruin belongs to the king."
"Alas!" I said sadly, " he, poor man, does not need
the possession of any tangible Casa della Sirena to bring
him'ill luck, for he is a Bourbon, and his family have
been playthings of Fate for ages."
Luigi returned home with us, and drank of our
"Hyson" on the terrace; then we spent a charming
evening of music and talk. After he left, I threw some
fresh pastilles into a little bronze pastille-brazier of beautiful antique form, and sat inhaling the delicious vapor,
playing idly with the graceful little folds of smoke
drapery, as they rose up and floated off into the air.
" Now," said Venitia, " I shall place candles in those
alabaster vases; have all the other lights put out, and,
while you continue burning pastilles, I will play."
I have never seen the girl look so lovely as she has
the past week or so; and to-night, as she said this, I




198            ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
noticed again the indescribable charm which is beginning
to breathe softly through and over her beauty, as the
faint, subtile odor of some rare flower creeps out of the
half-opening bud.
She did not'observe my look, but with a preoccupied,
unconscious air, which is peculiar to her and Janet, and
which is uncommon in a young girl, she lighted the vases,
put some flowers on the piano, near the key-board, then
drew two little easels forward, under the vases, so that
the pictures on them might be seen in the picturesque
pearly brightness which streamed down from the illuminated alabaster.
These two pictures are fine copies Janet has lately
purchased of Di Napoli; they are of two Correggios, the
originals of which are in the Musee Bourbonique; one
the famous small "Marriage of St. Catharine," in which,
as Schlegel says, "smiling grace is exalted and refined
into almost unsullied beauty"; the other that bewitching
" Zingarella," the sleeping "Madonna del Coniglio," or
Madonna of the Rabbit, called so because of the cunning
little rabbit which peeps its head out of the bushes with
droll inquiry at the sleeping Mother and Child, and points
up his long ears, as if it indeed heard the low songs of the
little angels who are floating over head, bearing rushes to
make a shelter for the Divine Mother and Son. It is the
loveliest of his pictures, to my fancy.
The expression of fatigue in this picture is not at all
repulsive, as physical suffering of any kind is apt to be;
and yet the poor Virgin is so very tired that it can be
seen in every part of her form. She has thrown herself
down beside, not on, a bank; every muscle relaxed, every
limb drooping; she presses her child close to her from
instinct, for her sleep is very, very leaden; and the poor




"CASA DELLA SIRENA."              199
baby, like its mother, is so weary, too, that it sleeps despite its uncomfortable position; one of her hands has
fallen down from the little feet which it had wished to
support, and the arm is held in position by a tight fold
of drapery, which is bound around it, while the other
hand is clasped in clinging fondness by the child.
Love, divine love, of the purest, tenderest nature, is
the exquisite motivo of this melodious picture. It shows
itself in all the details, which are as so many modulations
and workings of the theme. The expression of the faces
- breathless exhaustion, beautified and mellowed by
the deep happiness which both mother and child feel in
sleeping close, close to each other -:is almost voluptuous.
There is a sort of sensible sonorousness in the works
of such painters as Titian, and all rich, warm colorists;
the effect is like that of fine, satisfactory passages of
orchestration; but Correggio and Raphael are like delightful executants on a single instrument, —fine solo
players.
"There," said Venitia, leaning back, with a sweet air
of languor and content, looking around the room, and
drawing a long, full, happy sigh.  "Now for the music,
-for Chopin. I was thinking this evening, Ottilie, that
Chopin should be listened to by shaded lights, in air filled
with fragrant incense, flowers, and a few Correggios and
Raphaels, with two or three darlings like you and Janet
for the audience."
I wished to exclaim, "Venitia growing sentimental!"
but I would not, for I should give a great deal to see the
sweet birth of what she calls, mockingly, sensiblerie —
but which I call true feeling -in her heart.
Her fingers rambled over the piano-keys, letting drop




200            ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
sweet chords, but nothing connected, not the shadow of a
modulation; at last the combinations of sounds took form
and shape, although she still played dreamily. It was
that Prelude in E flat of Chopin, in which
"Thought and memory ring, like a funeral peal,
Weary changes on one dirge-like note."
After she had finished it, she said, as if thinking aloud,"What a gift Chopin had of phrasing in music whole
volumes of unexpected joys, and dim, mystical senses of
loving; not love, — not tangible, practical, housekeeping love, such as you and Janet believe in, and which is
good enough, I have no doubt, for those who like it, - but
it is a vague, poetical expression of this'joy of life,' as
you call it, Ottilie. And he seemed to know, too, that
for him his Psyche could never take form or shape; for
just as his previsions approach positive resolutions in the
music, what a flood of misgivings pour out in the fast-succeeding chords!"
She played again for a little while, and I leaned back
on the sofa, with half-closed eyes, listening to the music.
Janet was walking up and down the room, half hearing,
half thinking. Venitia suddenly stopped, and leaning
forward, looked earnestly at the "Zingarella."
"Venitia, Stendhal says," - I commenced.
"Bah! The scoffing wretch!" interrupted Venitia.
"' Strike, but hear me,' as Themistocles said," I replied.
"That's right, Ottilie," said Janet, laughing, "never
give up your quotation."
".Et tu, Brute?" I answered with playful reproach;
but, true to the persistency of my nature, in little things
at least, I repeated the same words, and at my obstinate
reiteration of " Stendhal says," both women burst into a
9*




" CASA DELLA SIRENA."               201
contagious fit of laughter, in which of course I joined;
but, never daunted, I carried my point.
" Stendhal says,'Is there anything true in this life,
but the tender pleasure we feel while listening to Mozart
and looking at the creations of Correggio?'"
"That is so like him,'" responded Venitia; "he could
not enjoy with hope and faith, but must wither everything with his doubt and unbelief.'
"I like his appreciation of Mozart," remarked Janet.
"Mozart is one of those'sweet men,' as old Chaucer
says,'who giveth absolution to his grieving listeners.'
His glorious draught of joy is of a' vintage, that hath been
Cool'd a long age in the deep-delvdd earth,
Tasting of Flora and the country-green,
Dance, and Provencal song, and sunburnt mirth!.... a beaker full of the warm South,
Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,
With beaded bubbles winking at the brim
And purple-stained mouth.'
His happiness is sparkling and clear as the note of Shelley's Skylark, and seems as' fiee from sad satiety.'  His
love, too, if it was what you, Venitia, saucily call practical, housekeeping love, is beautiful; much more charming
to my ears, certainly more healthy, than poor Chopin's
sad misgivings, and wayward, doubting tenderness."
"But Figaro was gay, Janet," I remarked, with a malicious laugh.
" Yes, and so was Mozart, I admit; but happy would
it be if the women who possess the real love of such men
as Mozart could do as Constance Weber, his wife,- shut
their eyes to the shortcomings, and receive in return for
their generous faith adoring love; for to her he was, no
matter what were his errors, true as the needle to the
Pole   "




202            ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
"North Pole, Janet," I interrupted, teasingly; "rather
a cold atmosphere, but I fear the true one of many loving
women."
" Heaven forbid," said Venitia, in a low voice, and with
a shudder, "that I should ever be the North Pole to any
man's heart."
"Or like Fancy," continued Janet, pleased with her
comparison, and not hearing Venitia's half-whispered remark, "which'like the finger of a clock,
Runs the great circuit and is still at home.'"
I shook my head with laughing doubt, and Venitia
commenced playing the " Voi che sapete," Cherubino's
delicious air in Figaro, of which Scudo says: " The
world may grow old, a great many miracles may be performed, the very surface of the earth may be changed,
but the sentiment which Mozart has expressed in this
divine passage is eternal, and can never be said in any
other way."
I left her playing, and came to my room, thinking I
could sleep, as I felt a little weary; but as usual I have
written until not only the whole Palazzo, but even the
great city, are stilled in slumber, indeed are almost ready
to burst out into the daily Babel of sounds.




PHILIP.
HILIP has come. No need of telling any one
who Philip is.  Every journal I have kept
since my girlhood has Philip in it, in some
_ form or shape, with his mother, his father, his
wife, or himself.
His father was my sworn defender and friend from
childhood. There was a chivalric tone in Mr. Edelhertz's
regard for me, which was like that love which an enthusiastic, highly cultivated man feels for a daughter, born
to him in his young manhood, and who, as she grows up,
is more friend and companion than child to him. It is a
feeling totally different from that which he could have for
any other woman, and is one of the sweetest, tenderest
emotions of which a man's heart is capable. Yes, of all
masculine loves, this one is to be preferred by a woman,
the tender, protecting regard of a father near enough to
mid-age to have enthusiasm and appreciation, and old
enough to have grown generous and indulgent, and to
command obedience and reverence.
Thus Gaspard Edelhertz, Philip's father, loved me,
and I gave back to him the trusting, adoring love of a
daughter in full measure. Ah, if he had lived, I should
not be what I am! But let that pass, and
"Upon the heat and flame of my distemper
Sprinkle cool patience."




204            ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
Mr. Edelhertz was a German of high birth and culture. He had come to America in his youth in the diplomatic service of his government, had married an American, and settled in the States. He had only one son, the
possession of whom had cost him his wife; and poor Philip
bid fair to be not only a costly but grievous possession to
his father.
Brilliant, gifted, erratic, he was exposed to numberless
temptations, and. just on the outer lintel of manhood he
returned home from Europe, where he had been sent for
his education, almost a disgraced boy. I say almost, for
I never knew the details of his errors, as I was too near
a friend of the family. It is the curious, prying outsider,
the malicious or inquisitive acquaintance, who knows
"everything" in a disgraceful family trouble, — knows
more, indeed, than ever happened. I needed no further
information than that which I saw, the silent sorrow of
my.honored friend, Mr. Edelhertz, his proud anguish that
but for me would have been solitary.
Philip came amongst us haughty, handsome, and with
a recklessness that amounted almost to insolence; had
his father been a reproachful, wordy, fretful man, he
would have gone to ruin. I was only a few years his
senior, but having been early settled in life, and moreover
a woman, I seemed much older than he. I fancied I discovered under this recklessness resentment at injustice,
and in this pride promise of future reparation.
Society, that capricious, fitful goddess, who is quite
ready to cry " Fie! " at vices which, at another moment
or under other other circumstances, she will adore, had
prepared herself to let down the grate against Philip,
and he was just as willing to throw the scabbard aside,
and wage perpetual war for life on this power which he
has now made his slave.




PHILIP.                  205
All the Scandinavian in his blood seemed to surge up,
an indomitable pride of will, an appetite for struggle and
contest, a craving for danger, a species of inner exaltation which I think would-have almost gloried in destruction. Revolt and battle appeared to be his ruling tastes.
His father was a man for whom nature, education, and
society had done everything towards producing in him
the true gentleman; he never noticed this mental and
spiritual fever; he avoided all causew and chances of
collision with his son; never watched him, nor uttered a
syllable of warning or remonstrance, never showed that
he even noticed his savage predispositions. With admirable philosophy and prudence he must have resolved to
allow time and nature to cure this disorder, feeling sure
that no mortal means could be applied.
Philip's little ocean of passion washed up with fierce
will on the shores of his petty social continent, and finding no obstacles, lashed out all its impotent fury on the
dry sands of his egotism and selfishness; but at last the
good in him grew weary with this useless and unopposed
violence, and Love, that grand and potent power, also
aided him.
My cousin Ellen came to live with us after the death
of her grandparents. She was, of course, the exact opposite of that which many supposed would please Philip,
and yet she had in her the very qualities to suit him.
She was beautiful, graceful, intelligent, and had, the culture and breeding of a gentlewoman. " She was still as
a mountain," he would say of her, drolly, "and gentle as
a lamb." At any rate she quelled the lion in him and
held him as another Una.
When Philip first returned home, I luckily was in possession of sufficient position to influence the society in




206            ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
which we mingled. I received Philip with as much earnest friendship and attention as if he had come to us covered with honor instead of disgrace. I ignored his affairs;
treated him with the confidence and respect of a valued
friend; and I did more, I smoothed the road to his love,
and helped to make Ellen his wife.
Only once has Philip Edelhertz spoken to me of his
yo.uthful trouble. It was a year or so after his return,
when our little warld and his then happy father seemed
to have forgotten the past, so brilliantly was the future
opening to the gifted young man. With the enthusiastic
exaggeration of a warm-hearted youth, he was thanking
me for my friendship, and overrating, with that imprudent
but natural generosity in such dispositions, its worldly
value and effect.
Alas! how often in life are such costly acknowledgments made to the selfish, who take advantage of them
cruelly, and wring and pierce the heart that would have
adored them, with instruments forged out of the very
abnegation and self-sacrifice of this generous nature, to
which they should have bowed down in reverence!
" O Ottilie! " he cried, " but for you I should have gone
to ruin. You knew all, and yet -"
"I knew nothing, Philip, and never wish to know.
Nor should you ever speak of this past in confidence to
me or any one. Whatever your errors may have been,
my friend, they rest between your conscience, your father,
and your God."
"Three very disagreeable individuals to face, Ottilie,
under certain circumstances," he answered, in his own
peculiar frolicsome wiay, which meant no irreverence.
" But you are right," he continued earnestly, " and I thank
you now, not only for your frank, confiding friendship, but




PHILIP.                   207
for your wise counsel. If anything can make me forget
the past and believe in a future, it will be your kindness
and regard."
"Errors repented of, Philip, have no past, only a future of atonement and amendment."
"And mine shall have a future, Ottilie, a future that
neither you nor I shall be ashamed of, so help me God,
my dear, dear friend," he added solemnly.
He has kept his word, with God's help.  His errors
have had a golden future, for Fortune is now as prodigal
of fame and good gifts, so far as worldly success is concerned, as she seemed disposed on the other hand to be
churlish and frowning in his youth.  But, if Fortune is
gracious, Fate resents it, and poor Philip has had two
great sorrows, which have made him hold lightly his more
material blessings.
Formerly his happy artistic nature enabled him to slide
easily over the ordinary trials of existence; but when we
parted, three years ago, it was with him, as "if life were
worn threadbare, and he had got to the end of things, as
if indeed he had worked his way through the upper coats
of existence down to what Bossuet calls the'inexorable
ennui which forms the basis of human life."'
First, Mr. Edelhertz was taken from us; then, shortly
after, Philip's young, beautiful wife, Ellen. Poor Philip!
How bitter sorrow made him! Such visitations are apt
to bear thorny fruit, when grafted on the enthusiastic and
deep-loving human soul. The calm nature, that never
loves unwisely, or suffers immoderately, bows to the very
first blow of sorrow, with a meek patience that is called
beautiful; but the quick throbbing heart and active brain
bound fiercely and resentfully against such trials as lost
love and death. It is wrong, I know, but it is nature, the




208            ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
wickedness of which we all admnit, and this rebellious
nature can only be subdued and stilled by God's loving
patience, not man's futile, irritating reasoning.
"Poor heart! - what bitter words we speak,
When God speaks of resigning."
Resentful and wretched as Philip's grief had made him,
it did not separate him from me; on the contrary, we
seemed to be closer and nearer than ever before, for sorrow, too, had laid its heavy, dull hand on me, and we stood
unveiled by those two events which show us poor human
creatures, not only to ourselves, but to each other, - Love
and Death. They are the apples of our tree of knowledge, of good and evil, —the supremest joy and the supremest suffering; they tear away all false coverings and
leave us naked.
Of this sweet and bitter fruit we had eaten, both after
our kind; and after the awakening we had met on the outside of our lost Edens, and sitting down sternly in our
desert, gazed with stony looks at each other, and said,
" Friend, can we ever again make anything out of this
life?"
There was nothing of what is called resignation in our
stunning, blinding grief; nothing of that deadening condition in which one loses all memory of past good and
evil, all apprehension of future suffering, and is in a state
of almost nothingness and moral death. No, there was
passion, and morose melancholy, and bitter despair in our
anguish; but notwithstanding our hearts were convulsed
with such sad feelings, courage breathed in the despair,
and love in the melancholy, — courage, which in time
would help us to battle bravely to the end, and love,
which warmed our hearts to each other, and thus kept
alive that divine spark of true life, human tenderness.




PHILIP.                   209
First, Philip's destiny lifted him up from his cold, bleak
wayside, and he journeyed far, far off from me. I remember how longingly I looked after him as he faded
from my sight, and I sat there outside my Eden too feeble and powerless to move on. Life was a distracting
burden to me; all my individual existence seemed suspended, or crushed out by the force and weight of my
surroundings.  The social atmosphere I breathed was
suffocating and stifling. I struggled for mental breath,
then fell lifeless, and should have sunk into moral inanity
had I not been emancipated. And yet, so weakened had
I grown from the effect of the influences surrounding me,
that the very emancipation was a pain. I said, hopelessly, "My grief can never rise, take up its bed and walk."
But it did, and now we two meet again after these three
long years in the most unlooked for way and place. He
has been travelling in the East, in Egypt and Syria.
" In the wilds
Of fiery climes, he made himself a home,
And his soul drank their sunbeams."
Philip is a poet, not only a skilful and graceful versemaker, but a true singer, and the world acknowledges
him as such. He is a perfect master of this curious modern instrument of word-music. His style is throbbing;
its passionate beats fall on one's heart like the hammer
on the anvil, each stroke driving out the brilliant spark
of keen enjoyment and appreciation.
As Listz says of Heine, Philip's poetry tells us of enchanted atmospheres and celestial marvels, inaccessible
and unknown to those mortals who have not for a godmother that marvellous fairy who during life counterbalances bad fortunes by being prodigal of her treasures.,
He grasps the fullest and most difficult chords of emoN




210             ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
tion; makes the most curious and weird application of
words; weaving sound and thought together in such a
mysterious combination, as to play upon the hearts and
ears of his listeners or readers as cunningly and cleverly
as he does upon his word-instrument.
His poetry is essentially modern, the passionate lyric
beat; the half acknowledged mysticism; superb and
glowing images, keen in their effect as the taste. and odor
of a tropical fruit or flower, —dazzling lights on this
word-coloring, whose brilliancy is at white-heat from very
intensity, like Dante's
" Bianca aspetto di cielo,"
- all characteristic peculiarities of modern poetry, which
arise from the restless emotional nature of the times. It
is as many-hued as the dying dolphin's back, and is filled
with vague sounds
" of that mysterious sea
Which brought us hither,"
giving it an inexplicable charm. It is like some of those
weird, musical poems in the tone language, whose mystic
modulations suggest to the listener glorious aspirations or
happy hopes, while it may be that the creator of them
saw in their waving, changing hieroglyphics a meaning
totally different. Chopin's sad Preludes, for example,
written during his Promethean sufferings in Majorca,
chained fast to the rock of solitude, with the fierce vulture of his exacting nature, not only eating out his own
heart, but wounding mortally with its sharp beak the
love as necessary to his existence as breath. These Preludes were soul-cries of anguish and rebellion as he uttered them; to my ears they sweep over a higher range
of thought. They are sublime poems filled with previ



PHILIP.                   211
sions and promises of hope and faith, which sing out as
clearly as a seraph's note in the turmoil of all the despair.
And yet these masters of this wondrous gift, inspired
utterers of all these deep suggestive thoughts of beauty,
are sometimes unconscious of the power their productions
possess. They sing, as the Sibyl of old, words not their
own; while to us, mute worshippers before the tripod,
hearing and understanding are given.  Philip is most
provokingly unconscious, not only of the curious suggestions his poems convey to me and others, but in music
also, although he is a clever vocal executant, and possesses that quick, exact taste which is near akin to genius,
he seems to have only the comprehension of a half-developed nature.
He will write a poem that thrills the hearts of multitudes, and when he reads some fine criticism on it, which
tells of this hidden spark of deep thought that lies under
the gray haze of outward meaning, he laughs and quotes
teazingly to me,
" Shakespeare's critics bring to view
More than Shakespeare ever knew."
It is the only point on which our minds and sympathies
do not touch, and it would grieve me, but for some reasons. I can see that it is wisely ordered so. We cannot
all be singers. Then, moreover, it may be that the men
and women to whom is given this great power of presenting to us the incarnation of the Ideal of Beauty, - " this
pure note of celestial reason and the fiery energy of the
simple spirit," -must have this free, unconscious nature,
into which " the prophetic god of Delos can breathe an
enlarged mind and spirit, and disclose the future" with
greater ease.
It is a divine mystery, and like all such spiritual mys



212             ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
teries, beautiful. Therefore, though Philip and I often
have playful arguments, he teasing me for my enthusiastic fancies and imaginings, and I reproaching him for the
unworthiness of such an unconscious nature, still I do not
take it really to heart, but find comfort in the balance
made by the division of gifts. Mereover, we should remember that the instrument cannot hear its own divine
effects, nor can the executant judge of the power and
beauty of his work, being all too near.
Philip is looking very well now. His health, which
was so shattered by his fierce troubles, has become invigorated by travel and change of scene. He has a strong
physique; and I was thinking to-day, as I contrasted him
with Luigi, while the two were sitting together smoking
on our terrace, after they had dined with us, that if I
were a stranger, I should take Luigi for the great poet
sooner than Philip, Luigi being more spiritual-looking.
In Philip there is a pretty fair balance between soul
and body, indeed just now his fine robust body seems to
have the preponderance.  He has broad, rather high
shoulders, is a tall, large man, has a fine, massive head,
square, full brow, and the outline of the nose is sharp
and firm. The expression of the upper part of his face
is stern and reflective, but this look is softened by the
full mouth and rich curve of the chin and cheek, and fine
lines flowing off into the well-set neck and throat. His
lips have almost a voluptuous beauty, not at all sensual,
but full of deep passionate feeling, which, added to the
rich color on the cheeks, gives a tenderness to the face.
His manners are also as opposite to those of Luigi as
his personal appearance, being abrupt, and at times unsympathizing.  There is more self'consciousness about
him than self-possession; not at all conceited, for he is




PHILIP.                  213
too proud a man for that; but he has the air of a successful word-wrestler, who has tried well the sinews of language, and felt, tasted, and gloried in his power over his
brother men.
But he can be tender and almost womanly at times,
especially to me, for he knows I value these rare revelations of his feelings too highly to desecrate them by alluding to them afterwards. I believe he loves to indulge
himself in thinking aloud to me. This evening, after
tea, the moon shone brilliantly; a little lull fell over us
all, for we had been talking in a perfect gale of pleasant
social excitement. Philip leaned over to me and said,
"Cousin Ottilie, throw  a shawl over your shoulders,
and come stroll with me on the terrace of the Villa
Reale."
I went with him, and we stood on the beautiful terrace
which juts out into the sea, watching the vapor and spark
on the summit of Vesuvius, and noticing the golden glitter of the moonlight on the waves, as they shivered into
watery atoms against the shining shells and pebbles on
the beach, and the fishing boats rocking softly to and fro
on the waters, while the blazing torches in their sterns
streamed out a fiery splendor over the sea. We were
entirely alone, for almost every one had left even the Villa walks. Philip remained silent for a while, sitting on
one of the benches, leaning his arm on the iron railing
of the terrace, his large white hand buried in his thick
light brown hair.
" My God! it is beautiful, Ottilie! " he exclaimed, at
last; then after a few moments lhe continued, in his rapid,
earnest manner, " What a fierce thrill of appreciation
a great thing of beauty creates in us! Have you ever
analyzed it?  Have you never noticed that hot tears




214            ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
spring to the eyes, and the heart throbs petulantly and
impatiently? I am not now speaking of the mere gratification which some lovely things bestow, like a rich odor,
or the sight of remarkable physical beauty, but that deeper feeling you talked of this evening, when, as you said,
" one's nature is cloven
To its depths within depths by the stroke of Beethoven,"
when the bliss is agony, and the rapture keen pain. Yes,
Ottilie, you know this feeling well. Indeed, to-day, in the
Musee Bourbonique, when we were looking at the divine
Psyche torso of Praxiteles together, you must have felt
thus, for you turned to me, with a crimson spot on each
cheek, and your eyes swimming in tears, saying,' Come,
my friend, let us go. I have seen enough to-day; my
heart is full.'
"I have often tried to discover the secret springs of
this feeling, and in failing to find them, I have analyzed
its varying emotions, hoping to see what is its real nature.  I used to think it was envy, - but - and I dare
be conceited to you - I have a feeling strongly akin to
it, whenever I write anything over which the enthusiasm
attendant on creation flings the halo of illusive beauty,
satisfying my craving ideal, but only for a brief instant.
It is as if a door had opened, disclosing to me a view
of the most ravishing things, and then suddenly closed
again; or, like a flash of lightning, that in a dark midnight shows glorious outlines of beautiful forms in the
sky and earth, then night's solemn inky pall obliterates
them in an instant."
"A shivering delight, -' Divine despair,"' I said, not
in answer, but half thinking aloud. Philip's quick responsive memory replied on the instant to my thoughts,




PHILIP.                   215
"' Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean,
Tears from the depths of some divine despair.'
That delicious poem!"
And as we paced up and down the solitary terrace, he
repeated in his clarion-like voice the whole of that etherial lyric of Tennyson, which, I know not why, had suddenly presented itself to my memory. I suppose because
the feelings he had described, and which are as the soul's
longing for the lost home, reminded me of the sorrow for
" the loved and gone," which always comes to me in the
presence of the beautiful.
"Deep as first love, and wild with all regret;
0 Death in Life, the days that are no more."
Then he " discoursed me," in his most eloquent style,
for Phlilip is an inspired rhapsodist under some influences;
and what could there be more potent than the divine Nature by which we were surrounded, and the presence of
a friend he loved tenderly, who understood him as a
second self, and who is moreover connected with all that
his memory holds dear!
It is very strange that we can never remember anything but the shadow of the beautiful; and so it is with
Philip's brilliant talks, they leave only a faint representation of their superb outlines on my memory, and my
meagre sketches of them are simply suggestive to me of
the glorious reality. I wish I could recall the sparkling
words he uttered, when he broke out with something
like this:"Life is but the reflection of a remembrance, Ottilie."
His light hair was thrown off his high, fair temples, and
his keen gray eyes shone resplendent. " There is nothing real in it," he continued, his voice growing deeper
than its usual key-note, - which is high, -from intense




216            ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
feeling. "There is nothing real in it, my dear, dear
friend, but faith in God, which purifies and strengthens
it, and the pursuit and accomplishment of some mental
triumph. The only thing, too, a man really owns in this
existence is a creation of that which is immortal in him,
- his mind. The sovereign, the rich man, lote forever
their possessions when they die, even though it be a great
king who may have carved out his kingdom with his
sword, or a rich man who may have earned with his
own head and hands his vast possessions; death takes
these forever from them; and could they return, after the
lapse of centuries, to claim their rights, they would find
them in the hands of others who had also earned them.
But the poet, painter, or sculptor, on whom this rich man
or sovereign may have bestowed his haughty patronage,
own their creations forever; Dante's Divina Commedia,
Michael Angelo's'suspended Pantheon in air,' his fresco
world of giants on the Sistine ceiling, and Raphael's Madonnas, remain intact, - they can never pass away from
their creators."
Then we talked of Philip's last poem, which came out a
few months ago, and has added another circlet to the diadem of his fame. It was written in Egypt, and is marked
by all the peculiarities of his style and genius. It has
"deep poetic intention and noble harmonious conception";
that which we call accent in music is in it, the pulse, the
life-throb, which is one of his strong characteristics, combined with profound thought; satisfying thus the two demands of the world-audience on Art, -pleasure for the
eye and ear, and what Poussin calls " delectation " for the
mind.
He had been under the influence of his great grief
during its creation, and this had given it the rich soul



PHILIP.                   217
hues and profound shadows, and also "that mysterious
harmony between the personality of the poet and his
creation," which is, after all, the great secret of artistic
success, the magnet which attracts the hearts of our
fellow-beings, the true divining-rod which sounds to
the depths of human hearts grown cold, unhappily, in
"The dreary intercourse of daily life,"
and shows the hidden treasure of human tenderness, on
which Custom indeed lies
" with a weight
Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life."
While talking of the state of mind and feeling he had
been in during its composition, he said: " Sorrow may
surely be compared to opium, Ottilie, - that delicate
black droplet: dusky amber, with the dumb flash of the
spirit-gold in it, such as one hears in what you call'a
mute chord' in some wildering music. Yes, this opium
of grief, like the mysterious Oriental drug, increases the
activity of the mind in such a way as to enable us to
construct out of palpitating feelings and emotions curious
and delightful intellectual pleasures."
We walked up anrid down the terrace, talking, quite forgetting that the Villa was locked at nine o'clock. When
we turned to leave the grounds we found it was eleven
o'clock. The gates were fastened we felt certain, and
we might be exposed to disagreeable trouble by asking
any of the sentries to open them for us. To be sure, Mr.
Rochester lived in the palazzo directly opposite the corner entrance; and by sending for him as the American
Ambassador, we could be relieved instantly from all annoyance. But there was an awkwardness in this which
I did not like.
10




218            ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
We had no business to be there at that hour; it had
arisen from our thoughtlessness, our habit of personal
independence of action as well as thought, which had
been encouraged in us almost as a virtue, - certainly as
a charm in our childhood, - but which has plunged both
of us into many sad scrapes since we have grown up;
and we have learned, that when we do thus innocently
and unconsciously outrage the world's dicta and laws,
which are wise and should be observed for many reasons,
the best plan is to extricate ourselves from the penalties
and dilemmas as quietly and with as little help from others
as possible.
"Can you clamber down a wall, Ottilie?"
"We shall have to try it, at all events, Philip."
"Suppose a sharp sentinel shoots at us? But I remember, you, like most nervous persons, are as brave as
Julius Caesar, - especially under the spur of excitement.
You will neither halloo nor faint, if he does; so come, let
us make the attempt."
If I was as brave as Philip gave me credit for being,
I was feeling a most cowardly repentance for having allowed myself to be placed in such a position. As we
walked to the parapet wall, near thle terrace, I was actually shivering and trembling with fear, — not at being
shot at, — I would willingly have faced a battery of
shots, - but I was dreading the appearance that the
whole affair would present, in case some sentinel, seeing
us, should take it into his dull head to defend the fancy
ducks and other public park property of his sovereign.
Suppose Philip should be killed, or I maimed!
As this absurd proposition loomed down in all its gigantic proportions upon me, I said to myself, "If they
would only pitch us into the sea after they had shot us, I




PHILIP.                  219
should not care so much; for all idle talk and gossip
would be silenced in the presence of perfect ignorance
of our fate."
But no such tragic and terrific event happened. While
Philip was clambering down the wall, a fisherman in his
boat passed near the beach. We called to him, and explained our difficulty. The man went in search of a ladder, and soon returned, giving me a chance of descending
the wall safely and easily.
We had a merry walk up the beach to the Mergellina,
and quite an adventure to relate on our return, magnifying it of course, and dwelling on the imaginary danger of
sentinel shooting and the like; for, once relieved from the
immediate presence of peril, my repentance, like that of
most cowards, had passed away, and I was quite as ready
to enjoy the whole affair as if I had indeed shown what
Philip calls " game " through the dilemma.




PSYCHE.
HILIP and Luigi are becoming close friends.
They had met before in Paris, but only in
general society and among men. Their intercourse through us places them on a different
footing with each other. Intelligent, frank women, with
generous natures, bring truly superior men very closely
together; and the influence they exercise on each other
is beneficial to all.
A new period of life appears to be opening to Philip.
A free interchange of thought passes between him and
Luigi, and the poet seems to gain new strength while
talking with this pure young high-priest of nature, who
has been called so early away from life's turmoils and
placed in the sanctuary.
Philip, like all truly superior persons, is free from petty
jealousies and selfish uneasiness in the presence of an
equal; his fine, broad-chested, healthy mind has no
wretched diseases, no sad maladies of morbidity to con
tend with: therefore he is capable of doing full justice to
Luigi. He makes me very happy by coming to me with
his enthusiastic expressions of delight at their intimacy,
and his frank admiration of his new friend. This morning he said to me, " Luini is a very superior man, Ottilie.
His calm, observing mind, his just intuitions, almost




PSYCHE.                   221
feminine in their delicacy, his pure unspotted heart, make
him a being totally apart from the rest of men. He does
me infinite service. He is a draught of old Grecian to
my thirsty, half-savage Teuton spirit, - very cool and
refreshing.  His reason is strong and yet so enlarged,
that while it holds firm the folds of his character, it does
not cramp or dwarf them. Now that is my trouble, you
know; my imagination controls me more than my reason,
and, being less firm, lets the folds fly loose, and the character therefore shows great inconsistencies."
Luigi responds frankly to Philip's friendship, and shows
to me the same kind brotherly manner he has from the
beginning of our acquaintance; but if I am not very
much mistaken, I think le is finding in our trio "metal
more attractive " than either the famous poet or his friend
Ottilie. I am almost sure he is fast falling deep in love
with Venitia, and yet I do not think he admits it, even
to himself.
From the commencement of our intimacy he has expressed an artist's rapturous admiration for her rare beauty. As they have grown better acquainted, his attention
has been attracted by the charms of her mind and the
striking originality of her genius, toned down by exquisite culture and refinement, - which are to intellect and
genius what the polish is to the diamond's brilliant light
and the haze to the opal's fire. His sudden intimacy with
me brought him first into our little circle free of ceremony; and since Philip has been here, he has seemed as one
of our family circle.
Gradually Venitia has thrown aside her girlish shyness, allows her playful, piquant ways to sparkle out as
she used to when we were alone, and completely enchants
the poor man.




222             ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
And Venitia?-Dear girl, she is beginning to be beautifully affected by this new element which is operating
on her. Her playfulness and piquancy remain, but her
hardness is fast disappearing. She is growing tender and
gerntle. All those positive points of manner, which were
so difficult to come at for correction, but which I have
always felt keenly and wished to have removed, are being
completely transmuted into charms, by the magical influence of this true philosopher's stone of life,- love!
"D'un moment qu'on aime,
On devient si doux."
Love is showing itself in a deliciously naive manner
in her.  She thinks she is not in love with Luigi, I
am certain, - that is, if she thinks about it at all. She
makes a show of talking about him frankly; greets him
cordially; and asks and receives help from him in her
musical studies as if he were a relative; but she shows a
graceful hurry and pretty eager interest in everything,
which most becomingly replaces the former imperiousness
and self-contained manner, that was unnatural in so young
a girl.
It takes very little to make these two unconscious lovers happy; neither is demonstrative by nature; both are
highly intellectual; and a look, a tone of voice, the slightest movement, contains more food for quiet rapture and
love dreams, during the hours of absence, than positive
caresses could scarcely bestow on more tangible lovers,
especially at this stage of their intimacy.
Luigi shows no impatience to be with her, rarely talks
of her. I suppose his calm, quiet nature keeps him from
all unrest. He is more with me than with the others;
we walk and ride on horseback together; for neither Venitia nor Janet is fond of the persistent, almost violent




PSYCHE.                   223
exercise my restless body needs. This craving for motion in the open air is an appetite like hunger with me,
and must be gratified or I suffer; therefore we are a great
deal with each other, even now that Philip is here; for
Philip is more fond of his cigar and lounging on the terrace over a book, than of walking.
But when we meet, as we do almost every evening,
Janet, Philip, and I seem to be resolved into pleasant accessories to their beautiful vision. We are the golden
fond, on which this intangible, unacknowledged love traces
its throbbing, delicate, arabesque designs. After I return
from a long walk or horseback ride, I love to lie on the
lounge near the window, and look across the orange leaves
and blossoms which border our beautiful terrace, on this
subtle, delicate love-growth, which no one else is noticing.
It is so spiritual, free from all earthly soil or rustle; only
one avenue, the eye, between them; there, on that bounding, brilliant beam, their souls meet and hearts blend.
It seems to be a beautiful hour-plant, blooming in each
succeeding present.  I never think of a future for it.
The two are floating along happily together on their enchanted life-stream, bathed in the sweet delirium of a
love, which seems to need no words of acknowledgment,
no vows, no troth-plighting, as vague and indefinable as
one of Venitia's own wildering music-poems.
We all lounged to-day for three or four hours in the
MIusde  Bourbonique.  Philip and I went early after
breakfast, as we have been doing ever since his arrival,
for he is very fond of looking at these ancient marbles
with me. I grow bewildered among them, they are such
a vast crowd, - upwards of fifteen hundred. I am always
wishing that I might have the power to select a few and
have them set apart in a private gallery, that I might
gaze my full, and in sweet leisure at them.




224             ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
First should come the Psyche torso, of course. I cannot express in words my reverential admiration of its
beauty; they are all too poor. I stand spell-bound before this great creation, and find myself listening for the
tender, low words, which it seems should come from those
almost speaking lips.  But Cupid is flown, Psyche's
wings are broken, and she stands there, stilled into cold
marble, - this lovely heathen thought, - telling of the
sweet faith of those old Greeks in the power of love to
bestow a soul, even though it might be a soul for suffering, - still for love!
That strange myth of Psyche! The ancients were forever representing it tenderly, as if throwing " the shadow
before" of what the moderns are living so fiercely.  The
human soul, aspiring after the divine, loses the sweet,
childlike confidence in the first mysterious presence of
happiness, and seeks to make this happiness tangible and
positive. This was the antique thought; but it exists
actively in the spirit of the present age. Everything
must be tasted, held, and possessed. Nature is forever
punishing this bold, rash curiosity; for penances and expiations must continue, until the human soul perfected
will enter into full possession of the divine, and all the
lovely foreshadowing of ancient myths and modern faiths
and hopes, Eden and Psyche, Prometheus, and that Holy
Sorrow, which, like the Jews' Jehovah, must be nameless,
shall be made manifest.
The frolicsome young Cupid, tangled in the Dolphin's
folds; his graceful limbs tossed playfully up in air with
the dolphin's tail lashing in mad glee, - this group should
come next, to brighten me after the solemn, stilling suggestions of that deserted, wingless Psyche.
What debtors we are to the Greeks! They have left




PSYCHE.                    225
behind them deathless images of the beautiful. Their
statues speak eloquently to those of us who listen understandingly; they are petrified poems, sweet emotions and
sentiments, earnest expressions in stone. But this ancient
Greek sculpture tells very plainly that it appealed to a
candid, frank race of people, who required a visible lan
guage of beauty. Less sensitive, less nervous than the
people of the present day, they found their easthetical food
and pleasure in the simple beauty of form. They loved
best the nude too; for there is a flowing beauty, a cadence, so to say, in the soft lines of that human form
which is perfectly but delicately developed, that produces
-true sculptural harmony.  The fulness and richness of
drapery, which adds so much to painting and is such a
powerful accessory in all modern sculpture, had no place
in antique art; it seems not only to have been an interference to the chisel, but to the poetical freedom of
thought and expression of their idea of sculptural beauty.
I often see persons smile when they hear us talk of
" the language of art," - of different forms of art having
a tongue, so to speak, by which they express the sentiments and feelings of the age producing them.  They
think it fanciful, and some very practical ones call it affected to use such expressions. A building is a building
they say, a statue a simple stone figure, and a picture
nothing but a copy on canvas of nature.  But I never
grow impatient with such persons; rather feel sorry that
this sweet aesthetic sense, which endows us with so much
capacity for enjoyment, is denied to them.
We can read these dead languages of the ancients and
the Middle Ages with so much pleasure, seeing that the
Beautiful has had its full rich voice in every day. The
Greeks had their sculpture and architecture; the Mid10*                           o




226            ST. MARTIN'S SUI3MMER.
dle Ages, their architecture and monumental sculpture
and painting; and now the voice of this nineteenth century, we music lovers fondly believe, is the tone tongue.
This is the true art language of a race which combines
the positive, fiery character of the semi-barbarian with the
poetic imaginative nature of the old Greeks, and which,
too proud to show its emotions, its sufferings, its keen
enjoyments in visible forms, gladly seizes on a tongue
that will express its whole moral history discreetly.
"La langue de la musique est la seule qui permette ia
la pense'e de garder ses voiles." The tone tongue alone
permits thought to remain veiled. Psyche can fold her
beautiful wings over her throbbing heart, and floating on
the sonorous wave of harmony, feel, suffer, rejoice, grieve,
hope,-and fear in secret.
But I have wandered far away from my gallery. The
next piece of sculpture I would select should be the work
of a day many centuries later than these lovely old Greek
groups. The sitting figure of Agrippina -this piece of
statuary so very full of feeling and tenderness - should
have the next place in my collection. That great, good
woman, against whom Tiberius could urge nothing but
that she had "haughty looks and a turbulent spirit!"
How these words tell of the struggle this granddaughter
of Augustus made to obey her dying husband's conjurations: -
"By her remembrance of him, by their common children, to divest herself of her unyielding spirit and humble to fortune in the storm of her displeasure; and on
her return to the city not to irritate those who were more
than a match for her by a competition for the mastery." *
In this representation of her which Winckelmann pre.
* Tacitus.




PSYCHE.                    227
ferred before all other statues of this great woman, she is
seated in a chair of exquisite form, her hands are clasped
in her lap, her head droops on her breast, and her face,
though expressing deep anguish, has a resolute look,
showing that she had courage enough to face her great
griefs.  Some French writer has said finely of this
statue, "She seems manacled by Fate, but still unable
to give up the superb thoughts which filled her soul in
happy days."
Thus might she have looked when, as the historian
tells us, " on her return from the perils and rigors of a
sea voyage, in winter, carrying the funeral ashes of her
husband, uncertain of vengeance and alarmed for herself,
she stopped at the island of Corcyra, situated over against
Calabria. Unable to moderate her grief, and impatient
from inexperience of affliction, she spent a few days there
to tranquillize her troubled spirit.
" Philip," I asked, " why does not some modern sculptor give us a representation of Tacitus's touching description of her landing at Corcyra?"
Philip repeated the passage with all his thrilling accent of expression: —
"The fleet came slowly in, not as usual, in sprightly
trim, but all wearing the impress of sadness. When she
descended from the ship, accompanied by her two infants,
and bearing in her hand the funeral-urn, her eyes fixed
steadfastly on the earth, one simultaneous groan burst
from the assemblage." *
Then he added: " But, Ottilie, sculpture is not a need
of the present day. These grand epics in stone are no
longer really loved. The remains of the past are regarded with reverence as the great epics of Dante, Ariosto,
* Tacitus.




228            ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
Tasso, and Milton are read and revered; but they are all
traditions, not living things. This sensation-loving age
has a stronger taste for prose than poetry of the higher
order, for rhetorical, eloquent, highly decorated prose or
passionate lyric poetry. The calm quiet of simple beauty and the severe tlhoughtfulness of ancient art are no
longer demanded. The human heart now asks to be
cloven, not touched; to be made to shiver with keen
tingling pleasure, or pain. Then imagine how fiercely
dramatic, how emotional, must be the creation which can
produce the desired sensation on this nineteenth-century heart, which has grown callous from its exacting
inventions, making lightning a messenger and fire a
slave."
I reminded him of what Hegel says in his Cours d'
3Esthetique, that the character of antique art is the perfect equilibrium between the idea and the sensible form,
its purity, serenity, sweetness, and calm, tranquil majesty;
a rhythmic beat or measured cadence, which affects us as
a piece of musical sonorousness, and which makes up the
charm of all its creations, whether in marble or verse, by
a Phidias, a Sophocles, or a Plato.
Since Christianity appeared, the equilibrium is broken,
the sentiment of the Infinite has spread itself throughout
the human soul, and the idea is profoundly agitating.
Humanity feels impatient at seeing itself at once free
and a slave, - immortality and mortal life forever struggling, -the soul forever manifesting itself under a form
which compresses and restrains it,- hence arises in
Christian art a new style of the pathetic, entirely unknown to the ancients.
"O, that is all very plausible," replied Philip, "and
may probably apply to the works of the Middle Ages,




PSYCHE.                   229
but not to the present day. It is not so much Christianity with us now as the positive nature of our people.
The truth is, we are like the Romans. Their relics are
as true to their character as are those of the Greeks to
theirs. One was a poetical people; the other, like us, a
practical race. In the place of statues that seem like
transfixed souls, and temples which are the very ideal
of beauty itself in marble, we see relics of great roads,
superb aqueducts, huge excavations, noble bridges, just
as at present, everything to help on the actual material
life of man, not his soul."
We walked up and down the silent gallery, peopled
with these still, cold'creations, that stood around us, like
some world of fancy or fairy tale, waiting in expectant
attitude the power who should give motion and speech to
their " life breathed into stone," and held there in magic
death. Philip's clear voice rung out, undaunted by the
weird stillness and strange solitude which awed me.
Undaunted?  Indeed he seemed inspired, and continued
pouring out earnestly his fine rhapsodical talk, of which
this is only a faint shadow.
"Sculpture is now purely a decorative thing," he said,
" not an expression of thought and of worship, as in those
old Greek days. The cities of the New World demand
its portrait works for public adornments; the nouveaux
riches, its prettinesses for their salons and gardens; but
the faith of the present day has no saints to represent, no
sweet or solemn allegories to put life into marble. Sculpture is no longer an expression of any leading thought
or feeling of the times, or representation of the great
schemes and plans of progress. The love and appreciation for the pure ideal is gone from the.crowd. Man's
great poems, which he used to ask to have sung and




230             ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
painted and chiselled, he now seeks for in practical, tangible objects, which he calls creations, - in tubular bridges,
spanning, with a keen, gratified sense of danger escaped,
some perilous abyss; the tunnelling of a mighty strait
through which the waters of an ocean rush; or a magnetic
chain, which comes thrilling across the great sea, seizing
on the hearts of distant continents, and binding them in
one thrall of positive materiality."
For a while he remained silent, and we returned to the
Agrippina statue. I looked at it for some time, and then
walked over to the famous one of her son Caligula. The
Romans hated this unfortunate child of Germanicus so
fiercely that they strove, after his death, to blot out every
record of him in existence. But, notwithstanding, this
statue remains, even after such treatment as might be
supposed to have destroyed it forever. It was broken
into fragments; and on its head can be seen the marks
left by the ferrymen of the Garigliano, as they used it to
steady the wheels of chariots which crossed the river in
their boats. Low, mean, and degraded is the expression
of the face, -very unlike that of his sister Julia, to a
bust of which I then went, and after that to a bust of her
son Nero.
Nero's head is, as some one has said, a biography in
itself, - inflated nostrils, sensual eyes, thin lips; the
whole expression of the face showing a mere enjoyer of
art, not a creator. But for the possession of supreme
power he would probably never have been a monster,
simply a selfish egotist. Added to his evil propensities,
he had mental capacities which were more than respectable, and much artistic skill and cleverness; but when
able, clever men give loose to their animal passions, they
do not become simply brutal, as ordipary men do, but




PSYCHE.                  231
demoniacal, - for the best idea we can form of a demon
is an immortal brute.
Philip followed me in silence as, I went from one
marble head to the other, and I saw him smiling as I
returned from Nero abruptly to Agrippina.
"I am thinking," I said, "how strange it was that the
great and wise Germanicus and this virtuous Agrippina
could have had such children. There must have been
bad blood beyond which crept out in that pretty creature
yonder, Julia, and then came to a culminating point in
her son, that terrible man-devil, Nero.
" Beautiful woman she is, truly," I continued, going
again to the lovely head of Julia Agrippina; "ambition
scarcely shows itself in that girlish face. Her mother's
resolute countenance might have ambition in it, but there
is no sign of persistency, no steadiness of purpose, in these
soft, mobile lines.  This delicious mouth and rounding
chin, and the very eyes, look as if they loved and coveted
ease, pleasure, and freedom from all care. I cannot imagine such a woman replying to the Chaldeans whom she
consulted on the fortune of her son, and hearing that he
would certainly reign and kill his mother,'Let him kill
me, so that he reigns.'"
"Follow me," said Philip, taking my hand abruptly,
and leading me across the building to the " Gallery of
Large Bronzes," saying, as we walked there, "You believe in blood. So do I. And we can find proof for our
belief in this very family."
On entering the hall he took me to a fine bust of Julia
Augusta, as Tacitus calls Livia Drusilla.
"There is the answer to your mystery," he said.
"Leave the brave, good Germanicus, and his excellent
wife Agrippina, and step back another generation. Here




232             ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
you find the bad blood in this woman; for do you not remember she was the adulterous wife of Augustus, mother
of Drusus, grandmother of the excellent Germanicus,
great-grandmother of the vain, sensual beauty, Julia
Agrippina, and, consequently, great-great-grandmother
to Nero.  The bad blood you talk of held back these
descents, to gather fresh force and sweep on to a floodtide in a Caligula and a Nero."*
While he was talking we were very much surprised at
seeing Janet, Venitia, and Luigi enter the hall.
"We have been searching for you," said Janet. "Florence Folham has returned. She and her mother came
to see us this morning, and Mr. Luini and I took the liberty of making an engagement for you with her, which I
will leave him to explain."
"Miss Folham expressed a great liking for riding on
horseback," added Luigi.  "Trusting to your approval,
and encouraged by Mrs. Dale, I invited her to go with us
this afternoon."
"By all means.  You did right.  The pretty creature
will be a delightful addition."
"Is she pretty?" asked Philip.  "But I forgot," he
added saucily, " all Ottilie's men and women -  that is,
those she likes — are Venuses and Sapphos, Apollos
and Adonises. Luini, you and I stand a fin6 chance of
being made demigods, I assure you, in her imagination,
which is a veritable hallucination."
* The bad blood might also be attributed to Nero's great-grandmlother, Julia, daughter of the Emperor Octavius Augustus, by his
first wife, Scribonia. This Julia was the wife, first, of her cousin
Marcellus (Octavia's son, commemorated by Virgil), afterward wife
of Agrippa; by Agrippa she had a daughter, Agrippina, wife of -Germanicus, and mother of Nero's mother, Julia Agrippina. This elder
Julia is represented by history as a shameless, bad woman.




PSYCHE.                   233
"Go on with your historical lecture, my learned professor," I interrupted; "you are most eloquent on that
subject."
So we continued talking of Livia.
" But, Mr. Edelhertz," said Janet, with her troublesome
exactitude of memory, which upsets provokingly all poetical jumping to conclusions, "do you not remember
what Tacitus says of this Julia Augusta, as he calls her?'In her domestic deportment she was formed after the
model of primitive sanctity, but with more affability than
was allowed by ladies of old; as a mother, zealous and
determined; as a wife, kind and indulgent, well adapted
to the fastidious and complex character of her husband
and the subtle nature of her son."'
"Yes, madam, I remember all that;, but I remember
also, that, to gratify her ambition, she married the enemy
of her husband, while her husband was still living; then,
to satisfy it still further, she plotted the ruin of every one
who could stand in the way of her son Tiberius; and, to
make this same Tiberius emperor, she murdered the very
man whose blind adoration for her had placed her on the
throne. No, despite the loose praise of Tacitus, she was
a bad woman. Look at her, Ottilie. Here you see the
same beauty which her granddaughter, Julia, inherited
from her, and, added to it, is all the persistency of purpose you looked for in vain in the pretty Julia's face."'s I am always disposed," urged Janet, " to take the part
of women who are abused in history; nine times out of
ten, they are innocent."
"I have a capital answer to make you, Mrs. Dale,"
said Philip, with a laugh. " Thackeray supplies me,
luckily.' So was Helen of Greece innocent. She never
ran away with Paris, the dangerous young Trojan. Me



234            ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
nelaus, her husband, ill used her, and there never was
any siege of Troy at all. So was Bluebeard's wife
innocent. She never peeped into the closet where the
other wives were with their heads off. She never dropped
the key, or stained it with blood; and her brothers were
quite right in finishing Bluebeard, the cowardly brute.'
Yes, this Livia was innocent, I shall interpolate.  She
never poisoned her husband, not she; and Mary of Scotland never blew up hers; nor this Joanna of Naples, whom
Ottilie defends, never murdered hers; nor, as Thackeray
winds up drolly, Eve never took the apple, —it was a
cowardly fabrication of the serpent."
Of course we laughed heartily, and dropped the argument; then went across the room to look at a Sappho
head which Luigi and Venitia were admiring. We noticed every detail of this charming bust; the cheek and
chin full of feeling, the tender, tearful mouth, the chaste
style of head-dress, - consisting of two simple fillets, one
banding the temples, and both holding up the hair, which
is rolled in a rich, loose knot almost on the back of the
neck, - and the poise of the head, and form of the throat,
which are very fine. I looked for some time at this lovely
face, and as I dwelt on its divine beauty, and recalled her
genius, and sorrowful, tragic love, I thought of what that
strange Frenchwoman, Madame de StaSl, said, — she
on whom " hunger of the heart " acted as " love on the
Psyche": -- "Man gives homage to woman according
to the affection with which she inspires him, but all that
woman grants is almost always a sacrifice."
After leaving the Sappho, we united in one burst of
admiration over a bust of Plato, which might serve for a
head of our Blessed Lord. There are in it majesty, dignity, and sweetness. The head is bent a little forward,




PSYCHE.                   235
and the face expresses deep thought, and a sublimity
which is divine; but for its gentleness and softness, the
character of the countenance would be stern. I remarked
this, and Philip replied: "' As sad as Plato,' was a Greek
proverb. He always walked with his head bent downward."
Some little bronze figures attracted our attention: a
Venus Anadyomene, which is beautiful; it has an exquisite back, and perfect loveliness is displayed in the form
and play of the limbs: also a Fortune, poised tiptoe on a
globe; this last airy and delicate thing is considered one
of the most curious relics from Herculaneum. Like the
Venus Anadyomene, it has delicate inlayings of silver in
the bronze.
Then we shook the huge key of a water-pipe, and listened, with light, trifling words, but strange, unavowed
feelings of awe, to the noise of the water inside, which
has been shut up there for nearly two thousand years,
almost ever since that fearful night when God said " No! "
"' To the pulse's magnificent come and go"
of those gay cities.
We loitered awhile by the "Drunken Faun," and
laughed merrily; for Philip said all manner of droll things
to the tipsy creature, who sits jollily on the empty liquorskin, snapping his fingers in air with the maddest sort of
fun. The " Mercury in Repose," by Polyclete or Lysippus, or some other great artist of those grand old Greek
times, took our fancy next. The mouth is so full of life,
that one listens for short breath-pants to be heard; for he
seems spent with a long flight, and every muscle is relaxed and trembling with fatigue.
We noticed the bird-of-prey look in the face of Tiberius's bust, the wilful, cruel, Napoleon shape of the head,




236            ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
and curiously projecting ears. But the face is handsome,
there being a bold, courageous strength in the fine outlines
that is almost noble. The mouth, however, that sad, telltale feature of the face, reveals the cruelty and cold depravity, - thin, hard, dry-looking lips, utterly devoid of
feeling or refinement. He resembles his mother, Livia;
the same patrician.features, quiet, secret brow which tells
nothing, and composed expression, free even from the
hate and selfishness which lay like a snake coiled around
their hearts in withering folds. Dissimulation and cruelty
were a necessity with both, and both were too brave and
capable to show either in outward ordinary signs.
As we stood in the centre of the room, near a beautiful bronze gazelle, and looked around to see if we had
missed any striking or beautiful creation, Luigi said,"But for that sorrowful covering up of Herculaneum
and Pompeii we should have had but few and imperfect
specimens of antique bronzes. The Saracen and other
barbarian hordes which overran Italy melted all the
metal they could find into money and arms. The Juno
of Samos, you remember, was made into money. Therefore this little collection of one hundred and fifteen
bronzes is now the most remarkable in the world."
" Look at this Seneca, Luini," cried Philip.  "I never
saw such a face in inanimate substance before.  Every
feature seems quivering with life. It is not remarkable
for good looks, Heaven knows, nor for elevation of
thought, but for life itself, - the thing almost speaks."
"The lips have a painful expression, and there is. a
restless feverishness about the whole face," said Venitia.
"It does not give one an elevated impression of the
philosopher, that is true," remarked Janet. "He looks
mean, hard, worldly, and selfish.  I remember hearing




PSYCHE..237
Ampere say, however, that the numerous busts of Seneca
he had seen represented him always without nobleness,
almost pitiful in expression; beard and hair badly kept,
an affectation of exterior stoicism, a lying severity, which
would deceive us if we were'ignorant of Seneca's life;
but that being known, they describe well the hypocritical
pretensions of this Tartuffe of the Portico."
"Poor man," said Luigi; "he at least knew how to die."
The cicerone of the hall stepped up, and set us off on a
peal of laughter, by informing us, with great earnestness,
that all Americans said that bust resembled "a great
American warrior," he had forgotten his name.
"' Monsieur le Gdneral - le General - le General "and the man meditated, tapped his forehead, while we
suggested every living and dead American lion we could
think of. Suddenly the President hero of the Mexican
war flashed across my memory.  "The very one, that
was the name."
We looked again and again, to see if we could discern the slightest resemblance to the effigies of General
Taylor.
"The upper part of the face does look like his pictures,
a little," said Janet.
" It looks a great deal more like some weather-beaten
old Yankee sea-captain," remarked Philip.
Then we examined the face closely to see where the
meanness lay, and where we could trace the marks of the
philosopher; and we agreed that thought was expressed
in the brow and head, the meanness can be seen in the
mouth and chin.
"I am like old Montaigne about Seneca," said Luigi.
"I do not like to hear him abused. You remember how
modestly the French philosopher gives hiA reasons for de



238             ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
fending both Plutarch and Seneca: —' La familiarite que
i'ay avecques ces personnages icy, et l'assistance qu'ils
font h ma vieillesse, et a mon livre massonne purement
de leurs despouilles, m' oblige k espouser leur honneur."' *
" Diderot," remarked Philip, " said his veritable image
- that which will strike you with admiration, which will
inspire you with respect — is in his writings; it is there
you must go to seek Seneca."
"I am disposed," said Janet, "to hold your men in history to the same harsh, exact judgment you display to the
women. Macaulay's summing up of Seneca's claims to
the name of a philosopher is more true, to my fancy, than
Diderot's opinion, or Montaigne's defence. He says, according to Seneca's views,' the business of a philosopher
was to declaim in praise of poverty, with two millions
sterling out at usury; to meditate epigrammatic conceits
about the evils of luxury, in gardens which moved the
envy of sovereigns; to rant about liberty, while fawning
on the insolent and pampered freedmen of a tyrant; to
celebrate the divine beauty of virtue with the same pen
which had just before written a defence of the murder
of a mother by a son."'
"I yield," replied Philip, bowing.  "You took my severe judgment of women so quietly, Mrs. Dale, that, in
the presence of this bust and you ladies, I am willing
to accept anything you urge against the poor philosopher; but when Luini and I are alone in his library, enjoying that fine old Amsterdam  Montaigne of his, over
* "The familiarity I have had with these two authors, and the assistance they have lent to my age, and to my book, wholly built up of
what I have taken from them, oblige me to stand up for their honor."
-lHazlitt's translation of Montaigne, Chap. 82, Book II.




PSYCHE.                  239
his equally fine cigars, I shall return to my manly allegiance, and repeat what the charming old Frenchman
says of his favorite author, who is, as he expresses it so
quaintly,' full of notable commodity for his humor."'
"Ampere," remarked Janet, " said that one of the
Seneca busts in the Vatican seemed to say,'Alas! I can
do nothing more.' What is this bust saying to you, Ottilie? You are looking as if you were holding a parley
with it."
I started, for I was indeed, although listening to the
conversation, giving speech to that almost quivering
mouth, and living thought to that frowning brow, so I
answered promptly in the philosopher's own words, -
"Life, my dear Lucilius, is a battle."
"Vivere, mi Lucili, militare est," repeated Philip musingly, as he passed his fingers with a sort of tender sympathy over the haggard, wrinkled face of the great old
Spaniard; " and this face surely tells of a fierce internal
war. If this countenance be a true index of his inner
man, no wonder he thought death the best part of life."
"Here is a bust of Scipio Africanus we have forgotten," said Luigi. "Look what a fine, benignant face it
has."
Again we analyzed features, and were well content to
read in this bust the character of that great man. The
strong, heavy jaw and firm mouth are those of an energetic, resolute, intrepid general; the rapt, vague eye,
and intelligent, but dreamy brow, told of that strange,
half-comprehended faith which his contemporaries called
mysticism, -of that elevation or enthusiasm which impelled him to hold those long, solitary conversations in
the temple with Jupiter, whose son he said he was. Yes,
to that grand old Roman in that far-off heathen day were




240            ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
given the glimmerings of a Divine light, — the belief in
one living God, who was his Father.
On the left side of the fine, high, bald head we found
the sacred marks, - the scars of those twenty-seven
wounds which he received when he was a boy of only
eighteen years of age, in defending his father, the elder
Scipio. There is capability and energy in this face, but
no adroitness or world-wisdom.  One can well understand, while looking at it, that such a man could never
maintain a hold over a mobile, capricious people as the
Romans were.
"Like all leading republicans in stirring times," said
Philip, " he was unconsciously a fine actor, and he played
his part well. Look at that simple, wise face, and imagine it lighted up with the fire of wounded pride and indignation when, on thd day of his trial before the Roman
Senate, he rose up superbly, and made no other answer
to his accusers but this grand one:' Tribunes and citizens,
on this very day did I conquer Hannibal and the Carthaginians. Come, Romans, let us all go to the Capitol and
render thanks to the gods for our victories.'
" And, gathering his mantle around him, he strode out
of the Senate, followed by the whole assembly, who forgot
the trial, the charges, everything, in the effect produced
on them by this fine, telling point. Great Jove, but it
must have been sublime."
"There was no play-acting, however," remarked Janet,
"in his retirement to this Campania; there was an honest, indignant contempt and a sorrowful, true feeling in his
words,'My ungrateful country shall not have my bones."'
" There is no bust of Cato here," I said. " What a
pity! I should like to contrast it with this of Scipio. He
was the one who drove him to Liternum."




PSYCHE.                   241
"How-unhappy our enemies would be," said Luigi, "if
they could only know how often their persecutions and
hatred turn out to be benefits to us. Scipio was happier
away from Rome. Such a man as that, after the heated
life of youth and action was over, with his fine tastes
and culture, showed himself in a much better and more
dignified light in retirement."
" His life here must have been a very agreeable one
after all," cried Philip, laughing. "A charming villa, in
a delightful region of country, leisure, taste, comfortable
means, and the' best society,' with the rather pleasant
sting of a little martyrdom, a little unjust persecution to
make him comfortably pharisaical and self-complacent.
No, old Scipio, I do not think you need our sympathy
in your afflictions. I shall give all my heart holds to
that sorrowful old Spaniard, Seneca, who, supposing that
the cruel things the relentless Mrs. Dale urges against
him were true, is so much the more to be sorrowed with;
for he had to live hourly and instantly with that divine
inner man, who thought and wrote such sublime words,
and whose reproaches must have been fearful if he was
disloyal to himself."
11                           P




A MIRACLE.
E have been devoting the greater part of this
first week in May to the famous spring festival of Naples, - the "standing miracle," as
Baronius calls it,- the liquefaction of Saint
januarius's blood.
We have seen the miracle performed almost every day
this week; but the most interesting ceremonies were those
which took place the first day of the festival, last Saturday, - which was the Saturday preceding the Sunday
that falls next to the calends of May, - the anniversary
of the translation of the Saint's relics from Pozzuoli to
Naples (400 A. D.).
Luigi had told me, some weeks ago, that he should
make arrangements for me to see this miracle satisfactorily. When he learned that Mrs. Rochester and Janet
also wished to be present, he kindly included them in the
party; I say kindly, as it is an uncommon thing for
Italian Catholics, no matter how intimate they may be
with Protestants, to give them opportunities for seeing
the most sacred services of their Church.  They will
show their galleries, their palaces, their works of art,
with courteous freedom, but they jealously guard the solemn festivals of their religion from the curious and unbelieving spectator.




A MIRACLE.                   243
Through Luigi's intimacy with the Archbishop, permission was readily obtained for us to go behind the
High Altar of Santa Chiara, into the space between it
and those great mediaeval treasures of the church, Masaccio's Royal Tombs, which I have already described. This
recess was made private by heavy crimson curtains hung
at each side; and eight or ten comfortable seats were
placed there, for a few persons as favored as ourselves.
It was a most desirable situation, for between the altar
pillars and drapery we commanded a fine coup d'ceil of
the grand religious pageant which always takes place in
the church the first day of the Miracle festival.
On entering the church, a little after midday, we placed
ourselves in front of the altar, as we wished to see the
bust of the Saint, the decorations, and, above all, the curious attendants on the ceremony; these are " the relations of Saint Januarius," as they are called, the oldest
and poorest women in Naples, who are always seated
within the altar balustrade, and form one of the most
remarkable features of the spectacle.  Seats are placed
for them on the right of the altar, and from time immemorial they have literally "assisted" at these services.
They were already assembled, filling up four or five
benches, looking like the witches in Macbeth, clothed in
grotesque costume, with horribly ugly faces, and chanting a rude, wild invocation; it was a Litany, which they
repeated and repeated, unbroken and undisturbed, through
the whole long ceremony. Neither the superb music of
the orchestra, the interest excited by the procession, nor
the intense emotion created by the slow performance of
the miracle, interrupted their rude chanting; on the contrary, every interference only made them shriek the
shriller, and louder; and, wild as the chanting was, there
was a curious melody in it.




244             ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
The costly High Altar, of fine marbles and lapis lazuli
inlayings, was draped with crimson velvet, whose rich
folds hung down beside and around the massive silver
bust of the Neapolitan Saint.  This bust, which was
placed on the right of the altar (to the left of the spectator), holds in its interior Saint Januarius's skull.
The sunbeams streamed in on the jewelled mitre, gorgeous necklaces, and crosses adorning the bust, breaking
into dazzling fragments of light as they fell on the four
thousand rubies, sapphires, and diamonds there collected.
One of the crosses alone had sixty-three handsome diamonds in it. Another superb one was composed of alternate large diamonds and sapphires; and still another, of
fine-sized diamonds and emeralds, - all gifts from various
Catholic sovereigns.
We looked at these splendors leisurely, and the Catholic members of the party had time to perform their devotions; for we were not to take our places behind the
altar until the procession came near the church; and
the warning for our removal was to be the martial music
accompanying it.
The plan of that day's celebration was this. In the
morning, the silver bust containing the Saint's head had
been brought to Santa Chiara from its home, the Chapel
of Saint Januarius, which is in the right aisle of the
Cathedral,- a beautiful little Greek cross building, that
cost half a million of ducats, and is filled with exquisite
works of art, such as Zampieri's, Giordano's, and Domenichino's paintings, Fiorelli's bronzes, and Vinaccia's marvellous silver basso-rilievos and sculpture.
After the bust departed, a procession formed in the
Cathedral, consisting of the Cardinal-Archbishop, his
clergy, and the municipal authorities; which after form



A MIRACLE.                   245
ing proceeded to the Chapel, to obtain the sacred relics.
These relics are always kept in a place called the Tabernacle, which is a large aperture behind the altar of the
Saint Januarius Chapel.  This Tabernacle is closed up
by a massive iron door, with two strong locks; one key
is kept by the municipal authorities, the other by the
Cardinal-Archbisliop, and both possessors must always
be present at the opening of the door. The Tabernacle
containswthe chasse, or shrine, of richly chased silver and
cut-glass; in it are the sacred vials holding the relics.
The Cardinal, after entering the Chapel, unlocked the
Tabernacle door, took the shrine carefully in his hands,
and left the Chapel and Cathedral at the head of a most
stately procession, composed of his canons, the municipal
authorities, men carrying the costly silver busts and statues of the forty-eight saints, protectors of Naples,which superb works belong also to the Chapel of the
Treasury of Saint Januarius, - accompanied by soldiers,
and military bands playing all the while the most inspiring music.
This procession, with its fine gilt state coaches and
statues; superb uniforms, glittering banners, and rich canopies; burning incense, rising up from beautifully-wrought
silver censers, tossed high aloft in the air, and gay music,
- formed a sight well worth witnessing; and if we are here
another year, we shall select it for the first day's view.
It proceeded along the Anticaglia and through various
streets until it reached Santa Chiara, followed by crowds
of people; and an hour or so after midday, while we
were sitting in silence before that superbly decorated
altar, we heard the music first faintly, and then approaching nearer.
I had noticed a little group of gentlemen standing half




246            ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
within the archway of a side entrance to the sacristy,
composed of Church dignitaries, among whom was the
Pope's Nuncio. As the procession music drew nearer
the church, one of these clergymen stepped forward, and
made a friendly sign with his head to Luigi, who arose
and told us to follow him.
This gentleman was a fine, soldierly looking man; he
walked in front of us with a courteous air, managing his
long purple robe with much grace.  He wore on his
shoulders a small red silk cape,-cape and robe were
buttoned from throat-band to shoe-buckle with very small
buttons, no larger than peas, placed as close as possible.
He held aside one of the curtains of the space where we
were to be seated with the most courtly reverence, while
we passed in, then entered and assisted Luigi with much
interest in placing us in the best position for seeing both
the procession and the ceremony. This accomplished, he
bowed gracefully to us, and resting his hand on Luigi's
shoulder, looked into his face with a pleasant, friendly
smile, said a few words in a low tone, and disappeared
behind the curtains.
"That is one of the canons of Saint Restituta," said
Luigi, as he took his seat behind us. " He belongs to the
Chapter of the Metropolitan Church, and enjoys many of
those distinctions you admire so much, Ottilie; he can wear
the ermine cape and the mitre, -- can bear the crosier and
cross. One of your favorite Popes, Paul IV., - Cardinal Carafa, - was a Neapolitan canon, like this gentleman; also Urban VI. and Boniface IX. There are thirty
of these canons officiating in the Duomo, or Cathedral;
but the church belonging to them is Saint Restituta, that
ancient building adjoining the Cathedral, in the aisle leading off on the left, as you enter the Duomo. It is the




A MIIRACLE.                247
oldest church in Naples, I believe, for it was founded by
Constantine the Great, in 334 A. D., and has palways
been independent of the Archbishop, who can only visit
it in the character of apostolical delegate. You will see
this canon taking part in the ceremonies of to-day. He
has been detailed for some special duty at this church,
probably to assist the Nuncio, who always has jurisdiction
over Santa Chiara."
Just then the Pope's Nuncio entered with a party of
ladies, for we had found the space unoccupied. This dignitary is rather a handsome, smooth-faced, smooth-mannered man, not at all priestly or grave-looking, rather
gay and mundane. Luigi and Mrs. Rochester told us the
rank of the ladies accompanying him, two of whom were
diplomatic associates of the American Ambassadress.
One was a pretty young Roman princess, as tender and
lovely looking as About's "Tolla"; there was a regallooking Russian duchess; and besides the two Ambassadresses, a graceful German countess, full of unconscious
and bewitching coquetry, evidently the belle and popular
woman of the party; for although the lowest in rank, she
was the one to whom the Nuncio paid the most attention
and the others showed the most courtesy; all of which she
accepted in the prettiest manner, generously insisting on
seating them before she took her own place. To this unselfish disposition, probably, she owed her popularity,
for she was not so very pretty, I think. Her face, however, had one great charm; it was, as Emerson says,
"fluid with expression," and so rippled all over with
happy smiles and pleasing looks, as to make us unmindful of its features.
We have often spoken of her since, and not one of us
has been able to tell Venitia and Philip the color of her




248            ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
eyes, the shade of her hair, or the tint of her skin; we
simply say, " She was lovely and charming."
Very soon the procession arrived at the Basilica. The
statues and busts were carried in first. As they entered
the large door, glorious music poured out from the choir,
filling every part of the grand old church with its rich,
subtle fluid. It was a fine orchestral symphony, composed for the occasion by Mercadante.  Luigi told us
the great old master was there in person; but not to lead
his beautiful work, for, alas! the poor old man is becoming hopelessly blind.
The procession was very imposing. The eight-andforty silver statues and busts, each one on a gilt pedestal,
placed on a crimson-covered platform, with rich silken
canopy, and carried by golden rails on the shoulders of
superbly-formed Neapolitans, filed up one side of the
large Basilica, and after a gracious, reverential obeisance
to the bust of San Januarius at the altar, swept grandly
around and moved, with their accompanying banners,
down the other side of the church, leaving ample room
in the centre for the immense crowd of spectators and
soldiery collected there.
This finished, the crowd separated as if by magic or
machirnery; and far down this long aisle of human beings,
near the door of the church, appeared the Archbishop and
clergy, robed in full canonicals, blazing in the afternoon
sun with purple, and gold, and precious stones.
The music pealed out still more grandly. Every neck
was stretched forward eagerly, each one was anxious to
see Cardinal Duke Sforza - who was holding the sacred
relics - approach the High Altar.  Clouds of incense
arose.  The old women shrieked out their witchlike
plain-song in still shriller tones, some striking the key



A MIRACLE.                 249
note of the symphony, while others, with theunconscious
ear for musical harmony which these Neapolitans possess by nature, kept their wild chant in curious, grotesque
union with the scholarly composition of the maestro; the
effect produced reminded me of the demon supporters to
old altars, or the impish gargoyle heads on the roof-spouts
of some superb cathedral.
The clergy, on reaching the altar, ranged themselves
on either side, according to their functions; among them,
I recognized the gentleman who had so kindly placed us
in our seats. His keen, dark eyes flashed in for an instant through the pillars; I fancy he wished to see if he
had been successful; a half-look of recognition passed
between us as our eyes met.
The Archbishop placed the shrine in front of the altar,
on the broad slab, a little to the right of himself, directly opposite me, and so near that by reaching out my
hands I could have touched it. The shrine was hollow
on the side towards us, and the two bottles, which looked
like old-fashioned vinegar-cruets, stood on its small silver shelf. There was nothing under or above, and the
illuminations of the altar were not near enough to affect
them.
We examined these bottles with curiosity as well as
great interest.  They contained a substance which in
hardening had adhered to the sides, resembling dark
red sealing-wax.  The Archbishop took them  in his
hands, - one and then the other, - held them up by
the top and bottom with his thumbs and middle fingers;
turned them around and upside down, showing that the
substance inside was hard and immovable; then he returned them to the shrine, and began the solemn services.
The belief in relation to this miracle is, that the solu11 *




250            ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
tion and ebullition of the blood are caused by the approach of the vials and head to each other; while waiting
for this to be accomplished, solemn religious ceremonies
are performed, and devout prayers and litanies offered up
to God.
Saint Januarius was a Bishop of Benevento in the
early part of Diocletian's persecution of the Christians.
This was the tenth and most bloody one, continuing
from 286 A. D. until the time of Constantine, 312 A. D.
The good Bishop of Benevento had a dear friend whom
he loved tenderly, Sozius, Deacon of Miseno.  This
Sozius, with several other men, was seized, by an order
of Dracontius, Governor of Campania, and thrown into
prison at Pozzuoli.
When Saint Januarius heard this sorrowful news, instead of caring for his own safety, and keeping himself
in seclusion, he travelled in all haste to comfort and encourage his friend. The Governor, learning that an eminent person had come to visit the prisoners, gave orders
to have him also seized.  The Saint was thrown into
the same prison with his friend and companions, and
soon after an order arrived from the Emperor condemning them to be torn in pieces by wild beasts.
But when they were taken to the amphitheatre at
Pozzuoli and exposed to the half-famished lions, the
savage animals crouched tamely and even kindly at their
feet; nothing could provoke them to touch the holy men.
This exasperated the Governor so much, that he ordered
them to be beheaded. They were executed and buried
near Pozzuoli, as Bede testifies.
When Christianity triumphed, about 400 A. D., the
relics of these holy men were disinterred and distributed.
Miseno obtained Sozius, and Naples was fortunate enough




A MIRACLE.                  251
to secure Saint Januarius. The Neapolitan faithful believe that his relics preserve their city, not only from
volcanic destruction, but many other dangers.
At the time of the Saint's martyrdom there was a holy
woman present, who collected some of his blood in two
bottles. The tradition tells that she took it to a Bishop
of Naples, Saint Severus, and when he touched it, the
blood liquefied and bubbled up, and continued doing so,
on the annual feast of the Saint, 19th September, and
on various other occasions.
Thus it can be seen that this miracle is of very ancient date, counting back as far as 400 A. D.; and
besides, many holy, learned, and venerable men have
believed in it. Cardinal Lambertini, afterwards Benedict
XIV., published a famous defence of the liquefaction of
San Januarius's blood.* Baronius, Ribadeneira, and Bollandus also wrote in its favor.  Indeed, the list of the
great and learned men who have examined this miracle,
not only attentively, but with reverential, jealous suspicion, would be too long to copy.
Then, on the other side, many distinguished and equally learned German and English Protestants have attributed this ancient and wonderful fact to the heat of
the officiating priest's hands, the steam or vapor of the
altar tapers and lamps, or some unknown chemical influence.
Cardinal Sforza's hands did not touch the bottles on
the parts where the blood is congealed. There was no
lamp or candle flame near them. And as for " chemical
influence," what a marvellous discovery would that chemi* De Canoniz, C. IV. par. 1, c. 31; also Alban Butler's Lives of the
Saints, Vol. III. p. 501.




252            ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
cal secret be, which has been so strangely kept for fourteen hundred years!
Scripture miracles are objects of faith, and never questioned by orthodox Protestant or Catholic Christians.
Other miracles are not regarded in the same light, nor
does our faith rest on them as on the revealed ones of
the Gospel.  It is prudent and wise to examine such
miracles closely, and be thoroughly convinced that they
are supernatural; but it is well, at the same time, however, to bear in mind, that the glorification of God is the
great thing contained in a miracle; that its main intention is, to excite in us more lively sentiments of humble
adoration, love, and praise; not to obtain any worldly gift
or advantage.
Such a miracle as this of Saint Januarius illustrates
and confirms the faith of the devout Catholic Christian,
while the doubting brother is not condemned for withholding his belief, but treated patiently and tenderly, as
our Blessed Lord bore with St. Thomas.
Janet said, after we returned home that day, - and
it was the only remark made on the subject, for we all
felt too serious to talk much about it,-" Admitting that
there is a fraud or juggle, that may be discovered by
some person cleverer than all the great and good men
who have examined the matter, this one thing is certain, that pure and holy man, Cardinal Sforza, has never
lent himself to it. The strange work is accomplished
without any help from  him.  I was sufficiently convinced of this fact by the sight of his calm, beautiful,
saintly face and devout expression during the holy invocations. There was something inexpressibly effective in
the simple earnestness and childlike faith he displayed,
when the miracle seemed delayed, and he chanted aloud,




A MIRACLE.                  253
independent of the service apparently,'lAmen, dico vobis,
quidquid orantes petitis, credite quia accipietis, et fiet
vobis.'" *
I do not know how long the services lasted. While I
was lost in deep thought over such faith and its power,
I was aroused by as'shrieking chant which burst from the
old women shriller and more impatient than any of their
preceding cries; just then, too, the symphony pealed out
in strange dissonances, and a discordant passage from the
wind instruments followed, reminding me of the weird
incantation scene in Weber's Der Freyschutz.  The
Archbishop recited a litany, in concert with his canons,
and each one seemed overflowing with holy fervor.
I turned and looked at the vials; as I did so, I felt
thrilled to my heart. I could hardly credit my senses,
for on that very instant I saw the hard substance suddenly
change! Red blood trickled down the sides of the bottles, and, as the liquid accumulated, it looked warm and
bubbling.
The Archbishop held the sacred vials aloft, that the
multitude might see, and his face seemed radiant and
glowing with a.divine exultation. A cannon thundered
forth from the close outside the church, a peal of thanksgiving burst from the people and mingled with the wild
melody of the symphony. The Archbishop descended
from the altar, carrying in his hands one of the bottles,
and, followed by the canons, went around the full length
of the Basilica to share his joy with the people.
When he had finished the circuit, instead of returning
to the altar, to our surprise he approached the place
where we were seated.  I never dreamed of the high
* "Verily I say unto you, whatsoever ye seek, praying, believe
that you will receive, and it shall be done for you." - St. Mark.




254           ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
favor which was coming to me, obtained by Luigi's kindness.
The curtains were held aside, the Archbishop entered,
and as he drew near us I saw him exchange a look with
Luigi, who took my hand in his for a moment. The
Cardinal-Archbishop stopped in front-of me, and smiled
kindly. With a half-bewildered feeling I knelt down and
received the sacred vial in my trembling hands; he aided
me in holding it to my lips, and gave me his blessing;
then he left the recess, accompanied by the few clergymen who had entered with him, and returned to the altar.
The military bands began beating their drums. The
Cardinal, holding the silver shrine high before him, in
which were the bottles and the warm, flowing blood, and
followed by his canons, went in solemn procession down
through the centre of the crowd, leaving the building as
he had entered it.
The intense excitement which pervaded the dense mass
of human beings thronging the Basilica made them surge
to and fro like a high sea. We reached our barouche,
which was waiting for us in the close, by a private passage-way through the back part of the church, and drove
home in serious, respectful silence.




A DINNER AT BAILE.
HAVE had so little time to write in my journal, that I have allowed many pleasant occurrences to pass unnoticed. Florence Folham
and Philip have been riding on horseback
with Luigi and me, for Philip says he is captivated with
the exercise; I shrewdly suspect he is more captivated
with Florence. He tries to be very bold about this sudden fancy for riding, desiring to deceive either himself or
me, and I say not a word except to tease him a little
about wishing to rid himself of some of his superfluous
corpulency.
" How perfidious and cruel you women are," he cries;
"I can call all the world to witness that you have for
years, Ottilie, admired what you called my'superb proportions.'"
" But when they cease to be proportions, and become
dimensions, dear Philip, you cannot expect me to remain
true to what no longer exists."
I do not wonder, however, that he admires Florence.
She is a charming creature,- "si gentille et blonde comme
les bl's," as a French lady said very prettily of her the
other evening; an alliterative comparison which loses
half its point when translated into "fair as the wheat,"
and yet it is strongly suggestive of just such beauty as




256             ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
hers.  She has golden hair hanging in loose, floating
curls which let the light in over her soft red-and-white
skin in the most delicious flecks; and blue eyes with the
hue of the Viola pedata, - the bright little flower found
in early spring on the margins of wheat-fields,- eyes that
are as cold as the hardy little Viola pedata itself, but
which at times have a strange misty expression when
she is deeply moved, either by Venitia's playing, or when
singing one of her own operatic passages; this sweet mistiness seems as a sort of prevision of future " trouble, love,
and poesy."
"Such mystic lore is in her eyes
And light of other worlds than ours,
She looked as she had fed on flowers,
And drunk the dews of Paradise."
Although "English from top to toe," so far as blood
and birth go, foreign education has made her a complete
Parisienne in manner and appearance.  Her toilette is
always comme il faut, and in the last mode of the month,
for the family has an income which counts well on the
continent; and her gowns, bonnets, and even light fancy
jewelry, vary in the most systematic manner according
to the orthodox law of the Parisian mode. She looks
like a Follet fashion-plate done up into a charming little
pastel study, as Philip aptly observed when he first saw
her.
Her voice is in keeping with her appearance. She has
been a pupil of Duprez, and has one of those true Parisienne voices Scudo describes so graphically, as having
"more sharpness than sonorousness, more vibration than
force"; a true salon voice, and exquisitely cultivated. The
freshness of youth and her frank, warm English heart
make of this sharpness, or elevation of sound, and vibra



A DINNER AT BAILE.              257
tion an excellence rather than a defect; for the one is
thrilling, and the other touching.
"She sings with a tear in her voice," Luigi says, and
Philip last night compared her execution of the soliloquy
in the last act of La Traviata to the misty light in an opal.
Her voice is a little veiled, and the vibration in such heartrending passages sounds as the hidden spark in an opal
looks. Venitia compares her singing or execution of cadenzas to small diamond points, and quotes also Scudo's delicious description,-" little pearls falling on scarlet velvet."
But to my ears, her notes, while they are sparkling,
are also round and liquid, not like diamond points or any
hard gem, but as drops of dew, and they roll off in the air
as we see glittering beads of water fall from the downy
petals of a rich-hued flower. It is a pure soprano, very
telling and bird-like in the upper division, and though
trembling and delicate in the bridge-notes, there is a
warm hue in them, which is not at all feverish, but gives
just tenderness enough to create interest and almost love
for the pretty singer herself, as well as admiration for the
music.
Philip is completely infatuated with her, but he carries
it off bravely, as if it were a mere fancy for a pretty girl,
and compliments her openly, - compliments which are so
bewitching from a man like Philip, for they come colored
with all the rich hues of his genius. Last evening she
was singing the Prayer in " Assisa al pie d' un salice,"
from Otello. Philip was leaning over the back of the
lounge on which I was sitting, giving me the benefit of
his short, enthusiastic ejaculations. I looked up in his
keen, bright eye, as she ended the last cadenza on " cenere
a bagnar," where the voice mounted finely to the upper
B, resting there an instant, and making a half-ending in a
Q




258             ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
very effective "Ah," then came rippling down, full of little sobs, to the throat-notes, giving the " bagnar " on the
key-note with a most touching expression of sorrow. I
whispered, -
" "T is a sweet whirlwind (striving to get out)
Heaves her soft bosom, wanders round about,
And makes a pretty earthquake in her breast.'"
For one instant Philip looked at me as if he could have
worshipped me, with that sublime generosity men show
when you make them happy, and then electrified us all,
and covered dear Florence's delicate brow with the happiest blushes by repeating to her, as a compliment, in his
most impassioned and eloquent style, the whole beautiful
description from Crashaw's "Music's Duel," in which is
the passage I had quoted. His superb recitation of this
lovely poem created the greatest enthusiasm in our little
circle; as Janet said this morning, -
"Surely there can be nothing in this world so gratifying to a man, as a society-triumph such as Philip experienced then. It was free from the vulgar intoxication
of public applause, and filled to the brim with that keen
sense of pleasure caused by the sudden sensation one feels
when conscious of carrying along on the brilliant magnetic current of one's own genius and eloquence hearts
and minds equal to one's own."
A day or two since we had a fine dinner at Baize. We
started early in the morning, for it is now the latter part
of May, and the weather, though delightful, is very warm,
especially at midday. Mrs. Folham, Janet, and Venitia
went in the coach, for we cannot persuade Venitia to
ride; she says the management of the reins and exercise
of the arms unfit her for musical execution, making her
fingers tremble and her touch uncertain.




A DINNER AT BAIE.              259
We had a glorious day of course; lived over old Roman times, quoted Homer, Virgil, Livy, Tacitus, and the
Holy Book, for this whole promontory is filled full to
overflowing with sacred and profane memories, which
rush along in swift currents together, making a wildering
whirlpool at times. We have to leap back and forth in
history with a mental agility that tests our skill finely.
It was a regular excursion, and every celebrated spot
in that direction was visited; for altlhough we have driven
and ridden so often around the environs of Naples, we
have never yet stopped at any of the remarkable or
classical spots.  The first place we visited was Virgil's
Tomb, which stands near the entrance of the Grotto of
Posilippo.
"I am indebted to Ottilie for my first idea of this
place," said Philip, when we reached the brow of the hill
in which it is built; "it was given me by a drawing of
hers, which hung in my father's dressing-room when I
was a boy."
"Clear away in those happy years long ago," I thought,
as I sat down on the top of the ivy-covered columbarium,
and remembered the little drawing. I recalled all the
feelings of girlish pride I had on receiving Mr. Edelhertz's praise, and the long, pleasant talk we had at the
time I gave it to him; he described to me in his precise, elegant English, as he examined my drawing, the
situation and sweet surroundings of this delightful place,
which he had visited in his youth. The past swept over
me like a flood; and it seemed as if I was living two
existences at once.
Philip and Florence rambled over the hill-top, talking
gayly, and enjoying the delicious landscape, which the
early morning sun made as fresh and bright as is her




260            ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
young beauty.  Luigi and Venitia explored the inner
part of the tomb, and I sat there listening to loved voices
of the dead and gone, feeling very gray and ashen hued.
I could hear Luigi's rich tones and Philip's clarion note
gathering in around me; they were both loving, as I had
been loved, giving to two women the same hopes which
had been given to me. " But there let the likeness end,"
I said mournfully to myself, " for I sit here alone, on the
brow of a tomb, with snow falling inward on the dead
hopes of my heart."
Janet, who had been clambering about like a kid, came
up to me, and leaned her hand on my shoulder in silence
for a while, then she bent over and gathered a branch of
Casimir Delavigne's laurel, saying with a merry laugh,
"' Break from the sacred laurel the atoning bough."'
The rest of the party joined us, and after a little talk on
the numberless memories connected with the spot, from
the time of Virgil to the present day, we descended the
hill.
"Now, ladies," cried Philip, as he helped Florence
mount her horse, "I have made myself guide-in-chief of
this procession, therefore I shall announce when the enthusiasm must commence andl when it must cease. The
curtain now falls on Virgil's Tomb, and rises on the
Grotto of Posilippo, sacred to the memory of Corinne and
Petrarch, for when a lady is in the question she must
be mentioned first even at the expense of a hundred
years or so."
We trotted gayly through the dark grotto, which, although it was so early in the morning, resounded with the
cries and shouts of the donkey-boys, and crowds of people,
forever surging to and fro in this dark tunnel. When we




A DINNER AT BAILE.             261
reached Pozzuoli, we dismounted again in order to visit
the numerous places of interest in this " Little Rome"
of Cicero, - the Temples, the Baths, the Amphitheatre,
and the Villa of the great Roman orator, in which he
wrote the De Fato and the Academica. The portico, and
its beautiful woods, which he called the Academy, and
its lovely promenade along the shore, - the whole of
this charming abode in which he said he "could be so
happy if the importunate did not oblige him to desert
it," -are all gone; only some ruined piles of stone, over
which the sea washes, mark where the beautiful Villa
Puteolana of Cicero stood.
Then we walked along the shore to the very spot
where, nearly a hundred years after the orator was murdered, two unknown men landed, " after a perilous voyage
from Cesarea, on their way to Rome," whither they were
going to give to their Faith that which is its seed, - the
Blood of Martyrs.  These two men "tarried with the
brethren" at Pozzuoli seven days, then travelled on to
their great Life in Death.
Yes, at that very period while Nero and Poppea were
sinning so madly, and the poor, frightened, lovely Julia
Agrippina was fleeing to this Puteolan shore to escape
the death she met so bravely, - in those wicked Roman
days, described with such awful severity by Tacitus, when
the old oracles were growing dumb, and "the gray old
gods of IHellas " becoming palsied and dying out, - these
two plain men of a despised and enslaved nation went
journeying on wearily to Rome as prisoners of man,
but glorious messengers of God, bearing strange news,
"Great Pan was dead."'
Venitia wished to go to the Cathedral to visit the tomb
of Pergolesi. As we approached the church and saw its




262            ST'. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
massive masonry and Corinthian columns, we remembered
that when St. Paul and St. Luke " tarried to rest awhile
with the brethren" in the town of Puteoli, this Christian
church was then a Roman temple, dedicated to Augustus.
"Two thousand years nearly have swung around,"
said Janet, "and that little leaven has worked bravely."
After visiting the church, we went to the grand ruins
of the Temple of Serapis, and looked up at the three
mysterious pillars on which Nature has engraved her
curious hieroglyphics, telling wondrous tales of age and
change. We stepped carefully from stone to stone, and
peered down wistfully into the fast-gathering waters which
hide from the most searching gaze the once beautiful marble pavements of the temple.
Luigi explained to us as much as is known of the history of this marvellous ruin. The three columns which
are standing were part of a pro-naos, or vestibule, of six
columns and two pilasters, which supported a richly sculptured frieze; fragments of the three other superb columns
and the frieze lie scattered around. The three which are
standing are each forty feet high, and formed of a single
piece of cipollino marble. There was a court one hundred and forty feet long, and one hundred and twentytwo feet wide, surrounded by a portico of forty-eight
columns; and in the centre of this court stood a circular
temple, which had sixteen columns of African marble,
that have been taken away and put in the theatre of the
Caserta Palace.
Some suppose it was an Egyptian temple, but the
learned disagree about it altogether. It is a grand, solemn mystery, as profound as the strange old faith said
to have been celebrated in it. A semicircular niche is
shown, where stood the Jupiter Serapis, which is now in




A DINNER AT BAIZE.             263
the Musee Bourbonique. The many volcanic eruptions,
and the various physical changes to which the whole of
this portion of the Mysentine promontory has been subjected, at one time caused these ruins to be covered over
and forgotten.
During the earthquakes of 1536- 1538, in Don Pedro
de Toledo's time, Monte Nuovo, a mountain about a mile
from this temple, and four hundred and forty feet above
the level of the sea, rose up in three days' time, formed
by the accumulated ejections from the earth of red-hot
pumice-stones. As the base of this mountain covers about
a mile and a half of ground, the whole face of the country
in its vicinity was naturally very much altered in making
place at such short notice for the strange new-comer.
The tradition tells of a village, royal villa, and other
buildings being destroyed. At that time, this temple,
which is spoken of by writers of the day as " the ruins
recently uncovered," was again lost, and remained overgrown with trees and brushwood, forgotten for over two
hundred years.
In 1750, when a palace which had been built for Don
Pedro, over two hundred years before, was converted into
barracks, the upper part of these fine columns was seen
peeping above the ground. Charles III.-Don Carlos,
that Bourbon hero - ordered the place to be uncovered.
Then this fine temple, adorned with costly marbles, full
of broken sculpture, was found.  There were marble
pavements and mosaic floors, and statues and vases; and
also some curious hieroglyphics left by Nature, that silent,
mysterious power, which told that this great temple must
have known other changes than that of mere earth-burial;
for high up on these grand columns, within a third of
their summits, were distinct traces of ancient water



264            ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
marks; also little holes, drilled deep in by a species of
bivalve sea-shell called lithodornus; and above these busy
little traces of ocean labor were marks of the restless,
angry beating of sea-waves!
No wonder the antiquarians and geologists have been at
a loss and not known how to find their place in a stone
book whose weird leaves tell such contradictory stories.
I felt very solemn as I wandered through this mysterious old temple, stepping from slab to slab of stone, on
the ruined fragments of superb sculpture, across the dull,
sluggish sea-stream which is again slowly creeping through
it. About thirty years after its last disentombing in 1780,
the building was found to be slowly sinking again; and
during the last half-century it has sunk two feet; probably in a few hundred years more it will be all gone and
forgotten as before.
From this temple, or Serapeon, as it is also called, we
went to the Amphitheatre, which was uncovered in 1838.
It was here that Nero entertained Tiridates, King of
Armenia, with a bull-fight, and surprised his royal visitor
by leaping into the arena himself and killing two bulls
with the same javelin. Foolish Nero! To use a mot of
Jefferson, he must have had "a canine love of praise."
We left Pozzuoli and proceeded along one of the
Roman roads bordered by tombs.' Luigi directed our
attention to the marks of the ancient chariot-wheels on
the huge blocks of lava with which it is paved. This
famous old Vesuvius is looked upon as a fearful destroyer, and so it is, of man and man's labor; but it
creates more than it ruins, renders back more than it
takes away; and one of its most marvellous creations is
this fire-stone, called lava, which has been used for ages
in the building of ramparts, great castles, and the paving




A DINNER AT BAIZE.             265
of roads like these Appian and Flaminian routes, over
which myriads of human beings have journeyed for centuries, and yet the huge blocks of stilled fire resist the
wear and tear of time and use.
Yes, centuries and centuries ago this road was journeyed over by great Romans, who came to the Campania
on warlike errands; or later, in more luxurious days, to
visit their superb villas in this Parthenopian Paradise;Scipio in his pride and then in his anger, Agrippina in
her sorrow, Tiberius in his suffering, and the poor Aphrodite Julia in her fear.
Along its smooth course also rolled gay chariot-loads
of pleasure-seeking people, coming to these luxurious
Baths of Baiae, to lakes covered with rose-leaves, that
old Seneca talks of, where bathers floated in the perfumed waters by moonlight to the sound of ravishing
music. Stately Roman matrons, with fair, cold brows of
Pallas and Diana, but burning hearts of Venus and
Psyche, rushed swiftly along in their mad pursuit of
pleasure.
And along this road journeyed also those two travelworn, unknown Israelites, towards the Capitol of the
world, going there to plant an unpretending standard,
which should wave through ages of desolation, war, luxury, learning, human craft and cunning, all unchanged,the standard of the simple fishermen of Galilee,- to
which king and kaiser bow.
It was an hour or two past midday when we reached
Baioe, and we were really hungry and tired, notwithstanding Janet's fine hamper of sandwiches and iced wine,
which had been well used during the morning.
"I sent my Greek here yesterday," said Philip, " with
Luigi's Andrea, and the report was anytbing but favorable
12




266            ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
as to accommodations; so that huge van which you see
unpacking is for us."
We walked towards one of the ruins of the magnificent
ancient Thermae or Baths.  It was the one called the
Temple of Mercury; a superb circular hall with vaulted
ceiling, and the blue heaven looking down through the
ivy-crowned opening in the roof, shedding delicious rays
and flecks of tenderness, as the sunlight broke through
the delicate maiden-hair fern. Lycopodia and all sorts
of bind-weeds, mingled with the fern and ivy, clambered
around, set their little frail but firm-toothed roots into the
stone, then fell pendant in soft, swaying branches, doing
their best to hide and adorn this broken, irregular gap in
the ceiling.
Directly beneath this opening was quite a little gardenwilderness, nourished by the rain and freshened by the
sun which came daily streaming down upon it; mesem
bryanthemums of vivid purple hue peeped out with their
bright yellow eyes among the tangled mass of verdure.
Upon the ground were spread large carpet-mats, and
there were camp-stools and small tables, and, best of all,
nice cushioned hammocks. When we expressed our delight and amazement at the sight of all these comforts,
Luigi and Philip, to whose gallant thoughtfulness we
owed them, looked as happy as boys.
" Now rest yourselves," said Philip, " while Luigi and
I consult with our men about that great business of the
day, - dinner."
Such a merry dinner as we had on the little tables,
where each one was served by one's self! And we had
a pleasant lounge in the hammocks again, after the luxurious feast was over, -a feast which had all the elegance
of a grand dinner, without any tiresome ceremo-ny.




A DINNER AT BAILE.             267
The gentlemen smoked, and walked in and about the
ruins, and talked to us delightfully. Some girls came in
with tambourines and danced the Tarantelle, which was
as poor as stage finery looks by daylight.
" We are spoiled by the ballet," said Philip. "These
peasant dances, like many fine national melodies, have
the rich kernel taken from them when the clever theatrical or operatic artist appropriates them."
"Are you too tired for a little more sight-seeing?"
asked Luigi, as we stood out on the roadside in the after
part of the day.
Not at all. We were all as fresh as larks at sunrise,
and quite ready to complete the well-planned excursion.
We went to the birdless Lake of Avernus, the Mare
MIorto, the Elysian Fields, and the cave of the melancholy priestess of Apollo, — Deiphoebe, the Cumcean
Sibyl.
The classical associations connected with the names of
these famous old places gave rise to a delightful talk;
and Philip's fine rhapsodies were as sparkling as the
glowing beads on the golden Capri wine which we had
been drinking.
The Piscina Mirabilis pleased me most of all that sunset sight-seeing. It can scarcely be called a ruin: it is
as strong and firm as when the Romans used it as a
reservoir for the waters of the Julian aqueduct centuries
ago. We descended a flight of forty broad stone steps,
then an inclined causeway, which led us to the bottom.
There we found an apartment with a vaulted roof of
grand masonry, supported by four lines of massive pillars,
twelve in a row.
The whole hall or chamber was lighted by several
circular openings in the roof, which, like the irregular




268            ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
ceiling-gap of the Temple of Mercury, were draped with
all manner of lichens, ivy, and the soft maiden-hair fern,
the loveliest of all the fascinating order of Felices. This
clung about every part of the building, and, as the soft
west wind of sunset came frolicking in through the ivycrowned opening in the centre, it would ripple up the
delicate, green, toothed leaves, like so many little waves
on a streamlet. This fine old relic of the great Roman
days is to be found on the summit of a hill between the
Bay of Bauli and Mare Morto.
" Here, Ottilie," said Philip, as we came to some ruins
on the Punta di Pennata, "this was the villa of that
Roman matron who despised jewels, and considered two
unruly boys of more value'than precious stones. I remember, when you were a girl, you voted Cornelia,
mother of the Gracchi, a woman of poor taste."
We laughed over the curious betrothal of'this great
and good daughter of Scipio Africanus. Tiberius Sempronius Gracchus, her husband, was originally an enemy
of her father; but when the officers were taking L. C.
Scipio to prison, and none of the tribunes interfered to
protect him, Gracchus said that he did not seek to gain,
by any act of his, the favor of the Scipios, but having
seen Scipio Africanus leading the kings and generals of
enemies to prison, he should never suffer his brother to
be led to the same place. This generous and manly conduct had a curious effect on the Senators and Scipio,
which effect is an evidence of the primitive, almost childlike state of feeling of the times, and shows also that
their hatreds and enmities arose more from jealousy- as
do those of children and immature minds - than from
principle.
Some time after, the Senators were supping together




A DINNER AT BAIAE.             269
at the Capitol, and they unanimously requested Scipio
Africanus to give his youngest daughter, Cornelia, to
Tiberius Gracchus as wife; Scipio consented, and the
contract was made in the presence of the whole assembly.
On his return home he told his wife, Emilia, that he had
arranged a marriage for her daughter. Madame Scipio
did not like his taking such a step without consulting her
in the disposal of their common child. In her resentment
she said, "Why, even supposing you had given her to
Tiberius Gracchus, her mother should not have been kept
in ignorance of your intention."
Scipio showed a wisdom in managing this little domestic tempest which, unfortunately, he did not display when
he had to deal with his countrymen; he waived aside all
discussion, good-naturedly telling her she had named the
very man, and that he was glad her opinion coincided
with the Senators and his.
This young girl was the famous Cornelia, mother of
the Gracchi. In her childless old age she bought this
villa, and followed her father's example, dying in voluntary exile; but the Romans honored her memory by a
statue, bearing the inscription, "To Cornelia, Mother of
the Gracchi."
"This anger of the Scipio family," I remarked, "reminds me of feminine resentments, in which the injured
one seeks a revenge which afflicts herself as much, if not
more, than it hurts her opponent. Scipio's angry epitaph,
depriving his countrymen of his bones, was so like a highspirited, affectionate woman, who naively takes it for
granted that her enemy will feel her reproaches as much
as she should under similar circumstances; and the eager
desire the Romans displayed to honor the family after
death as much as they had wronged them in life, gives




270            ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
the whole affair the tone of a sorrowful family quarrel,
which is fiercer and bitterer than other disputes, because
of the pent-up love which feels itself scorned, and aching
hearts stung almost to madness by fancied or real wrongs
inflicted by the very beings held dearest and loved most
fondly."
"I fancy," said Janet, "that these Scipios must have
been like many other excellent and gifted persons, - too
sensitive and difficult in disposition.  An enthusiastic
restlessness of mind and body enabled them to perform
splendid and generous acts, but they exacted from plain,
practical, commonplace mortals, with whom they had to
live hourly, more capability of appreciation than they
possessed; then, like all such exceptional persons, they
suffered keenly, and, as they happened to be distinguished,
they called on all posterity to sympathize with them, saying,'Thus did I for my countrymen, and this was my
reward!' "
"Nor was it vanity or self-conceit," observed Philip;
"but, as Milman said of Tasso, that deeper pride which
makes obligations painful, which cannot submit to injury
or insult, which claims and maintains the position to which
it thinks itself entitled, and expects that every one else
shall render it the same reverence."
"And yet how deep-rooted was ambition in their hearts,"
said Luigi; "you remember Cornelia's famous reproach
to her sons before they attained their sorrowful distinction,'Am I to be forever known only as -the daughter
of Scipio?'"
" Here, ladies! " cried Philip, " is a tenderer spot,
sacred'to the memory of- I was going to say sensiblerie,
but fear of Ottilie, who may call me cruel, makes me say
sentiment."




A DINNER AT BAIE.                 271
We had reached the fine cliff-like promontory of Cape
Misenus, the tomb of }Eneas's trumpeter, and the spot
made famous by the French Corinne. We were disappointed at finding her description of the promontory not
correct in one point. Vesuvius cannot be seen from Cape
Misenus.  "The Gulf of Naples, the islands with which
it is sown," —all this is exact; but neither Vesuvius
nor "the country which extends from Naples as far as
Gaeta," * for hills intervene between the sight in the
latter; and as to Vesuvius, the mountain sits too far back
to be seen, and Punta di Posilippo extends like a screen
in front of it.
After scolding a little about this harmless exaggeration
of the gifted Frenchwoman, we took back our fault-finding, and agreed with Luigi, that the poet should not be
trammelled by trifles; for,
"' as imagination bodies forth
The forms of things unknown, the poet's pen
Turns them to shapes, and gives to airy nothing
A local habitation and a name."
Therefore, possessing such marvellous power, it was
an easy matter for the Improvisatress to bring Vesuvius
forward, when only a few miles of hill and distance hid it.
We talked of this wonderful woman, of her follies,
some of which were the sweetest part of her nature, and
of her wisdom, which, like most feminine wisdom, alas!
was the most tiresome.
"'Tout comprendre, serait tout pardonner,' — If we
understood everything, we would forgive everything," — I
repeated musingly.  "Mme. de StaSl should be forgiven
a great many of her parrot Schlegelisms, for the numberless loving truths, like this, which she was constantly
uttering."
* Corinne, par Mme. de StaSl, Livre XI. Chapitre IV.




272            ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
"Then, her devotion," added Janet, "to that lovely
creature, Mme. Recamier, was so, wise and generous!'If I could possibly envy one whom I love,' she wrote
once to Mme. Recamier,'I would give willingly all that
I am to be you'; and it was not her friend's famous
beauty which she thought most of, but'those moral
qualities which seemed to every one as remarkable as
her charms.' " 
"The experience of poor Mme. de Stal's sorrowful
and yet brilliant life," I said, " had doubtless taught her
that which I once heard a great poet and good man say
he had learned, — to value most those who were more
remarkable for qualities of heart than head; and this
can be applied particularly to women. As our heartgifts surpass those of our head, so are we, in proportion,
happier and better able to fulfil patiently our duty in
life."
"You did not always think so, Ottilie," remarked
Philip, in that provoking way which some men have
of tossing up old worn-out opinions, like old slippers,
after one.
" "T is held that sorrow makes us wise,'" was my only
reply to him.
As we walked along the shore, Janet and I talked of
the capabilities of feminine minds and the quality of
feminine studies.
"O, women read, they never study!" cried Philip,
half jestingly.
"That is very true, Mr. Edelhertz, about the majority
of women, at least," replied Janet, generously; for she
has been, and is still, as capable and clever a student as
any man. " Our reading, too," she continued, " is rarely
* Notes to Corinne.




A DINNER AT' BALE.              273
for the purpose of acquiring exact knowledge, nor do we
show that systematic holding-on to subjects which you
men display; for even in your leisure reading you always
keep your specialite' in view."
"Few women have specialites," I said.  "Reading,
with us, is often a mere pursuit of food for our imaginations, which are ever rising hungry from the meagre meal
that realities make of life's table; many times also it is,
as I have heard Philip say cruelly, to soothe our everafflicted sensibilities."
"Then," asked Janet, "when clever women show that
fierce book-hunger which they sometimes do, startling
men with the quantity of books they are able to read, I
suppose they are seizing on reading as a sort of mental
or spiritual opium, to give them relief from thought and
memory?"
"; Exactly so," I answered; " and this reading very often
excites the energies and rouses' into action the creative
powers. A lot of rubbish is gathered together by us, I
admit; but in this rubbish are rough mineral stones, as it
were, against whose iron of suggestion the flint of the
feminine fancy strikes out a bright spark, which pleases
even though it may not enlighten a great deal."
"Realities make life's table meagre, do they, Ottilie? "
asked Philip, in a gentle, kind tone. "But you are right,"
he continued, without waiting for an answer.  "You
women endure realities because you are instinctively —
nay, divinely — patient; but you have no love or even
respect for them. There is one thing, however, which
puzzles me in wofhen, -your prejudices and preferences
color all things; hence your judgments ought to be imperfect, and yet they are not. Why is this, Mrs. Dale?
I ask you instead of Ottilie, because I know her of old;
12*                         R




274            ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
she never gives reasons for her opinions: it is always' because,' nothing else."
"It arises from a mysterious power we possess, Mr.
Edelhertz," answered Janet, "which eludes all analysis,
and which has no name, unless we call it instinct, as Ottilie
does; but that is too poor a name, to my thinking, for
these divine'Impulsions, God-supplied,'
which are the best gifts of women, and worth all your
reason."
"I call it instinct," I said, "because instinct has a
swifter flight than logical reflection. It is, in fact, a sort
of unconscious inspiration."
" Call it, rather, genuine conscience," observed Luigi,
"which, according to Goethe,'knows only feeling and
no logic, and goes straightforward to its object, which it
tries lovingly to comprehend, and, when comprehended,
never lets go again.'  This agrees best, I fancy, with
your views of your sex."''' Prends le premier conseil d'une femme, et non le
second,' is a French proverb," remarked Philip: "'Take
the first advice of a woman, and not the second.' Trench,
in his Lessons in Proverbs, agrees with you, Ottilie,
and old Montaigne too.  The English Dean calls it
moral intuition, and the wise old Frenchman Pesprit
primesautier, the reckless, unthinking leap which gains
all or none at the first bound."
"Instinct, conscience, or intuition, whatever it may be
called," said Janet, " we women certainly show great
cleverness and quickness through its aid, that is, when we
act on the first warm impulse; for the French proverb is
true, — few women have'sober second thoughts.' We
seem to be filled with those perceptions aveugles (blind
perceptions), pensees sourdes (deaf thoughts), which Leib



A DINNER AT BAIE.              275
nitz speaks of, and compares beautifully to the thousand
little noises produced by the shock of a wave on the seashore, and which compose, in their whole, the grand diapason of ocean melody."
"And this melody of the sea, too," I added, "is very
like the workings of a woman's mind, - wild, sometimes
wayward, confused, and vague, but having a mysterious
meaning which attracts forcibly, and is filled with a neverwearying charm."
The two men looked in silence, and half unconsciously,
on the two beautiful women whom they were loving, and
I fancied they both agreed with us. A few short weeks
ago, Philip would have turned into playful ridicule all
this feminine sensiblerie, as he would have called it; but
now Love, that divine messenger, who heals all differences between poor blind Adams and Eves, was brooding
down over him, and filling his solitary, silent heart with
sweet murmurs of hope and happiness.
At Baiae we mounted our horses again for the last
time, and Janet, Mrs. Folham, and Venetia returned to
the barouche.  We rode swiftly and silently on; the
sweet moon shone down on us, and our horses' hoofs beat
a martial measure on the hard lava-paved road; they
kept as accurate time as if the dumb beasts, like their
riders, had musical ears, and understood all the sweet
subtleties of rhythm and accent.
The air was filled with the odor of orange-blossoms
and the grape-flower; the glowing west had grown
purple and wine-hued, while a ruddy glow flashed here
and there most unaccountably over the heavens; but, as
we doubled the point and came out on Posilippo, we discovered the cause of it, -Vesuvius was in flames!
"An eruption!" cried Philip; "at last, we shall see
Vesuvius in its glory."




276            ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
We had been hoping for this event during all our stay
in Naples. There had been every sign of an eruption
for months, and now, to our great joy, it had come; for,
as it was unaccompanied by any destructive earthquakes,
and seemed a peaceable display of the mountain's glorious
powers, we felt no compunctions at rejoicing over it.
Vesuvius looked grandly, as we rode briskly along the
road facing it.  Heavy columns of fiery vapor arose,
touched on the edges by the moonlight, and streams of
fire glided, snake-like, down the mountain-sides.
There was no terrifying darkness, no fearful explosions,
none of the horrible attendants on preceding eruptions.
The mountain seemed simply like a huge overflowing
vase of fire; a beautiful and glorious spectacle, rather
than a thing of terror and ruin; and so unlike the ordinary idea of Vesuvius in action, that we almost forgot
its power to do harm. The flames and lava-streams did
not pour from the summit, but from the sides. We afterwards learned that new craters have formed around
it, and from these came streaming down the fiery rivers;
there were two beautiful currents, which we could see,
of the most exquisite fire-color, not sulphureous-hued, but
mellow and almost rosy.
After the first expressions of gratification we said little,
but looked on the beautiful mountain with indescribable,
half-bewildered feelings, such as one has in a vivid dream;
it seemed like some scene from a fairy tale of gnomes
and mountain spirits,- some gorgeous, impossible vision
of childhood, made real and possible.
Great phenomena of any kind are rarely seen under
favorable circumstances; but surely our first sight of
Vesuvius in flames could not have been more happily
arranged.




SKY-ROCKETS.
AST evening, being Trinity Sunday and the
Queen's birthday, the whole town was superbly
illuminated.  To form a complete idea of the
extent to which town illuminations can be carried, and their frequency, it is necessary to visit Naples.
I have never seen so many or such interesting ones as
during the few minonths I have been here. Partial illuminations of some quarter of the town take place several
times a week.
The decoration of buildings for illuminations is quite a
lucrative business in Naples, they tell me. On the feteday of a church, - that is, the day devoted to the saint
whose name it bears, - its whole front is covered with
hastily-erected scaffoldings, and several men can be seen
running up and down ladders, from tower to roof, and
roof to basement, suspending strings of small parti-colorea
glass cups, and arranging them skilfully, so as to form
various symbolical figures when lighted; for each cup is
half-filled with oil, on which floats a taper. Sometimes
the houses and stores on the sides of the open square in
front of the church are decorated in a like manner. At
nightfall these lamps are lighted and the scaffoldings removed, with a celerity that seems hardly possible. The
church facade then looks like a fairy scene, with its




278            ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
twinkling, sparkling, brilliant-hued letters and devices,
and as they begin to pale and drop out, one by one, the
attention of the crowd is attracted by the firing-off of
petards and the sending up of remarkably fine fireworks.
The pyrotechnical displays in Naples seem inexhaustible:
there is one called the Girandola, which is remarkably
beautiful; it is formed by a simultaneous discharge of
numberless rockets, that fall back from a centre as they
explode, looking like fiery petals of a gigantic lily-cup or
bell.
After twilight this evening, while we were sitting on
the terrace, looking at Vesuvius and watching the gradual
brightening of the town, Luigi and Philip came in to
propose a drive through the streets, to see the different
illuminations and fireworks, and the equally fiery crowd.
Janet, Venitia, Philip, and I went in the coach, Luigi on
horseback.
We first drove to the Largo di Palazzo Reale, to see
the illumination of the Royal Palace, and the grand sight
presented by San Francesco di Paula, which is opposite.
The magnificent dome of this fine church was outlined
against the glowing sky by glittering gas-jets, whose
tingling, tongue-like flames seemed like living things, as
they mounted from the base of the dome to its apex, on
which blazed a superb cross of fire.
After we have seen a moderate amount of wonders, we
become very unreasonable; instead of being satisfied with
our pleasure, we grow exacting, and ask not only for more,
but for something greater.
To that dome and cross, whose graceful outlines trembled on the heavens and looked as if springing from the
clouds themselves, and not belonging to anything on earth,
we dared to suggest the addition of a new beauty.




SKY-ROCKETS.                 279
"Instead of that simple cross-form," said our poet
Philip, "it should have been like Constantine's visionary
one, of which Eusebius tells us. Think how superb would
have been the effect, to have seen palpitating in that gasflame a cross, with the Greek characters, EN TOYTO NIKA,'Conquer through this.'"'
" O," cried Janet, deprecatingly, " how can you trouble
the beautiful thing by wishing for something beyond it?
Surely, it is lovely enough to satisfy a poet's imaginings.
Look at those porticos and that vestibule."
This church, San Francesco di Paula, has two semicircular porticos at right and left, supported by fortyfour columns, and in front of the church itself is a vestibule with ten fine Ionic columns. These were all lighted
by concealed gas-jets, and, as Janet spoke, u fresh head
of gas was turned on, which glowed first at the base of
the church and then mounted up to the summit, making
these porticos look like enchanted aisles leading to some
angelic cathedral.
" Do you remember," asked Philip, as we were noticing
the resemblance of this church to the Pantheon, "what
Stendhal said of it, when it was building, in 1816?
Bianchi showed him the plan, and Stendhal wrote,' Bianchi has adopted the circular form, which is a proof he
appreciates the antique; but he has not remembered that
the ancients proposed a very different end from ours in
their temples. The religion of the Greeks was a festival,
not a menace. The temple under the beautiful heavens
was only a theatre of sacrifice, not immolation. Instead
of kneeling, of prostrating one's self, and striking the
breast, they executed in it sacred and beautiful dances.
Shall our artists ever be able to read with their souls?
Those of the present day seem unable to raise themselves




280            ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
to a comprehension that the ancients did nothing for mere
ornament; the beautiful, with them, was only the natural
growth of the useful.'  But I do not see," continued
Philip, "how Stendhal could have been long in Naples
without discovering that this Catholic religion is a great
deal like that of the old Greeks, —a festival of the gayest
kind."
"The Neapolitans are neither Catholics nor Pagans,"
I remarked; "they are simply image-worshippers. But
what higher religious form can be looked for in a populace
so mobile, wayward, and, above all, joy-seeking? Of
course, their religion must take the gay color of their
pleasure-loving dispositions. Wait until these people, by
some one of those great world-miracles, which take place
every age or two, are changed into more thinking, intelligent beings, not needing visible signs like St. Thomas;
then they can be St. Johns and St. Pauls."
"Yes," said Janet, "I do not think Protestants give
enough weight, particularly in religion, to the needs of
peculiar organizations, as well as influences of climate.
Here in Naples the national appetite is for show, eclat,
and  bustle, not for quiet reason and  calm  thought.
The people are quick at, and eager for, receiving impressions; but there must be new dies ready, as the burning
lava of feeling and emotion is ever flowing. Their love
of a sensation is a positive, passionate need, which, if not
gratified, becomes as fierce as unsatisfied hunger. During
this present visit of mine to Naples, while looking at the
childlike throngs gazing at the spectacles in churches, or
the throbbing, eager crowd in the streets, making up the
religious processions, or kneeling devoutly as the sacred
Host passes, I have repeatedly thought what fearful savages these people would be, without the help and control




SKY-ROCKETS.                 281
of this beautiful, tangible form  of their faith.  This
grand old Catholic Church is very wise; it possesses the
collected wisdom of experience, and knows best how to
govern these people, who, as Ottilie says, are the St.
Thomases of the Christian world, and must be treated as
gently as he was. Even such unbelievers as Machiavelli
and Voltaire admitted the wisdom of these gay theatrical
devotions, and thought they prevented public misfortunes."
"What a true woman's use of an authority!" exclaimed
Philip; " I am not surprised, however, at your employing
such weapons, for your own religious views, as a Unitarian, are very free; but it is droll to hear Ottilie innocently wielding Voltairian infidel supports."
Janet seemed to feel that the conversation had gone a
little too far, for she answered in a courteous, but rather
cold and serious manner.
"You are disposed, Mr. Edelhertz, like many other
formalists in religion, to regard persons holding what you
call Unitarian views as unbelievers, if not heathen, because we do not subscribe to your Thirty-nine Articles,
or your partial acceptances of old Catholic mysteries, such
as the Trinity, and the like; and, indeed, it is not easy
for us to comprehend each other, I fancy, for not only
good breeding, but the dignified reticence of true pious
feeling, confines the whole matter to a holier communion
than differing mortals can hold with each other, to a
commerce with their own consciences anid God, in solitude."
" What is the subject of conversation?" asked Luigi,
who, to my great relief, just then came riding up; he had
left us a little while before to learn the cause of the shouting in the neighborhood of the Arsenal, and to see if it
was practicable for our carriage to drive there.




282            ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
"O, Mr. Luigi," answered Venitia, playfully, "they
are talking like philosophers, who, you know, grow always
unphilosophical whenever they enter into argument."
" No, no," interrupted Janet, with a sweet, good-natured
smile, "we are not pretending to be philosophers even;
we have simply been treading, as De Quincey finely says,'that interspace between religion and philosophy which
connects them both,' and which is neutral ground."
" But, like all neutral ground," said Venitia, slyly, " in
warring seasons it is a dangerous one, for it can be converted into a champ clos on the slightest provocation, as I
can testify."
A fresh shout from the distant crowd interrupted the
talk effectually, and Luigi reported the cause of the noise.
Some fine illuminations were being lighted up and superb
fireworks preparing at the Arsenal. Before driving thither,
we remained a few minutes looking at the picturesque
scene which the street presented, and which within the past
fifteen minutes had arrived at its full height of interest.
Words can hardly describe it. The finely decorated stores
on either side of the Toledo were in a blaze, but the most
attractive sight was the centre of the street and the
square.
Buying and selling, cooking and eating, were going on
briskly. The perambulating orange-cars, and sherbet or
ice-water temples, adorned with rude pictures of holy
subjects, looking indeed very Byzantine and pre-Raphael,
as Philip said, stood everywhere. These gay little booths
on wheels were lighted up as fantastically as the houses;
branches of the golden broom waved around them, nodding like feathery plumes; huge bouquets of what we call
"hothouse flowers" glowed on their counters; and graceful, fragrant garlands were festooned tastefully around
them.




SKY-ROCKETS.                 283
On the sidewalks and corners of the square were
literally hillocks of fruit, - for it is now the high harvest
season; there were melting apricots, fresh, milky almonds,
and huge, luscious Anana strawberries, looking as if carved
out of pink coral. Old women sat by their braziers, over
whose glowing coals they roasted sweet-smelling nuts, and
brightened their fire by waving briskly, to and fro, reed
fans; bellows, to be sure, would have been more effectual,
but not half so picturesque; and it seems as if these
people were just made for living pictures, to gladden the
eye with fast-resolving forms and shapes, and keep throbbing for the artist, in this prosaic world, the warm pulse
of Nature's beauty.
Little iron furnaces sparkled and blazed under huge
boilers, and in these seething caldrons bubbled up mealy,
bursting potatoes and yellow maccaroni; even fish-frying
was going on; and almost every domestic and private
occupation, as well as public, was there represented in a
great square, in front of a royal palace, and at the foot
of one of the gayest streets in Europe, while the screaming, roaring population poured down from the various
stradas and vicos, —as the large and small streets are
called, —and up and down the Toledo, like a hot lava
flood, seeming as if it would demolish everything before
it; a true Vesuvian current, with a human voice, which
swayed and surged in almost bewildering confusion.
We turned at last and left the Largo di Palazzo Reale.
Luigi directed the driver to draw the carriage up first on
the Santa Lucia square, a position which gave us a fine
view of the city in outline, and also of the bay and mountain. The gray phantom which always rises from
"Vesuvius' misty brim,
With outstretched hands,
O'erlooking the volcanic lands,"




284            ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
was no longer visible. The whole summit of the volcano
was enveloped in a rosy vapor, as with a mantle; and
down the side towards Naples coursed two grand lavastreams, from which arose clouds as golden and ruddy as
those preceding a mountain sunrise. Dante's
"I1 tremolar della marina"
insensibly rose to the lips as we noticed the sparkling,
trembling waters of the Crater Bay, that reflected the
volcano's light, as the day-dawn was reflected from the
mountains in Purgatory "on the ocean stream."  Numberless little boats with winglike sails, or plashing oars,
passed to and fro, from which arose snatches of song or
the twang of a stringed instrument, just caught, and then
lost in the thunderous roar of the passing multitude, who
were divided, in their exultation and enjoyment, between
God's and man's illumination.
After a few minutes given to this Santa-Lucia view,
we drove around the Arsenal, to see the superb fireworks
there. Even Vesuvius's grandeur could not pale them.
Fountains and waterfalls of fire poured out their blazing
flood; girandolas spread out their fiery lily-cups; and
all the various pyrotechnic forms soared off on the volcanic air, as if their compounds rejoiced to be released
from the bonds in which man had held them, and were
dancing merry, exultant rounds, like so many Ariels, as
they joined their brother-spirits of the mountain.
After looking until dazzled and deafened, we turned
the horses' heads homewards. As we came around the
Chiatamone, and across the Vittoria, to the stately palatial
Chiaja, the Church of San Pasquale burst out upon us in
a fine blaze of decorative light; a brilliant St. Catharine's
wheel spun around, and little rosy crosses and stars and
arrows of fire darted to and fro,




SKY-ROCKETS.                 285
"Before you could say' Come' and' Go,'
And breathe twice and cry' So, so';
Each one tripping on his toe,
Were all there with mop and mowe."
Luigi proposed we should go up into the drawing-room
Df his apartments, which are in the Palazzo, opposite the,hurch, the side-windows of which look out on the San
Pasquale square. We did so, and sat for some time enjoying this agreeable end of the brilliant spectacle. After
a while Philip drew me away from the window, to show
me Luigi's handsomely arranged bachelor apartments.
First, there are two pleasant ante-rooms, floored with
deep-blue and white tiles, which made me feel as if I were
walking on a great-grandmother's India dinner-set. These
two rooms are furnished with tall, beautifully carved cabinets, and fine plaster copies of some of the master-pieces
of sculpture in the Musee Bourbonique. From them we
pass through richly draped doors into a handsome drawingroom which has two fronts, one on San Pasquale and one
on the broad Chiaja. The furniture of this drawing-room
is simple and elegant, like the man himself, in its perfect,
quiet taste. Exquisite bronzes, whose subjects lead you,
as through pleasant corridors, to memories of some of the
finest galleries of Europe; two or three lovely bits of
sculpture, each one telling its own classic birth in forms
of divine beauty; some rare vases; a few fine copies of
famous old paintings, and one or two undoubted originals;
nothing ostentatious, nothing for display, but all goverhed
by that exact taste which is so near akin to genius as to
be almost identical with it.
To the west of the drawing-room is the library, whose
windows also look down on the Chiaja and over on the
beautiful Villa Reale, with the sea and purple Capri in
the distance.  This room  is a place for sweet, calm




286            ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
thoughts, such as the owner must often have. He has
had it decorated in the Pompeian style. The book-shelves
run around the room, within a foot or two of the ceiling,
separated at certain distances by airy columns; and the
spaces between these columns, in which the books are
placed, are hung with rich-hued tapestry, which falls from
the finely-decorated frieze or cornice to the polished, inlaid floor. The light ornaments of the fretted ceiling, and
the refined arabesque forms on the broad cornice and
tapestry, give the room a graceful and cheerful appearance.
There is something peculiarly attractive in these Pompeian wall-decorations, especially under the bright skies
of Italy, whose genial climate treats fresco and stucco
decorations kindly. The forms, too, are so pleasing,slender, straight lines, squares, right angles, and exact
semicircles, adorned with exquisite garlands, graceful
pendent baskets, and twining, climbing vines. These are
all painted in bright, positive fiat tints; but the extreme
delicacy of the figures keeps the coloring from discord
and tawdriness.
On top of the library cornice or frieze are beautiful
vases, alternating with airy, winged figures; among these
last I noticed the lovely Isis, and the floating figure of
Fortune, just poised tiptoe on her globe, ready for a
flight.
"Is not all this charming?" asked Philip, as he rolled
a delightful easy-chair towards me, and placed under my
feet a gorgeously embroidered Persian cushion; then commenced showing to me his favorites among the treasures
of this pleasant retreat. Among other curiosities were
some very fine pipes, one a gift from Philip, a superb
chibouk, of black amber encrusted with diamonds.




SKY-ROCKETS.                 287
But the books gave us both the greatest satisfaction.
Luigi is the lucky owner of many curious and rare editions; he has an Aldine Odyssey, a Guntt Iliad, and an
Elzevir Virgil with a margin of five inches, over which
Philip's eyes looked notes of admiration of the largest
size and greatest number.
"See this, Ottilie," he cried.  "Here is an Elzevir
New Testament, translated by the Port-Royalists, of
which Jules Janin says so drolly,' If you find this book
in a good state, and have not money enough to buy it, go
immediately to the pawnbroker, and pawn your watch or
your gun, or anything that is yours, and buy this book;
then sit down with satisfaction over it, feeling sure of
having secured a good bargain.'"
He showed me some other Port Royalist books, and
made me observe their covers. Great ascetics as were
the Port-Royalists, they were very nice about their books.
They had a binding made expressly for themselves,
which is still known by the name of Jansenist binding.
While we were looking at the books, Janet, Venitia,
and Luigi joined us. Luigi left Philip to do the honors
of the library to Janet and me, and took Venitia to a
book-stand on which were placed some fine illustrated
folios on Architecture, Sculpture, and the various European galleries. They grew so interested over the prints,
that they seemed hardly conscious of our presence; and
yet I slyly noticed that they said little to each other, —
they were too quietly.happy to talk.
I leaned back in the easy-chair, half-listening to Janet's
and Philip's intelligent talk over the books, but at the
same time imagining I could read that sweeter, unspoken
lore contained in the hearts of the two half-conscious
lovers. I felt sure that a strange, sweet feeling was welling up in both.




288             ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
Venitia seemed lapped in a soft, luxurious dream, doubtless caused by finding herself suddenly lifted into the very
atmosphere of Luigi's daily, hourly life.  It was a delicious mystery being unveiled  to her.  That subtle
Frenchman who took women's hearts and clove them
"deep down the middle," said very truly, " It is so sweet
for women to know where and how those live who are
dear to them."
To Luigi it was the simple but exquisite pleasure of
having Venitia in his own home; it was a delicate sense
of possession, as it were, which, though it could only last
a brief season, still for that period it was real. This feeling showed itself in an expression which, though quiet,
was exultant. As I looked at his fine face, lighted up
with this happiness, I wished to whisper to Philip,
" Open the temple gates unto my love,
Open them wide, that she may enter in;
And all the posts adorn as doth behove,
And all the pillars deck with garlands trim."
Then I looked at Philip, and thought how different it
was with him. He was talking earnestly with Janet,
displaying all his fine powers of courteous argument,
which he loves to do with her. He has a great respect
for her almost masculine intellect, and an admiration for
her lovely character and high-bred manners. Sometimes
they have rather severe passes, arising from his forgetfulness for an instant of her superior abilities, and his treating her, as men always do women, when arguing with
them, as a child or inferior, who must be tenderly
borne with for its sweet ignorance' sake; but she soon
brings him to a consciousness that he is measuring swords
with an equal, and he likes her all the better for it.
I watched his animated countenance, full of life and




SKY-ROCKETS.                  289
energy; and, I thought, he has no sweet dreams to
preoccupy him, to make him gentle and at peace with
all humanity; for love acts thus upon cultured, superior
natures. Infatuated as Philip is with the young English
girl, the feeling has not yet taken deep enough root to
yield him the sweet fruit of joy and rest. There is some
of the dull pain of sorrow left rankling in his heart, just
enough to give'him a little goading sting; for, upon
bounding dispositions like his, which cannot be stilled by
any power but that called death, sorrow acts as a sort of
mental intoxication, producing a reckless, frolicsome state
of feeling, which partially, but only for a brief moment,
deadens the anguish of
"That old wound ever aching."
De. Quincey said he "made of grief a fiery chariot,
for mounting above the causes of grief." Philip uses his
as a bounding bark on a fast-running sea, under a head
wind; or, as if mounted on Arcite's horse,
" Who'd make his length a mile, if't pleased his rider
Put pride in him." *
And he does " put pride in" his, galloping bravely above
his " causes of grief."
After a while, we were all brought to one common
level, where love and divine philosophy were merged in
the enjoyment of more material pleasures. A delightful
fruit supper, with ices and wines, was brought in, and
served on Sevres dishes, whose pink hue was as delicate
as the Mediterranean conch-shell, and whose Etruscan
forms were quite in keeping with the frescoes of the room.
We drank each other's health in a parting glassful of the
luscious Capri wine, which rested on the tongue and in
* Fletcher's Two Noble Kinsmen.
13                            s




290            ST. MARTIN'S SUMMEgR.
the throat with a fragrant, fruity taste; and as I held up
the delicate-shaped, amber-colored Bohemian goblet to
the light, I thought how like molten gold the two mellow
hues united looked.
"Near midnight, on one side or the other it matters
little which, does it, Ottilie?" said Philip, gayly, as he
wrapped around me the pretty Arabian mantle he brought
me from the East, whose rich goat's-hair fringe looks
like the foam on cream, it is such a golden white.
We walked slowly along the broad Chiaja, for we had
dismissed the coach on going into Luigi's. The clear,
beautiful light of the young moon poured down a generous
flood over the lava-paved streets, the high white palaces
and thick foliage of the trees in the Villa Reale. The
crowd had all left that courtly, stately part of the town;
but every little while a chance petard could be heard, or
a whiz of a sky-rocket, from the more densely-populated
part of the city, and a distant murmur arose thence; but
the whole affair looked like a public garden towards daybreak, after a fete, very shabby and dilapidated.  God's
illumination, however, continued on, as fresh as at the
beginning; the blazing lava streamed down the mountain's side unceasingly, and the glorious, fiery vapor rose
up and curled superbly and slowly about the heavens,
spreading itself everywhere, as if conscious of its inexhaustible powers.
Venitia, Janet, and Luigi walked together; Philip and
I. We did not feel like talking, although Luigi tried to
by snatches; but Philip remained silent, wrapped in his
own meditations, yielding to the sweet influences of the
night, and some graceful poetic thought, which, as a chaste
young Muse, was wooing him on with pretty coquetry and
tender waywardness.




MALE BO LG E.
LARGE  party of us yesterday ascended
Vesuvius. We proposed going last Monday,
but have been waiting for Luigi, who has
been really ill since Trinity Sunday evening.
Indeed, he is far from well now, and quite unlike himself
in manner; so absent and preoccupied, that even he
notices it, for he tries to recover his old self-possession,
and in the attempt becomes unnatural and almost brusque.
This afternoon when he joined us he seemed so ill at ease
that I advised him to stay at home. But in a well-bred
way, without any disagreeable words, he made me understand that he did not like my counsel, and appeared annoyed at the notice I took of him. I said no more, and
felt relieved when I -remembered that I was to go with
the Rochesters, and not in our coach, where the constant
sight of his altered countenance would cause me pain and
anxiety.        I
I managed with all the adroitness I possess to have
Philip go with Mrs. Folham and Florence. I found they
expected to ask the handsome young Milnes, a nephew of
Mrs. Folham, to serve as their attendant; but as he is
one of the officers aboard the English royal navy ship
which is anchored in the harbor, there was a little doubt
about his obtaining a long enough leave of absence. Im



292            ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
mediately I suggested to Philip that it would be much
better for him to take charge of them, as, even supposing
Milnes should be able to go, he was too young to have
the entire care of both ladies: then. as I was to join the
Rochesters ih any arrangement, we could have two pleasant carriage loads, independent of the Minister's coaches.
I could hardly refrain from smiling while I was making
this remark to Philip, he looked so intensely gratified at
being able to arrange the party to please me, as he said;
and he set about it with angelic alacrity, getting rid thereby of a grand attack of the blues, which have been tormenting him for some days.
Philip possesses all the sterling points and special developments which characterize the artist; and these make
of him the most charming or the most disagreeable companion, the happiest or the most unhappy of men, just as
his capricious humors direct.  But it is good policy to
make such persons happy, they are such delightful companions when they are in good spirits.
There are two grand high-roads, however, which women
possess, if they only knew it, to the pleasant heights of
every man's good humor and tenderness: — one, through
the sweet path of his affections, which youth and beauty
tread so naturally; the other, by making him feel comfortable in his surroundings. By the first, his heart is
oftenest captivated; by the last practical, material one,alas for sentiment!- the masculine citadel is held most
securely.
Mais revenons a nos moutons in the shape of a burning
mountain. Dr. L, the famous encyclopedist, whom
I met the other evening at Mr. Rochester's, told me that
this eruption is one of the most remarkable eruptions that
have taken place in the mountain during the seventeen




MALEBOLGE.                 293
hundred and seventy-eight years it has been known as an
actual volcano.
I have never felt until now any desire to ascend Vesuvius; and during my visit at Naples I have often quoted
the droll, original remark of Goethe's artist-friend, Tischbein: " Such a frightful and shapeless conglomeration
of matter, which, moreover, is continually preying.on
itself, and proclaiming war against every idea of the
beautiful, is utterly abominable."
Vesuvius is a marvellous sight, however, to look at
from a distance, and adds a valuable feature to this peculiar landscape, -a landscape which is so widely different
from any I have ever seen, — Elysium and Tartarus.
Instead of calling the mountain a great altar, I feel much
more like using the German artist's words, when I look
at it, " This peak of Hell thus rearing itself in the middle
of Paradise!"
But the present eruption gives the mountain a certain
beauty; it has taken a voice, and shows forked, fiery
tongues; therefore it is less terrible to me than when
that fearful phantom-like cloud hung over its head,
pressing down upon it the dread weight of silence,
an appalling silence, like some indistinct approaching sorrows. For some time past the mountain has been showing symptoms of returning animation; the earth has been
shaken, the springs of water dried up, and various other
threatening signs of impending trouble and destruction
have been given.
There is a curious volcanic group collected around this
Crater Bay, as Strabo calls the lovely Bay of Naples;
consisting of Ischia, Procida, the Solfatara, Monte Nuovo,
and Vesuvius. In the centre of them lies the Aphrodite
Naples on this




294            ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
"Vesuvian bay's deep breast,"
which, like another Adonis, is forever fleeing from her.
The subtle, dangerous volcanic fluid creeps beneath and
around the city unheeded; and in some places, as in the
Solfatara, the fiery vapor rises, like Hamlet's dead father,
mysterious and ghostlike, out of the apparently solid
ground. The ancients believed the whole of this country
was subterraneously connected with the Sicilian volcanoes.
In speaking of Pindar's myth concerning Typhon,
"upon whose shaggy breast the sea-girt shores beyond
Cumma and Sicily press," Strabo says: "Pindar throws
more credibility into the myth, by making it conformable
to the actual phenomena; for the whole strait from Cumae
to Sicily is subigneous, and below the sea has certain galleries, which form a communication between the volcanoes
of the island and those of the mainland."
The only active crater among the Neapolitan group,
during the last three hundred years, has been Vesuvius;
but, like the others, it was at one time extinct, and only
in legend, scarcely in memory, did its volcanic history
remain.
Before the time of Titus there rested on its hot bosom,
nearly to the top of its crater summit, peaceful, cultivated fields, such as can be seen to-day on Monte Nuova.
Strabo, in his description of the Campania, speaks of.Mount Vesuvius as being covered with beautiful fields,
except on its summit, which he says looks as if it had
been some time subjected to the action of fire, and that it
might be inferred that the place was formerly in a burning state, with live craters.
Every lover of Plutarch will remember reading in the
life of Marcus Crassus - the grandson of that solemn old
Roman who was never known to laugh -the account of




MALEBOLGE.                  295
Spartacus and his band, and their use of this Vesuvian
crater.  Its now " misty brim" was then made up of
rough and slippery precipices, covered with wild vines,
the stems and branches of which were of old enough
growth to support the -swaying, heavy bodies of those
athletic Thracian shepherd gladiators, as they swung
stealthily down to the sloping grass-covered bottonm of
the crater. And this feat of those "forty thousand huge
barbarians" took place nearly a century before the birth
of our blessed Lord.
In the present eruption, four new craters have formed
along the sides of the mountain, some distance below the
cone; and from these openings great streams of lava course
down. Two are on the side towards Naples.
The eruptions heretofore have always proceeded from
the summit; and it is feared that this new development
may cause a great change in the form of Vesuvius, which
would be a great pity, for no one would like to see this
most prominent feature of the Bay of Naples altered in
one jot or tittle. The eruption of 79 A. D., —the one
that destroyed Herculaneum and Pompeii, -made enough
change in the form of this mountain, for it had then a
great part of its grandeur of outline torn away.
Vesuvius must have loomed out finely before that eruption. All the semicircular mountain which lies around
the north and east, called Monte Somma, was incorporated with it; and there are several points of view, especially at the Amphitheatre of Pompeii, from whence can
be formed some idea how it might then have looked. It
is easy to fancy the immense crater it formed; and the
sight of the first gigantic fire lighted upon its summit, by
unseen hands as it were, must have been glorious. Such
an immense burning mountain! — a Titanic altar reared




296            ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
almost to the skies! —Jupiter Summus burning incense
to the New Revelation!
During our drive yesterday, we talked over this past
history of the volcano, each one contributing his or her
little information to the conversation.  We found the
road thronged with persons of every rank and condition. Some frightened peasants, whose little homes
lay alarmingly near the lava streams, were hurrying in
to Naples with all their earthly goods on their backs
or on their mules; other country persons, with some of
the idle population of Naples, were following a grand
religious procession, which was directly in front of our
carriages, headed by the patron saint of Naples, San
Januarius. The fine life-size silver bust -the same one
we saw so superbly adorned with precious gems on the
great festival day of the Liquefaction at Santa Chiara -
was carried aloft by tall stalwart men, under a crimson
canopy, whose gold cords and tassels swung and glittered
finely in the sunlight. Around and behind us were
equipages of princes, nobles, and commoners, mingled
without difference together.
It proved a lucky chance for us that we were directly
behind the procession, for a path was thus opened, which
would otherwise have been entirely blocked up by the
immense crowd, which swayed to and fro like waves under contrary winds, - a. Neapolitan crowd too, that never
budges but for a procession and a saint.
As we wound slowly up the mountain road, the view
grew more glorious in beauty. The sun was setting; the
surface of the bay sparkled brilliantly; the beautiful city
rose gracefully up out of the swelling waters, and her
Sorrentine and Mysentine promontories stretched out
like graceful arms embracing the eager but fast-fleeing




MALEBOLGE.                  297
sea. The volcanic islands Capri, Ischia, and Procida
were bathed in the golden purple of the sunlight; and,
far off in the distance, spurs of the Apennines stretched
along the dazzling west, whose summits glowed as with
living fire; while level clouds were spread on the brilliant
horizon, looking like heavenly floors for angels, such as
can be seen in the works of the early painters.
The rose and the golden struggled together in the atmosphere. - All the local colors of vegetation seemed to
have disappeared. In some places the ruddy hue prevailed, making crimson the paler greens; while mingling
with every shade was a sparkle like delicate golden dust.
A landscape painter might have studied there curious
effects produced by the light on the various tints of the
scenery; but to have given the truthful tone, it would
have been necessary for the artist to use gold itself for
the highest lights, as did those old painters, Perugino
and others, who sometimes gilded their distant trees, and
the glorified threads of hair in their saints and singularly lovely Madonnas.
It was a glorious piece of harmony, like some of
Beethoven's instrumentation or Chopin's mysterious
melodic weavings. We were on a sufficiently high elevation to see the extent of Nature's marvellous power.
The range of a magnificent orchestra of color was
attained. There was the rich hue of the setting sun on
one side, and the mellow light of Vesuvius on the other.
Every variety of cloud was spread over the sky, from the
level ones of the horizon to the dropping flaky bits near
the zenith, that melted off and were "gathered up like
young souls into heaven." The upper strata of clouds
had a different tone from the lower, yet they all blended
in perfect harmony, and seemed like many "golden aisles
13*




298             ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
penetrating through angelic chapels to the Shekinah of
the blue."
Even now as I write these words, striving to weave,
together, as in the sacred chord, the names of colors, in
order to paint in language, as it were, my memory of this
sunset, the whole rises up in that mysterious chamber of
the mind called imagination, which is "tessellated with
floating fancies of the blue shadow and burning gold,"
and
"With dreamful eyes,
My spirit lies,
Under the walls of Paradise."
But to feel the full meaning of these faint words, one
must have seen such a sunset, on such a night, from the
side of this famous old altar mountain, on the lovely
shores of the Vesuvian Bay.
About nightfall we reached the Hermitage, where we
supped; then proceeded with guides, torches, and our
own servants up the mountain footpaths, in order to approach as near the lava streams and craters as was prudent. The stream of lava that is now coursing through
the Atrio del Cavallo - the valley or gorge that lies between Monte Somma and Vesuvius —is the larger of
the two which flow down the south side of the mountain.
This stream is fed by an immense crater on the northeast. Of course this fiery spring was worth seeing; hut
we had to mount some eminence, from the top of which
we could look over into the crater, and this was no easy
task.
The only available heights were heaps or hillocks of
old lava, standing on the edge of the crater, and through
the bases of which the treacherous flood was beginning
to creep. Notwithstanding this, we selected one which




MALEBOLGE.                  299
looked blacker and therefore safer than the others, and
commenced the scramble up.
The surface of the lava hillock was almost as hot and
steaming as a covering of wet ashes spread over a coal
fire. At every step the lava gave way and crumbled
under us, scorching our boots and crisping our gloves;
for we had to clamber up on all fours, each one for himself or herself. At last, breathless and trembling, we
reached the summit, which we found harder and cooler
for our feet than the sides had been, and the view it commanded well repaid us for the labor.
We leaned over and looked down into the crater beneath, whose red-hot fluid came pouring out of the mountain's side like molten iron in a huge puddling furnace:
"'So fell the eternal fiery flood, wherewith
The marl glowed underneath."
It was a veritable lake or'gulf of fire, and vividly recalled Dante's fearful descriptions in the Inferno of the
horrible gulfs in the Eighth Circle.  While I was looking
earnestly and in silence down into the crater, Janet, who
was near by, asked me in a low voice if I felt like leaping over.
"I never stand on the brinks of precipices or great
heights," I replied, " without recalling a constant dream
possession or power I have, - flying. In my dreams, —
and I never sleep without dreaming, - I do not seem to
be walking, but always balancing in the air pleasantly; or
soaring off gloriously, and so strong is the impression it
leaves upon me, that sometimes in my waking momenta I
alrhost fancy I possess this impossible power."
" Well, my dear Ottilie, there is one thing certain, if
you feel disposed to try your dream-wings in this place,
it would not be many moments before you would know




300             ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
the great secret. All our mysterious life-problems, my
friend, would be quickly resolved for you, and the' distorted wills' that give so much trouble here on earth
would soon be made wondrous straight after such a
leap."
We were surrounded by a crowd, for we had found
that little hillock swarming with human beings as venturous as ourselves; therefore we had to talk almost
in a whisper. After a few half-playful, half-serious remarks, we concluded wisely not to leap over, but to stay
and enjoy the gradual severing of life's hard knots, and
the curious beautiful straightening of crooked human designs, which are sure to be made all in good time by
God's own handiwork; for had not Janet, at least, seen
these marvellous things down in her own past? This
subject ended, I quoted, in halting lines, passages from
Dante, of the place
"' within the depth of Hell
Called Malebolge ";
and as the flames of the fresh lava glided slowly up and
around huge bits of stone or " glowing marl," - the oily
character of the fluid showing itself everywhere, - we
imagined the flaming feet of the poor wretches the Italian
poet described as plunged headforemost into those fearful
gulfs of fire.
The night was comparatively dark, for the moon had
not yet risen. The whole mountain was alive with people, who were scattered over its sides. In every direction we could see the torchlights of different parties, but
not the people themselves, and once in a while, in order
to make a torch burn brighter, a guide would knock its
end on the ground or against a stone, sending out myriads
of sparks.




MALEBOLGE.                  301
I looked up to the quiet star-lit sky, and then down
the mountain-side on these thousands of' torchlights. It
seemed like a vast ocean lying beneath my feet, reflecting
on its throbbing bosom the stars above, while around me
rose up, in the place of ocean roar and rushing wave
sweep, the hum of human voices and the muffled crackle
of the lava flood.
We stayed on our perilous height as long as we dared.
It was only when we saw through its fissures the red fire
sparkle, felt the heat through our heavy-soled boots, and
were assured by the timid Neapolitan guides that the
mass was actually beginning to move, that we had power
to break through the fascination which the glorious sight
exercised over us.
The descent was as difficult, and to me more so, than
the ascent. I looked with envy at Mrs. Rochester and
Janet, who went bounding down lightly like little kids.
My ankles trembled under me; and but for Mr. Rochester
and his valet Domenico, I do not know how I should have
accomplished the task. They lifted me from one slippery,
sinking foothold to another too quickly to allow my feet
to sink into the steaming crevices.
It was the work of only a few instants, but one of
great excitement. After we had reached the ground we
turned to look at the hillock, and could see the lava current sparkling through all its little openings. Before we
left the mountain last night, that whole hillock was incorporated with the main stream and was one mass of flaming fluid.
After the bustle of descent was over, we seated ourselves on the banks of the Atrio del Cavallo, to rest our
bruised, blistered limbs on the dry, scorched ferns, and
also to enjoy the grand view laid out before us.




302              ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
The forms into which the lava flood falls are beautiful.
In its descent I watched its action, when it encountered
heaps of earth, or stone, or mounds of old lava; the fire
stream would seem to halt, as if accumulating its gathering forces, which were rushing army-like out of the crater
above, and the fluid would creep around, under, and even
through the obstructing mass, looking then like some Alpine cascades I have seen, where the intervening rock is
formed of regular and horizontal strata, through which
the water forces its way, spouting out in exquisite little
jets; this would last a few moments, then the flood, receding for an instant, would come rolling over in one
grand sheet of fire, with all the abandonment of a great
cataract, then surge on in a quiet, flaming torrent.
Dante came again to our memories, as he does at every
step in Southern.Italy.  Janet and I pictured, in the
strange, weird forms of the lava flood," the fell monster
who taints all the world,"'Geryon, on whose serpent-back
Virgil and Dante descended to the fearful Eighth Circle,
and as the fire-fall poured on, we repeated with more intense interest than we had ever felt before,"Naught but the beast was possible to view:
He slowly, slowly wound in many a curve;
Though only from a wind, which upward blew
Against my face, his course I could observe.
Down on the right, I heard the whirlpool seethe,
Where splashing fell the horrible cascade;
And, straining forth my neck to gaze beneath,
At the dread plunge I grew still more afraid,
Such groans I heard, and saw such glare of fires,
Whereat I shrunk, all quivering with affright;
And marked his manner of descent, in spires,
Which until now the darkness kept from sight." s
Gradually we both stopped talking, and as we leaned
* Dr. Parsons's Dante, Canto 17.




MALEBOLGE.                  303
back against the ferny bank, enjoying that singular luxury
of a fatigue which arises from labor which has gratified
the mind while it has wearied the body, we listened to
the remarks of the others around us. They were talking
of the appearance of the lava. Some compared it to melted
gold (which not many of us had ever seen, I fancy); others
quoted from Mrs. Jameson the word she applied to it, -
"trickling"; to me it looked like molten iron, it poured
on with the same oily, smooth sweep. Another peculiarity I noticed in this lava fire, - its slowness and stillness. It seemed like a furious torrent which was too far
off for us to distinguish its rapidity or noise; and yet we
were within a few feet of the fiery stream.
At last Mr. Rochester sounded the prudent signal of
retreat, which I, for one, most unwillingly obeyed. With
lingering steps, looking back all the while, we returned
to the Hermitage of San Salvadore, where we re-entered
our carriages and proceeded homewards.
Soon after we started, the moon rose on the opposite
side of the mountain, - the Mediterranean side, - filling
to the very " beaded brim" this chalice of beauty.  The
vapor rising from the mountain and lava streams was
rosy, and the rocks and trees had a soft, delicate light
thrown over them, like an early twilight. I. have never
seen the Vesuvius light accurately represented in any
picture.  Painters make it too fiery; on the contrary,
there is in the light of burning lava a mellow, rich hue,
which is soft and brilliant, with more carmine in its red
than vermilion, and golden or rose-colored in its high
light, not yellow or orange.
The whole scene was unearthly in its loveliness, and it
exercised over my feelings the most beneficent influence.
There seemed to be no past or future, no memory of sor



3014             ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
row. Life's hopes and cares and questionings were suspended, and for a brief season my spirit was lifted, as it
were, into a higher range of being, where only the memories of the great and good things of this world existed, -
into a region of eternal beauty, - for even the ruin and
desolation of parts of the country through which we were
passing were annihilated by the magical effects of that
heavenly light.
"And thou didst shine, thou rolling moon, upon
All this, and cast a wide and tender light,
Which softened down the hoar austerity
Of rugged desolation, and filled up,
As't were anew, the gaps of centuries;
Leaving that beautiful which still was so,
And making that which was not, till the place
Became religion, and the heart ran o'er
With silent worship of the great and old, -
The dead, but sceptred sovereigns, who still rule
Our spirits from their urns."
A complete silence reigned in our carriage. Not until
we rolled into Resina did we break the stillness; even
then, we said but a few words, and, without apology,
each one fell back into that " serene and blessed mood"
which the beautiful night had created.
My pleasant dreamings were a little disturbed by entering the dark city, which was as still as if hushed by enchantment; and as the carriages rumbled over the stone
flags of the Largo del Mercato, and the Largo del Palazzo
Reale, where the gas seemed to burn with a weird and
ghostly light, I shivered. It seemed like Nouronihar's and
Vathek's descent into the fearful hall of Eblis by huge
marble stairs, on each one of which "were planted two
large torches." But suddenly we came out on the Santa
Lucia, where the whole glorious sight of flaming mountain, rosy light, silvery moonbeams, and glittering waters




MALEBOLGE.                305
burst on me again, and broke most pleasantly this transient illusion, which had been thrown over my excited
imagination by the dimly-lighted, gloomy streets.
We swept around the Chiatamone into the stately,
calm Chiaja, and on up to the MIergellina, where, at three
o'clock of this lovely moonlight morning, we routed up
our pretty, good-natured portiere, feeling very willing,
not only to rest our weary bodies, but repose our brains,
which had been so stimulated by the sublime sight as to
be overcharged with nervous fluid even to painfulness.




THREE DEAD CITIES.
NOTICE, on looking over my journal, that I
have not recorded one half of the wonderful
things which I have been seeing and learning.
On first arriving I gave conscientiously the
history of everything which I saw; but this industrious
spirit has left me. Churches, cities of the dead, ruins, all
the marvellous spots which then stood out so boldly to
be noticed, have fallen back under the haze of enjoyment
which envelops everything in this lovely place, - one's
self, one's actions, and one's associates.
Goethe said well of Naples: "You forget yourself
and the world here, in going about with persons who
think of nothing but of being happy." In Italy we soon
grow acclimated in spirit as well as in body, and learn to
prefer, as the Italian does, this life of sensation, ease, and
pleasure to one of thought and mental labor.
Every cause of annoyance, too, appears to be with
drawn from me; it is as if I stood on charmed ground.
Even the dreaded letters do not arrive, and I have not
felt for months that sharp heart-click which the sight of
home writing causes me. Home! what bitter irony and
sorrow there is sometimes in that little word. Yes, I
seem protected, as by some sweet enchantment, from the
power of the dread angel Ahrim, whose triple scourge of




THREE DEAD CITIES.               307
Darkness, Misery, and Death I have so often felt.  I
"hide my life " in a luxurious, happy dream.
Philip also repeats Goethe: "Naples is a paradise;
in it every one lives in a sort of self-forgetfulness.  I
scarcely know myself; I seem quite an altered being; and
I say,' Either I have always been mad or I am so now."'
Lately I have been visiting various celebrated places
in the neighborhood of Naples, making short excursions
which have taken only a day for the jaunt. One of these
pleasant journeys was to Amalfi. We went by rail to
La Cava; there we took carriages and drove to Amalfi.
This drive made a strong impression on me, for Nature
showed itself so luxuriant and lovely in the foliage of the
trees, the vast quantities of beautiful flowers, and the enchanting coloring of the mountains and sea; then the
picturesque character of the villages scattered about added a great deal to the peculiar charm of the landscape.
The mountains were covered with chestnuts and oaks
to their very summits, and were fronted by a secondary
line of hills, on which rose up orange- and olive-trees;
sometimes these hills were terraced, and bore various
kinds of grain, whose different shades made them look
like strips of brilliant-hued cloth or velvet rolled out on
the hill summits. Garlands of the vine, laden with clusters of young grapes, hung in graceful festoons from the
branches of the filbert, fig, and other fruit- and nut-trees.
Then came a succession of cool-looking recesses in these
luxuriant hills, little dells intersected by deep ravines,
which were covered with rich foliage close down to the
margin of a hurrying stream, or the garden edge of a
peasant's home, clusters of picturesque houses, while here
and there peeped out a delizia, or villa, as if to look us a
welcome. Now all this scene must be colored with the




308            ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
entrancing atmospheric hue which is only to be found in
Southern Italy, and the flashing sea introduced to give
life to its loveliness.
It was quite late in the morning when our carriages
approached Amalfi. There lay the beautiful gulf with
the mountains rising up, shutting off the snow-white town
from the interior; and as I noticed this, I remembered
what I had read long ago in Mitford's Greece, that
"Amalfi had always been subjected to the local disadvantages of being situated so as to be excluded from the
neighboring country by a range of very difficult mountains." But its situation is fine for landscape beauty;
there is a deep mountain gorge, a torrent dashing into the
gulf, and the old dowager duchess of a city lies there
mouldering on the coast.
Amalfi! I looked at the poor little ruined place while
our donkeys clambered up and down the streets, which
are forever mounting and descending, and it seemed
hardly possible to me that this dilapidated collection of
strange looking old houses could ever have been a great
seaport, —the Athens of the Middle Ages, the rival
of Venice!
It was once a successful republic which coined its own
money; had extensive commerce; owned streets and
quarters in far-off great cities, factories in Constantinople
and Bagdad, and before the time of the Crusaders had a
church and convent in Jerusalem for pilgrims: but it
went to sleep many hundred years ago. Magnetica
Amalfi! It gave to the world the mariner's compass,
and during the Crusading wars the proud Amalfitan standard was emblazoned with the compass cross.
At last, man and the sea overpowered this bold, busy
little republic.  Bloody battles and fearful engulfings




THREE DEAD CITIES.             309
laid it low; and now nothing remains, -not even ruins, of
the once crowded quays and arsenals: for the plashing
waters of the gulf ride as proudly over them as Amalfitan
navies once did on the haughty and destroying breast of
the glittering, treacherous sea.
I had not as much satisfaction as usual in the Almafi
visit; the party was too large and gay, and Philip and
Luigi were not with us. The whole affair was confused
and bustling. We were a merry, noisy set, with more
curiosity than reverence, and more quick-witted cleverness than information; but I will not be ungracious, for a
great deal of care and indeed expense was generously
given and incurred by the hospitable planners of the
jaunt.
We first visited the Cathedral, a Saracenic building,
with a joyful looking campanile, and gay-tiled cupolas
and domes. St. Andrew the Apostle is buried in the
crypt. Once this cathedral was a favorite resort for pilgrims; St. Francis of Assisium visited it, and many other
holy persons; a wonderful miracle was here vouchsafed
to the faithful in those believing days, but it is still and
dead now!
Some members of our gay party hunted up two famous sarcophagi, one of which was found built into the
wall of the church; and they traced with great interest in
the fine bas-relief adorning it a classic legend, the Rape
of Proserpine. Others gathered admiringly around the
great bronze doors of the cathedral, which are over a
thousand years old; they were made by some Byzantine
artist, when Amalfi was still young and powerful; they
have Latin inscriptions in silver letters, telling that one
Panteleone di Maura erected them in honor of St. Andrew
and for his own soul's salvation.




310            ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
While the rest were loitering over some of the cathedral wonders, I stood alone on the top of the high broad
stone steps, and gazed dreamily down into the square or
piazza beneath; the elevation was so great that I seemed
to be standing on the first platform  of a mountain. I
thought of those wonderful old Catholic days in 800 and
900 A. D., the first period of Amalfi's greatness. Then
my memory swept on to 1200, 1300, and 1400, when the
town was a place of holy pilgrimage for great saints and
sovereigns. My busy fancy filled the spacious flight of
stone steps and the broad piazza with stately processions,
banner>s, incense, and all the superb adornments of grand
religious ceremonies. Nothing for a little while interfered with my vision, which grew very vivid. The square
was quite empty; a few idlers had collected there to
look at the donkeys waiting fbr our party. The water of
the piazza fountain spouted out from.the stone statues
grouped around it, and plashed refreshingly in the huge
basins.  Suddenly our whole party came out of the cathedral, eager for a new sight; the donkey-drivers gave
shrill cries; some, pretty girls of our company laughed
merrily over the ragged trappings of the poor beasts, and
my day-dream of the Middle Ages faded away in the
bright noonday light.
"No voice, no lute, no pipe, no incense sweet
From chain-swung censer teeming;
No shrine, no grove, no oracle, no heat
Of pale-mouthed prophet dreaming."
First, the donkeys took us to the Convent of the Capuchins, at the west end of the coast opposite the town, to
reach which we had to ascend the steepest of rocky paths.
Even those of us who had never visited Italy before knew
this place better than any other spot in or around Amalfi.




THREE DEAD CITIES.             311
Years ago, when I was a girl, I sketched the beautiful
cloisters of this convent as a drawing-lesson, and on their
dwarf-coupled columns and lancet arches I had received
my first impressions of Christian architectural symbolism;
and after many long years, here I was standing, looking at the cloisters, the very stones!
I rubbed my eyes and wondered if it was not some fine
dream; then in order to get rid of the people, who
were talking busily, I left the cloisters and returned to a
picturesque grotto at the head of the rock, near which we
had alighted from our donkeys on first reaching the summit; there I stayed alone until the rest of the party were
ready to descend.
I found some thoughtless young girls and youths in the
grotto laughing, innocently though irreverently, at a rude
representation of the Passion in wooden life-size figures.
As I entered, they passed on and were soon out of sight.
I knelt down on the stones outside of this wild place, and
gazed off on the beautiful sea. Amalfi lay on the mountain slope to the left of me, and on the beach beneath
were some Moorish looking persons, - fishermen, - and
groups of children rolling over and playing with the sand,
pebbles, and waves.
There was a wonderful loveliness in the sea, sky, and
land, and, added to the beauty of nature, swift crowding
memories of the great old past came flashing like lightning before me, hovering and vanishing just as I would
try to dwell on some single one.
A boat put off from shore; its graceful undulating motion was like a satisfactory time-beat, or well-accented
rhythm in a great symphony, after a passage of perplexed
harmonies. A wandering stream of wind came from the
west, sweeping like a pleasant wave over me, bringing an




312             ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
echo of the murmuring mountain woods, where it had
been toying with
"Meeting boughs and implicated leaves."
Presently I saw it catch the lateen sails of the bark;
they expanded, and as the boat sailed off it looked like a
huge nautilus floating just for beauty's sake. I wished to
be in it, for it was speeding fast towards that famous colony of the Sybarites, now lying dead on the distant shore
of the gulf, and whose mysterious ruins I am longing to
see, - Poestum.
The sea washed up with "hollow harmony" on the
polished pebbles, which shone like gems in the sun, giving the beach a glorious brilliancy. It made me very
happy to look at this wide expanse of rich-hued sky, the
soft lines of the distant mountains faint and aerial as rosy
melting clouds, the bold, beautiful Amalfi slope sweeping
gracefully down to the beach, and the broad stretch of
dazzling waters; to breathe the sweet fragrance of the
foliage, and listen to the faint melody that surrounded me.
"Delicious sounds! those little bright-eyed things
That float about the air on azure wings."
To see and feel all this loveliness was such a pleasure,
that for a while I forgot the perilous heights of pain I had
had to scale in order to reach this point of my existence,
I thought of nothing but the simple joy of' living.
My pleasant solitude was soon disturbed by our noisy
party assembling on the height behind me, ready to descend the hill. There is this advantage in large parties
of well-bred society folk, - each one is taken up with his
or her impressions du voyage, and so occupied with expressing them, that the doings of a silent recreant like
myself pass unnoticed.




THREE DEAD CITIES.               313
The brave little donkeys carried us pell-mell down the
steep descent, urged by the laughs of the riders and cries
of the drivers. It seemed very dangerous, and I have no
doubt our high gale of frolicsome mirth made it perilous;
but who ever takes heed of risk on a journey? There is
a strange sense of security, which almost every one feels,
and which is without reasonable foundation, I know; for,
what merit or virtue lies in the responsibility of directors
of either donkeys or rail-cars, after one's limbs are broken
or life lost?  But this sense is a lucky possession, and
every traveller should cultivate it, in order to be free
from all drawbacks of timid apprehensions.
We made a gay flight of it down that precipitous steep.
Young girls, who rarely spoke in loud, natural voices in
drawing-rooms, pealed out merry rings of the joyfulest
laughter; the young men forgot their Sir Charles Coldstream indifference and society accent, and mingled their
frank, manly ejaculations of frolic-fun with the shrill cries
of the drivers: for there is something in nature's influence, if there is nothing in society; while the dear little
serious donkeys trotted swiftly and safely from one rocky
step to the other, seeming to pay no attention to us foolish human beings.
We did not dismount when we reached the town, but
crossed the Cathedral square again, and went, in the opposite direction, to the Vallee di Molino, Valley of the Mills,
where we were to dine al fresco. This short donkey-ride
to the valley was one of the most remarkable features of
the day, the road was so curious.
We first went through a dark passage, in which was a
Moorish archway, with a shrine that had a flickering
lamp and a vase of fresh flowers before the Greek-looking
Madonna. The place grew more and more obscure, the
14




314            ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
air was filled with moisture, and we heard rushing, falling
waters around us; but we could see nothing distinctly.
The pretty, girlish laughs were stilled, and the young
Coldstreams of our party grew courageous and protecting
in their assurances of " no danger whatever."
This lasted but a few moments, when we came out into
all the daylight to be found in narrow streets bordered by
high houses. The little hoofs of the donkeys pattered up
and down the rugged paths, which were like stone staircases. We were so close to the houses, that it seemed
more like going through them than beside them. The
inhabitants of the dwellings, some of whom were busy
making the macaroni for which the town is now noted,
left their work, and leaned listlessly out of the windows
and over the terrace rails to look at our laughing cavalcade.
Arches and staircase-streets followed in succession, the
donkeys trotting skilfully along; presently we came out
on a mountain gorge, through which dashed a little
glancing torrent. It was the Valle del Molino, Valley
of the Paper Mills. High mountains rose up around us,
and the foaming stream went'leaping over the jagged,
rocky bed, making beautiful cascades in its hurry; the
shivering aspen-trees on the borders bent their branches
down, as if to catch a sight of their trembling forms in the
broken surface of the waters, and seemed to grow more
quivering as the shattered reflection was cast up to them
with the spray.
Along the sides of the gorge were ruins of the Middle
Ages, which have since been used as paper mills, but are
now deserted. The walls were covered with maiden-hair
fern, and all the climbing bind-weeds and club-mosses
peculiar to this luxuriant climate, whose soft, serrated




THREE DEAD CITIES.             315
leaves waved to and fro in the breeze. We went to the
highest plateau of this lovely spot, where we found a low,
picturesque wall, and some broken marble columns, which
served for seats and tables. Here we dined or lunched.
Champagne corks snapped; piates de foie gras and other
delicious dishes were taken from the well-stocked hampers, and eaten with fine appetite, - indeed, with a hunger that is rarely given to such luxurious food; peals of
la'ughter rung out; snatches of opera melodies and barcarolles were trilled; pretty words of society compliment
talked: it was a true Boccaccio fete, and, as I looked at
the white walls overrun with verdure, and the branches
of orange- and myrtle-trees leaning against the building,
I recalled that poet's admiration of Amalfi. Some day
our own little family party must go to Valle di Molino;
the four lovers will be very happy there.
The drive home did not seem a repetition of the morning's pleasure; it was like something new. I noticed
more carefully the beautiful route. All the way from
Amalfi to Vietri the road lies along the coast and winds
around the bend of land which forms the'western shore
of the Gulf of Salerno, doubling and redoubling as it
follows the irregularites of outline.
The superb scenery looked even more attractive in the
late afternoon glow than it had in the morning light, and
I understood better its geographical position. I traced
with my eye the high mountainous country of the Sorrentine promontory, which lies on the west side of the
Gulf, the Apennine offsets; and then, turning, gazed
down the eastern shore, which stretches out to Paestum's
coast, far off in the almost invisible distance.
Close at hand new points of scenery opened on us, and
we noticed fresh beauties. The golden, poetic fruit and




316             ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
snowy bridal blossoms of the orange and lemon scattered
perfume around us. Every little while we saw groups
of olive-trees, standing midway up a hill, their dull leaves
turned gently back by the western breeze, which was
dying away; and as their gray masses rested against the
dark foliage of the chestnuts and oaks above and around
them, they looked like soft
"Clouds suspended in an emerald sky."
Undine waterfalls tumbled down the numberless ravines,
and sung their sunset song, as they danced gayly on to the
Gulf. That beautiful Gulf! Not a zephyr ruffled its
surface, and it was
"Filled with the face of heaven, which, from afar,
Comes down upon the waters."
Amethystine blue lay near the shore, while farther out it
looked like broad plains of malachite and gold. There
was not a cloud in the heavens, and all the various colors
seemed indeed to be
"Melted into one vast Iris of the west,
Where the day joins the past eternity."
After we left the coast-road and turned in towards La
Cava, our attention was attracted by the numberless wildflowers which were spread in lavish profusion over the
banks, on either side of the road. We stopped the carriages, and gathered huge bunches of cowslips, daisies,
musky wood-violets, and blood-red anemones. At La
Cava we again took the rail-cars, as we had in the morning, and crossed this little point of land, which forms the
left side of the Bay of Naples, - the same Sorrentine
promontory over whose western shore, on the Salerno
Gulf side, we had just been travelling. When we reached
Pompeii, we found our carriages waiting for us, as we had




THREE DEAD CITIES.             317
ordered they should in the morning. We could have
gone all the way to Naples by Tail, but we wished to
enjoy the evening drive on this lovely Mediterranean
shore, of which we never grow weary.
We visited Herculaneum and Pompeii a few days ago,
and I brought back only a few pleasant memories. As I
walked through the confined streets, and looked at the
little houses of Pompeii, it was difficult for me to realize
that living people had ever inhabited them. The place
seemed less like a real town than a collection of models,
made to show in miniature the way the ancients lived.
There are in my memory two separate and distinct
images of these exhumed places. One, the more agreeable
of the two, was gained by looking at the curious and
interesting things taken from these towns, which are collected together in the Musie Bourbonique; the other, and
totally different one, was produced by the visit I paid to
the towns themselves. The first fills me with wonder and
admiration; the last with disagreeable disappointment:
moreover, I can never connect the two.
It is incomprehensible to me how a people who displayed such perfect artistic taste in all the appointments
of domestic life should have put up with such contracted
accommodations. The mere door-latches, bolts, handles,
locks, and keys were of bronze, and richly worked, showing that the Pompeiians possessed a microscopic eye for
ornamental detail, but no refined need for home space and
personal comfort.  Shop weights, braziers for boiling
water, portable stoves, made also of bronze, graceful in
form, of exquisite workmanship, small and elegant enough
to set on a table as ornaments, were used daily by these
people, who had not even comfortable sleeping apartments, whose home rooms were mere side-closets, and




318            ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
whose largest dining and reception-halls were only twenty
feet square.
Rich decorations, however, were lavished on these little
rooms.  The floors were covered with costly mosaics;
the ceilings and walls with frescoes; while columns, hung
with rich tapestry, bordered the inner courts, in the centre
of which were always little gardens and fountains.
The men lived abroad in the superb public buildings,
the temples, forum, and luxurious baths; as for the
women, life was not equally shared with them, nor arranged for their comfort, as in these pleasant days; for in
this good nineteenth century, though there may be instances
of old heathen injustice and selfish disregard of women's real
rights, they are rare and individual ones, — exceptions,
really, to the general spirit, which is disposed to be
honest, and give us a fairer portion in life than has ever
before been granted.
The solemn, dark labyrinthine passages of Hercula.
neum were more attractive to me than the baby-house
appearance of Pompeii; there was at least the mystery
of darkness hanging over them.  Luigi told me that
one of these galleries in Herculaneum led to the villa in
which were found the beautiful sitting statue of Agrippina
mourning Germanicus, the divine Plato head, the dreamy
Scipio, and the troubled, perplexed Seneca.
Whose villa was this? What an abode of luxury, refinement, and pleasure was darkened in one single night,
-a night, too, that was to last for centuries.
Notwithstanding the little disappointment which is first
experienced on seeing these diminutive houses, it is impossible to stand in the streets of these buried towns
without feeling deep emotions, and such, too, as no other
place in the world can create.




THREE DEAD CITIES.              319
The busy waves of life were surging as roughly and
rolling on as swiftly in those buried towns as in our
crowded cities of to-day. Human beings were gathered
together, each one of whom had his or her own secret
history. Hopes, fears, and ambitions choked the life current, and caused the same faintness with apprehension,
the same exaltation with fast-fading success, which we
suffer. Existence was glorious to some; others carried
hopelessly aching hearts, or secret sins, hidden, like the
man's viper hand in the legend, in the discreet folds of
life's mantle, which devoured noiselessly to the heart-core.
Vigorous life, feeble health, each were alike suddenly suspended; and here beneath these ruins they have mouldered and mingled, with lava and dust, for nearly two
thousand years.
The situation of the Tragic Theatre at Pompeii pleased
us very much. The building was above the general level
of the city; it stood on the southern slope of a hill, was
semicircular, and every part was lined with Parian
marble. The seats faced the Mediterranean; and as the
Theatre was open to the air, the audience commanded
two luxuries at once: while enjoying the play, they could
lean back and gaze over the beautiful free sea.
We imagined them listening to the words of womanly
sympathy, chanted by the tender Sea Nymphs to Prometheus Bound, as they sat there looking out on the fastspeeding waters of the Crater Bay, while old Typhon's
resentful roar made a murmuring accompaniment to the
sad words of the poor chained Titan," for grief walks the earth
And sits down at the foot of each by turns."
And if they felt terror-stricken when they heard the
mountain's sullen moans, while.watching the sparkling




320             ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
waves dashing myriads of gems on high, and hearing
the
"multitudinous laughter
Of the ocean billows,"
they could find the answer to their fears in the response
of the rock-chained enemy of Zeus to Oceanus, -
" Chorus. - How didst thou medicine the plague fear of Death?
Prometheus.- I set blind Hopes to inhabit in their houses.
Chorus. - By that gift thou didst help thy mortals well."
The Pompeiian visit, though pleasant, wanted the elan
of our usual family excursions. In the first place, Luigi,
who is not well yet, was spiritless and sad; even Venitia
seemed in a "sweet trouble."  Then Florence Folham
met some young English naval officers among the ruins,
one of whom was her cousin, young Milnes, a handsome
youth, and very devoted to her; of course they joined our
party, and were quite in Philip's way, as can readily be
understood; this put him out of humor, and made him
silent and moody to the rest of us. Thus Janet and I
had all the classical talk to ourselves,- and not much
either, - for in the presence of strangers it sounds a little
pedantic to indulge freely in conversation on the subjects
suggested by these places.
We are not as united as we have been, it seems to me.
There is some little tangle in our golden chain; but it
will soon unknot. I fancy our two lovers are discovering
that they are not mere admirers of these pretty young
girls. The affair for both of them is in a troubled state,
like some perplexed music which works itself out, through
strange resolutions into perfect peace and security.
So must it ever be in this life. The fullest joy is often born out of the throes of a great sorrow.  He said
well who wrote, "Without a basis of the dreadful, there




THREE DEAD CITIES.             321
is no perfect rapture." Life's jewel must be set in jet
to display its fullest radiance; and even these innocent
lovers must have their tender trouble to make the bliss
all the more perfect.
The closing of the day at Pompeii, however, was satisfactory. The young officers had to leave early, in order
to join their ship before nightfall; thus we were left to
ourselves for a little while.  Luigi and I went to the
Amphitheatre to look at the sunset, which was peculiarly
glowing and gorgeous. While we sat there, we talked,
not of these " mummied cities," but of musical coloring
in Nature. This was suggested to us by the exquisite
shades which the enchanting atmosphere was throwing
over the landscape. The rest of the party were loitering
idly near us, and joined us just as I was saying, -
" Flowers and leaves of trees are forever modulating;
they are true living harmonies; they strike one key of
melody in their youth, then modulate and resolve through
series and series of tones, in every phase of their short
existence, but always breathe their last in the minor; it
may be a grand, full, high-sounding chord, like the red,'
orange, and purple of autumn foliage, still it is the solemn
minor of death."
"That is all very pretty, but fanciful, Ottilie," said
Philip, laughing, as he took a seat beside me.  "That
theory of classing musical tones and harmonies in colors
is impossible; every sensible musician will say so; and
for this reason, my friend: color has not, like music; a
gamut of harmony, nor certain tones which serve as data,
from which shades and combinations can be formed by
divisions of tones into semitones, then woven into subtle
expressive forms.  The Tone tongue is vague enough,
heaven knows, but not so vague as Color."
14*                          u




322            ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
"You are right," I answered, " in saying musical tones
and harmonies should not be literally classed in colors;
nor did I mean that. Each form of art-beauty has its
separate and distinct individuality; but one form can
very properly suggest to the observing and imaginative
spectator or hearer other art manifestations. It is difficult to express in words clear descriptions of either music
or color, without borrowing technical terms from one for
the other; for music and painting are nearer akin than
poetry or any word form. Indeed, I never look at the
works of great colorists, without thinking what fine musicians they would have made."
" That gifted man Alfred Tonnelle," said Luigi, " made
a beautiful observation, which is apropos to your remarks:'If the lips of the young man of Urbino could have
opened to music, they would have sung the melodies of
the young man of Salzburg."'
"Charmingly true. Mozart was indeed the Raphael
of music!" I exclaimed.
In all the short arguments which Philip playfully provokes, Luigi if possible helps me, partly for the reason
that we think alike on most subjects, but chiefly because
he sees, what is really the truth, I am not a fair match
for Philip; so on this occasion he came as usual to my
rescue.
" You are right also, Ottilie, about the fitness of drawing comparisons between color and music; and, as you
say, using the technical terms of one in describing the
other often helps two cultured artists to understand each
other. Thus, for example, when Euler said the strength
and intensity of a color depended on the vibrations of
light, he compared the sun to an immense clock, whose
movements, transmitted by ether, acted on the optic nerve




THREE DEAD CITIES.               323
in the same manner as the vibrations of the air act upon
the nerve of the ear in producing sound.
"Yes," I said, "it is in these vibrations of light that
the great melodic secret of color lies, just as in the vibrations of sound skilfully arranged agreeable harmonies
exist."
"Exactly so. The science of color consists in producing equal vibrations, and the great skill of the colorist
is shown in making tones which are wide apart harmonize together and produce an equal vibration on the eye:
but the variable fashion in which ether vibrates makes it
difficult of command; the colorist has not the same degree
of power over it that the harmonist has over sound. This
very variability of vibration, however, enables us to regard in Nature the marvellous and complicated assemblages of colors without confusion and fatigue. Nature is
always perfect in color as in design."
Janet added her information to this pleasant sunset
talk, and told us of the gamut of harmony which M.
Chevreul, the director of the Gobelin and Beauvais
manufactories, has given to color.  He produces ten
chromatic circles from the three primitive colors; these
ten circles make thirty series; each tint has its gamut
of twenty-four tones; thus over fourteen thousand tones
are produced, all of which are said to be needed for the
" chromatic arsenal" of the Gobelin and Beauvais works.
We talked afterwards of the wonderful variety of colors
which the skill of chemists is now producing.
" But the cleverness of chemists," said Philip, " is destroying the power of the eye for delicate effects of color,
just as the so-called improvements in brass instruments
is destroying the ear for subtle effects in orchestration.
The purple shadows accompanying chemical reds, blues,




324            ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
and greens are totally deficient in transparency, and are
quite unlike those suggested by the clear cochineal red,
the carnation of Adrinople, the soft China indigo, or the
tender azure of lapis lazuli and cobalt.  Shadows no
longer resemble nature, nor do they fulfil the meaning
of their name, for they have become opaque and unvarying."
With something of a woman's obstinacy I added, as
we arose to leave the ruins, "These modern chemical
colors have been justly styled,'false harmonies in the
place of resolving discords."'
And thus ended our day at Pompeii.




A MUSICAL EVENING.
I AST night the Folhams and Rochesters called
to see us, on their way home from a fine dinner-party. Luigi also came in, and we had a
charming evening without ruffle or tangle.
Philip and Florence sang together, which they do very
cleverly, and their voices harmonize nicely. I had been
riding with Philip in the afternoon, and had the excuse
of fatigue for my silence; so without much interference
from loquacious Mrs. Folham, I rested on one of the
window lounges, listened to the music, looked at the happy
young people, and felt so comfortable that I found myself
wondering if there was any real trouble in the world.
"What pang
Is permanent with man? From the highest
As from the vilest thing of every day,
He learns to wean himself. For the strong hours
Conquer him."
But the sweet and happy hours are conquering me.
Last evening a powerful charm was worked on every
one, however, by that subtle and delicate interpreter of
hidden emotions and inexpressible thoughts,- music.
Some one has said finely, "Music's form, composed of
vibrations of the air, lives in space and gives form and
shape to the impalpable." Indeed, the most impressive,




326             ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
direct, and irresistible language for the ideal is the Tone
tongue; it is a much more powerful expression of feeling than any other art form.
I watched its effect with great interest last night. Our
lovers are just at the most difficult point of their intercourse; their love is unacknowledged, even half unknown to themselves. It is without speech, words have
not given it tangible form, therefore music is a pleasant
relief to their full hearts; it produces the happiest harmony of feeling. Last evening Venitia and Luigi stood
near each other in tender, gentle silence, and during some
passages in the singing I observed their eyes meeting
without startle in long, quiet looks.
The merry conversational intercourse between Philip
and Florence formed a pleasing contrast. He compli-mented her gayly on the success of her toilette, making
her blush bewitchingly; and she tinkled out her pretty
foam-bell laugh, which always reminds me of dancing
waters rippling over pebbles. These blondes are truly
"the stars of the earth."
She was dressed in exquisite taste; the texture of her
robe was as delicate as gossamer; its flounces and light
ornaments were in perfect keeping, and she moved gracefully about in a half gliding step. I fancy a Parisian
modiste would have thought her an exact representation
of an Aphrodite rising from the foam of the sea.
Her beautiful hair seemed more radiant than usual;
it was turned off from the blue-veined temples, and rolled
back in that style called " L'Imperatrice," which suits so
well a blonde like Florence.  The hue of the roots of the
hair and the skin is so nearly the same as scarcely to
show the line of separation, and both seem to have golddust mingled in their precious compound. The rich mass




A MUSICAL EVENING.               327
rose in ripples all over her head as if lifted by little
waves of wind, and made me think of Chaucer's Queen
of Love, —
"It shone as gold, so fine,
Dishevel, crisp."
Florence sings the Sonnambula music better than any
other, - that is, for my taste. It may be because her
fresh young beauty seems so well suited to the charming
pastoral story of this opera, —" this true Bucolic of the
country of Virgil and Theocritus," as Scudo calls it. It
is indeed a delicious creation, full of the freshness and
perfume of spring; its sadness is only a short shower at
sunset, refreshing the young, springing herbage which was
a little bent down by the rays of an over ardent noonday
sun; then, after the little shadow of trouble is over, the
air is filled with resonance, and the young rising moon of
lov;e is greeted with the delicate notes of Arcadian reeds,
piping sweetly and tenderly a ravishing epithalamium.
She sang last evening the aria in the first act, " Come
per me sereno," in the most winning manner; and in
the ensuing allegro, " Sovra il seno la man mi posa,"
her high notes were thrilling, and filled with that mysterious, invisible fluid which escapes from a fast throbbing
soul. I think I liked her execution of this passage better
than the finale, "Ah non giunge," although she did
throw into that an eclat, a bounding girlish joy, which
was delicious.
Philip sang with her the duos following the arias, and
his ruby-hued voice mingled with hers delightfully. They
gave us almost the illusion of the opera; for added to their
very clever singing was an unconscious display of deep
emotion, which was equal to the finest acting. The two
lovers were evidently speeding off just as fast as the swift
locomotive of a mutual infatuation could carry them.




328            ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
During the little dialogue in " Prendi'annel ti dono,"
Janet glanced at me once or twice, and she had to check
a merry quivering of her expressive lips, and drop her
eyelids quickly to hide the frolicsome dancing of the eyes.
Florence's reply to " Sposi or noi siamo " was very naive.
She had yielded up her whole being unconsciously to the
new element which music and love combined had created,
and on its tender pulsating waves her spirit floated happily. Her violet-hued eyes were full of sweet meditation
when she sang, sotto voce, " Sposi"; then she struck the
E flat, and the sound was fruity. Although it is a headnote, the sudden gush of deep feeling made it "fullthroated" like the nightingale's tone. A soft swell followed, the voice floated down on the A with the most
ravishing little turns soft and silvery, and " Tenera parola " lay on the air like little swaying flower petals.
Philip, I knew, was thrilled by it; for his reply, " Cara,
cara nel senti pasi questa gentil viola," was so full of emotion it almost choked him. Florence's response was sung
as if she were unconsciously uttering aloud the sweet
echo his "gentil viola" had left in her love-touched soul,
" Pura innocenta flora," - it was inimitable!
Luigi stood near Venitia; his long dark eyes were
half closed, and rested on her; he seemed lost in a sweet
dream. Dear Mrs. Folham, delightfully innocent of
Italian, sat bolt upright, looking on the whole affair in
the most practical English mamma manner; but Janet
and I were " the chiels amang'em takin' notes."
When it was over, the young people gathered around
the piano, and tried to cover their real feelings by earnest
talk about nothing. Wenzel, a music teacher, who plays
accompaniments for them, preluded softly; the rippling
arpeggio passages he played were not meant to attract




A MUSICAL EVENING.              329
attention; the discreet Italian only wished to fill up a
gap. Janet stood a few moments by the piano, then went
to Mrs. Folham, who was talking with Mr. and Mrs.
Rochester. After saying a few words to them, she came
to the lounge where I was lying in a true hypnotic state.
"This music makes me think of a passage I read in
Scudo to-day," she said, leaning over me. "'It is not
high art producing a grand dramatic emotion; it is a delicate pleasure, a sensuality of the ear tempered by a light
moral feeling, which sweetly penetrates the heart, per
aurespectus irrigatur, as a Latin poet has said so happily."'
I could not reply to her; to be spoken to by any one
gave me a keen sensation, which was almost like pain.
After a glorious flight on " music's mighty wings," it is
impossible to return to ordinary mortal means of communication; the soul has been soaring off in its own ether,
and comes back as foldtre and rebellious as an Ariel; the
poor body seems like a prison, and it beats the bars of
the cage mercilessly. The body, too, becomes impregnatic, as it were, with some of the same emotion, and a
vertigo and irritability result which few know how to
control; so I only smiled back an answering assent, and
leaning my head on the cushions closed my eyes. Janet
sat near me in silence; she rested her little hands on my
head, and kindly smoothed down the hair bands; her soft
magnetic touch was very soothing, and gave me great
comfort.
Venitia finished the evening by playing that Polonaise
of Weber in E major, which Liszt calls dithyrambic; in
it life, warmth, and passion glitter on the wave crests
without disturbing the grand ebb and flow of the majestic
ocean of deep feeling. I listened, still in my raptus state,
and whispered to the beat of the measure,




330               ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
"Thou art the wine whose drunkenness is all
We can desire, O Love! and happy souls,
Ere from thy vine the leaves of autumn fall,
"Catch thee, and feed from their o'erflowing bowls
Thousands who thirst for thy ambrosial dew;
Thou art the radiance which here ocean rolls
"Investest it; and when the heavens are blue
Thou fillest them; and when the earth is fair,
The shadow of thy moving wings imbue
"Its deserts and its mountains, till they wear
Beauty like some bright robe; - thou ever soarest
Among the towers of men, and as soft air
In spring, which moves the unawakened forest,
Clothing with leaves its branches bare and bleak,
Thou floatest among men; and aye implorest
"That which from thee they should implore; the weak
Alone kneel to thee, ofering up the hearts
The strong have broken, - yet where shall any seek
A garment whom thou clothest not? "




MRS. ROCHESTER'S BALL.
T is a glorious night,- or morning, as it is
after two o'clock.  I have been out on the
terrace; I cannot sleep; my heart is too full
of tender inquietude about a strangely-lagging
happiness I would fain hurry on, if I knew how, for those
who are very dear to me. Every one else is asleep;
stillness reigns in this vast palazzo, and even the great
city is quiet.  The season is just on the verge of June;
the moon is at the full, and its sharp, clear light lies on
the "straight-up tufa rock" behind the terrace, pointing
out
" Where lichens mock
The marks on a moth, and small ferns fit
Their teeth to the polished block."
A  "love-lorn nightingale," hidden in the dark foliage
of the orange-trees which are in that garden on the terraced hill, pours out a perfect flood of song.  What a
delicious note!  It is as if the rich odor of the starry
fruit-blossom  had become a voice.  At first, the bird
trilled a little faintly, then the notes fell into a heavy
gurgle, and she stopped, as if frightened at her own voice,
recalling to me Chaucer's
" New abashdd nightingale,
That stinteth first when she beginneth sing";




332             ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
but now she utters a peal of glad music, and "showers a
rain of melody," without stint or limit,
"Like a poet hidden
In the light of thought,
Singing hymns unbidden
Till the world is wrought
To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not."
But why is the nightingale called "love-lorn"?  That
song is full of joy and rapture. I know Shakespeare
says,
" The nightingale's complaining notes,"
and the ancient poets gave the same description.  Sophocles calls the bird "lamenting Itys," and likens her to
Electra.  Homer, too, in the Odyssey, compares Penelope's restlessness to the nightingale; but, while listening
to that gush of gay melody, - there, it bursts out afresh! -
I cannot agree with these great authorities, but rather side
with jovial Chaucer, who, in his Flower and Leaf, calls
the nightingale's song " a merry note."
Beyond the broad Mergellina the sea sparkles like
cloven gems, and off in the distance Vesuvius glows.  It
is. indeed a glorious night; and this loveliness of nature
and my tender thoughts make U' civil wars within my
brain," as Sir Philip Sidney says.  Like him, I have
" Smooth pillows, sweetest bed,
A chamber deaf to noise and blind to light,
A rosy garland, and a weary head."
For if the garland on my head this evening was of rich
lace, instead of rosy flowers, it was none the less a festal
one. Mrs. Rochester gave a ball to-night, and it was a
very brilliant affair; "a success," as Mrs. Folham  reiterated, " yes, my dear, a positive success."
Our two beauties looked well.  I love the detail of




MIRS. ROCHESTER'S BALL.          333
dress, and have a true feminine weakness for all those
delicious nothings which go towards the making up of a
beautiful woman into a charming Watteau or gorgeous
Titian picture; and Florence and Venitia were to-night
the living counterparts of those two masters' creations.
Florence's toilette was one of those indescribable but
veritable inspirations of the French modiste; and its
delicate pink hue, with puffings and flounces of airy tulle,
and all the accessories of rose-btids and light ornaments,
suited well her dainty little person.
Venitia's fine, large form needs something more exact
in costume than the pretty blonde does; her dress tonight was a rich, heavy silk; its color was that lovely
Venetian green; and the haze of soft, costly lace which
fell over it made it look like sea-foam. The drapery of
the robe was fastened on her superb shoulders, and over
the breast, with large onyxes, set around with fine-sized
pearls; the head-dress and armlets were adorned with
the same gems. There are nine of these finely-sculptured
stones, which Janet has owned for years, unset, - Paul's
gift. A few weeks ago we were admiring them, and
Luigi suggested the setting of them as a costume decorationi, very well suited for Venitia's style in full dress.
Janet took to the idea, and had them arranged by a
jeweller, under his supervision. They were only completed a few days since, and to-night Venitia wore them
all.
A sleeping Medusa forms the girdle-clasp. A Psyche
gathers the drapery across the bosom, while an Iris and
Hebe fasten the shoulder-bands. The armlets are formed
of a broad, fine network of gold, clasped with Egyptian
Bacchantes.  The head-dress is composed of fillets of
gold network, something in the style of the Sappho bands;




334            ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
three or four of these are plaited in a caul, in which the
rich braids of Venitia's hair are gathered, and this rests
on the back of her finely-shaped head; another band, set
with large, oblong pearls, is clasped, at each ear, to the
caul by small, exquisitely-cut butterflies; this band passes
across the front of the head, rising in a diadem shape,
after the fashion of that on the brow of the Ludovisian
Juno, and in the centre of this diadem of gold and pearls
is placed the largest and finest onyx of the collection;
its subject is a sleeping Psyche, with a butterfly hovering
over the temple and another nestling into the breast, —
sad emblem of the double awakening love causes in
brain and heart.
Janet. and I served as foils to these two pretty girls.
We were in the orthodox costumes of our age. She wore
a queen's-gray moire, and I a Parma violet silk, both
gowns shaded becomingly with rich black lace, accompanied with a discreet sprinkling of diamonds. When
we all met in our drawing-room to drink tea together,
before going to the ball, Philip and Luigi talked of
coloring and artistic grouping.
" But the fine effect of this beautiful dressing," I said,
4' will be ruined by the bad taste one is apt to meet with
at an evening party. Just think of the discords that will
be made by some horrid chemical-blue gown passing near
Venitia's delicate sea-foam, or Pompadour pink clashing
against Florence's rose-bud hue."
"Like a public picture-gallery," replied Philip; "but
Luini and I will appoint ourselves hanging committee,
and give you all the best lights."
Soon after we arrived, Venitia was taken to the musicroom by Mr. Rochester, to play for him and a small circle
of friends a lovely Ghazel, to which he has lately taken a




MRS. ROCHESTER'S BALL.           335
great fancy. Luigi, of course, followed her, attending on
Janet and Mrs. Folham. At the other end of the fine
suite of apartments was a large, brilliantly-lighted ballroom; a band of music was playing there, and, as Florence and I stood talking to Philip in the centre drawingroom, we could see the resolving forms the dancers made
in a Lancer quadrille.
A group of young men came out of the ball-room, and
looked about as if searching for some one. They were
the English midshipmen we had met at Pompeii, and it
was Florence for whom they were looking. They saw
her almost immediately, and, coming up, shook hands cordially with us all, even with stately Philip, whose coldness did not affect these brave, happy young fellows in
the least.  Just then, that beautiful Galop from  the
Ve/pres Siciliennes poured like a rich topaz-hued current
on the air, and swiftly-gliding and whirling couples flashed
before the broad, open doorway.
"Florence, the Galop!" cried her handsome young
cousin, hurriedly. " Come, you have missed one already,
for I have been waiting nearly an hour for you."
"Miss Folham, Miss Folham!" exclaimed the others,
eagerly, all talking together, " do not forget I am on your
tablets for the first Lancers after"    "And I for the
second"     "And I for the next Galop"    " And
I."
She turned to us, hesitatingly, and, with an attractive
thoughtfulness not very common in a young, admired girl
at a ball, surrounded by gay officer-partners, said, " Neither
of you dance, I believe; and yet-"  She stopped, as if
not knowing what to say, while young Milnes tapped his
foot, impatiently, and Philip looked haughty and indifferent. I replied, with a laugh, "And yet you do. I am




336            ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
sure, my dear, it is very natural you should; so hurry off
with Mr. Milnes, who is quite out of patience with us all.
We shall follow you, for I shall like to look at you very
much."
Philip and I walked slowly into the ball-room; he was
very sullen, said not a word, and I rather enjoyed his
annoyance.  He needs a little contradiction once in a
while; and, moreover, I fear he will never see his way
clear with Florence, unless some younger rival shows it
to him. Florence looked very lovely, as she floated by
in the dance; her light form rested gracefully on young
Milnes's firm hand, and, as he is a skilful waltzer, he bore
her along swiftly and beautifully; more than one person
stopped to admire the two handsome cousins.
"I never liked to dance," I remarked; "and yet it is a
pretty sight, especially when the dancers are such graceful young creatures as. Florence and that fine-looking lad,
MIilnes. Is she not charming?"
Philip did not deign to reply to my question, but said,
in a low, angry voice: " Few sensible women, Ottilie, express such contradictory and inconsistent opinions as you
indulge in constantly. Often I have heard you say you
thought society dancing absurd, and all kinds of waltzing,
without exception, unladylike, and worse, - immodest."
Of course I made no more remarks. After a few moments' silence he asked: " How long do you intend staying in this noisy ball-room? I wish you had not taken
the office of chaperone on you. All dancing young ladies
should hunt up their mammas, and not bore mere acquaintances in this way."
"Florence a mere acquaintance!" I thought, with a
repressed smile. Poor Esau! I am sure he was willing
at that moment to barter his glorious birthright of genius




MRS. ROCHESTER'S BALL.           337
for a mess of the sweet savory pottage of gay youth. No
wonder he was cross, for
"'T is a bitter thing
To see our lady above all need of us;
Yet so we look ere we will love."
"I do not see that it is necessary for me to chaperone
Miss Folham  here," I replied, "although I am quite
willing to do so on our riding parties; her mother will
soon hunt her up. Suppose we go into the music-room
and listen to Venitia."
On going there, we found that Venitia had only just
commenced.  Some gentleman was at the piano when
she came, and he had finished but a little while before we
entered. She was playing the Ghazel, which is a curious
little creation. The composer of it has made his musicpoem correspond to the rule of the mental word-lyric;
there is in it one positive, well-expressed thought, reiterated in various keys; the modulations are close and
intricate; the, accentuation strongly marked and skilful.
Venitia executed it not only with the dexterity it required,
but threw into it that delicacy and poetry of feeling which
the composer had left to the executante to supply.
Of course it was received with great applause, and
many earnest requests were made for "something more."
Venitia remained at the piano, as if she intended complying with these requests. While she was listening to the
pleasing compliments of Mr. Rochester and some other
persons, I saw her eyes fall under a glance from Luigi.
This look of his acted like a magnetic touch on her imagination; straightway sprang up within her that subtle
emotion which the true artist feels at the moment of
creation, and which spreads throughout the thoughts, enabling them to transform themselves into vivid, graphic
15                          v




338            ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
pictures, adorned with rich coloring, so warm and glowing
that they enchain not only the senses, but the mind and
will.
Her fingers commenced slowly threading together some
full chords, stringing them in groups, which reminded me
of brilliant-hued gems, well contrasted. While she did
so, her eyes wandered slowly over the room, with that
calm expression of magnetic subtleness which they now
possess at times; she seemed to be weighing and measuring her little audience. The compliments she had just
received had been those of taste and discernment, of the
very nature to encourage an executante; there was not
one breath of petty jealousy near her, but a great deal of
high, artistic culture and good breeding.
I felt sure she meant to improvise, and I was right.
It is only lately that she has ventured on doing this in
society; Luigi's encouragement, as well as capable,
friendly criticism, have been of much help to her. Few
who were present this evening knew what she intended
doing; thus she was spared the embarrassment of an
announced improvisation. The conversation ceased, and
every one listened. Luigi caught her resolve with the
instinct of a lover. He stationed himself near the end of
the grand piano, with folded arms, and brow a little bent,
as if listening with the critical but appreciative ear of an
artist.
Venitia shows in her improvisings the promptness she
has in her character. She has a great deal of-decision
and common sense, - two qualities particularly needed,
and often found lacking in the artist; these enable her to
make a rapid choice of the thousand and one suggestions
which crowd in with perplexing confusion on the instant
of Conception.  Her subjects too are always simple,




MRS. ROC1HSTER'S BALL.             339
like herself, open and candid,- sweet succeeding harmonies, and resolutions whose tangles are intricate, but not
thorny; she manages them also with a freedom that is remarkable in one so young; she has good breadth of handling, as a painter would say, -a quality that partly arises
from her close, rigid practice of many years which makes
mechanical difficulties of little moment, and also the strict
scholarly culture she has received, which removes from
her all the embarrassment of raw, newly acquired information.
But on this occasion, I noticed much variation from
her usual style, — the girl's genius is developing under
the influence of love. After the resolving chords of the
short interlude were over, and the spirited melodic thought
well defined, the beautiful image was suddenly disturbed,
as a swift wind ruffles a streamlet's mirror; weird chords,
so combined as to sound like questions, fell in syncopation, leaving the response mute in the measure; little bits
of the motivo mingled in producing a curious effect, and
some vague but soft and pleasing passages flitted about,
reminding me of the pearly-gray shadows which creep
out of dingles and wood hollows.
Venitia uses the chromatic gamut in her reveries as a
skilful singer employs it, pointing it with a trill; she also
controls the pedals with nice art, thus giving her melodic
phrases the necessary sweep, - horizon, as it would be
called in painting. This clever pedalling enables her to
produce as fine contrasts in Tone distance as her melodic
chord groupings give of Tone coloring. After a powerful
assertion of the Tone thought, she often follows it with a
passage con sourdine, as a violin player would say. This
dexterous combining of the soft and loud pedals does not
change the timbre of the sounds, but throws over them a




340            ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
haze, -an atmosphere of space and distance. This obtained she advances the retreating sounds by adroitly
removing the sourdine effect of the soft pedal, then her
vigorous trill, which is like the shrill throat-beatings of a
lark, comes pouring down, bringing out the foreground
firmly and clearly. Her improvising this evening possessed all these characteristics, and she carried us along
with her so forcibly that we forgot to criticise.
Her admirable self-possession adds very much to the
effect of everything she does. Her execution is never
flurried; her hands always retain their position. A French
gentleman said to-night they reminded him of Mme.
Pleyel's hands; " Si bien pose'es, - elles ne grimacent
jamais," was his remark (" so well placed, -they never
make grimaces or affected movements"). No matter what
may be the difficulties she encounters, the general position is never lost. This good command of her hands is
like a firm seat in the saddle, and it makes her execution
clear and flowing, every note coming out with satisfactory
roundness.  The divisions of time, too, are accurately
marked, which produce that delicate shading and undisturbed rhythm so necessary to true musical expression.
Her manner in everything is a little measured, like the
time in a fugue, and this precision shows itself in her
music, but the frankness of her nature allows the warm
breath of love which is now affecting her, to flow over
her creations, bestowing on them a freshness and vitality
which is like the expression given to a great fugue by
a passionate and poetical executante.
Through all the mysterious windings of her improvising this evening, not one of us felt for an instant a
shadow of anxiety; our faith in her power and ability
was not only unshaken, but it received a deeper hold;




MRS. ROCHESTER'S BALL.           341
as I have said, we forgot to criticise, and followed her
lead obediently. The description I have given is long,
but her improvising was short, and yet so complete, so
full of suggestive thought and deep feeling, as to feed
and occupy the minds of her listeners, without wearying
them.
Presently the dark commingling harmonies grew
clearer; the sorrowful questionings ceased, as if the
cause of doubt had been forgotten; no dissonances were
heard; the resolutions mounted joyfully; the broken
bits of the motivo blended cunningly together, ruling
with. rejoicing triumph as it were over the whole; and the
improvising closed with one of her best executed chromatic gamuts, on which sparkled here and there beautiful
trills, as bright, Philip said, as small diamonds, but they
reminded me of pulsing auroras.
The sensation which was produced by this display of
poetical power in the person of so young and beautiful a
woman was very great; and it might be injurious, but
for the sweet balancing power of love. I am sure
Venitia cared little for the compliments paid by the
crowd of notabilities who thronged around her. Luigi's
few words of praise, and the superb look of exaltation
which sat upon his fine brow, gave her all the satisfaction
she desired. He seemed to forget his late reserve, and
during the rest of the evening was lifted up on this
mighty wave of love-music as on a throne. He took
possession of Venitia without hesitation as if she belonged to him, and she looked like a happy young queen
who would fain put diadem and kingdom down, and be a
humble handmaiden to her beloved.
But my old friend Philip was not so happily affected
by the music; indeed, he was very wretched I could see.




342           ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
He stood in a corner silent and moody, and I looked about
for something to divert him.
"There is the great encyclopedist going into the
library," I said.
" What, L!" cried Philip, arousing himself. " lie
is the very person I wish to see. I was not at home
when he called this morning. Let us go to him; if it
will not be a bore to you, I should like to have a little
talk with him."
I was only too happy to find my bait successful. We
went into the library, and Philip buried his chagrin in
the pleasing excitement of a conversation with Dr. Land two or three other agreeable men; but I could see
that he had not overcome his discomfort, and his annoyance served as a sharp sting to his conversation, giving
it pungency and point.
I began to wonder in that way we women have of
blending our sentiments and intellects together, - driving four in hand as it were,- listening to cultivated
manly conversation, and all the while weaving our own
little web of romance and sweet folly; — I began to
wonder, I say, how this affair of Florence and Philip was
going to develop, and all this I worked at while listening
admiringly and understandingly to a masterly description
Philip was giving me of a subject which is deeply interesting the learned encyclopedist.
" You see, the thing is simply this, Ottilie," and he
explained to me with some little help from Dr. Land the other gentlemen, the plan of that famous tunnel under the Straits of Dover, which the first Napoleon
conceived, and the third Emperor dreams of completing.
" The bare idea is an epic!" exclaimed Philip.
After Dr. L    had pointed out to me the plan of the




MRS. ROCHESTER'S BALL.           343
tunnel on a beautiful little map or chart he had with him,
Philip threw off, in his bold, impassioned style, a description of the descent of the cars from the high land, glowing with sunlight, to darkness far below the bed of the
ocean; the roar and whirl of the steam-engines, united
to the dull din of the sea waves dashing imperiously
against that cuirass of rocks which shall separate the
wild waste of waters above from this world below; and
then the sweeping grand ascent upward of the cars in
the middle of the Straits, to that Pharos of nations standing out in the sea on the coast of the Bank of Warne.
"Imagine," he said, "this subterranean road; a locomotive comes rushing along, vomiting flame and fiery
vapor; it ascends a vast well-like tower, and finds itself
on an island in the wide ocean. This island-port of
Warne, as Lemoine says, will be the most complete representation of cosmopolitanism and fusion of people ever
dreamed of, even by that great half-unknown French
Franklin, Abbe de St. Pierre. Ships from every nation,
with the produce and people from all parts of the globe,
will assemble at this vast bureau of universal correspondence and intercourse; at midnight, as vessels come
sailing by on the open sea, the great ocean light-house
will beam on them, and its immense quays, lighted up by
huge reflectors, shall point out one neutral spot of land,
ruling over two seas, a star of hope and faith to peaceful
nations."
All this he sketched out with a graphic force and
energy which set my blood to tingling. While he was
making one of his finest points, I saw his eye sparkle,
lip quiver, and I fancied I noticed a slight waver in the
voice, as if some sharp, sudden emotion had stung him:
at the same time I felt a soft hand creep around my




344              ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
waist. I turned, and there was pretty Florence, looking
almost penitent and entreating.
Philip never noticed her, never stopped the shadow
of an instant, but poured on his fine eloquence as if unconscious of the sweet flattery her coming displayed; and
yet I knew that the haughty creature was feeling it in
every bounding pulse of his body. I drew the darling
girl quietly down beside me, making room for her on the
large sofa, held her soft little hand with its pretty pink
finger tips tenderly in mine; and while Philip's lava current of description poured on, I thought how lovely and
refreshing youth is.
The dear child sat looking up with rapt, half-conscious
admiration of the brilliant man.  She, who had been a
few moments before the little queen of the ball-room, had
thrown aside her rank and station and admirers, drawn
by the subtle, strange, but sweet magnetism of love to his
side. How dreamy and happy I felt as I looked at the
two.  I wished to say to him, Strange Philip!
"Look at the woman here with the new soul,
Like my own Psyche's; fresh upon her lips
Alit, the visionary butterfly,
Waiting thy word to enter and make bright,
Or flutter off and leave all blank as first.
This body had no soul before, but slept:
Now it will wake, feel, live - or die again!
Shall to produce form out of unshaped stuff
Be art, - and further to evoke a soul
From form be nothing? - This new soul is thine  " 
* Browning's," Pippa Passes."




CONSEQUENCES OF THE BALL.
WAS up so late last night, that when my
maid came at the usual hour this morning I
dismissed her, and slept until ten o'clock.
After I had breakfasted, I learned that both
Janet and Venitia had gone driving.  Feeling as if I
needed some pleasant occupation out doors, I sent for
a carriage, intending to drive to the Church of L' Incoronata.  I wished to be alone in the gallery of that old
building, and dream my waking visions beside those ceiling frescos of Giotto, which are so suggestive to me of
pleasing memories both in history and art; for if, as old
Montaigne says, " les historiens sont ma droicte balle," the
early artists are also " le vray gibier de mon estude."' At any rate, I love the season
Of Art's spring-birth so dim and dewy."
While looking at Giotto's pictures, after studying those
of the Byzantine school, I understand well what F.
Schlegel meant when he wrote, "Where clear intelligence is combined with an instinctive power over the
mechanism of a work, the glowing apparition called Art,
which we venerate and welcome as a stranger visitant
descending from loftier regions, springs at once into existence."
Giotto! With that name what rich associations are
15*




346              ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
connected.  The friend of Dante, Petrarch, and Boccaccio. The popular artist of one of the most brilliant
and luxurious courts ever known, where beauty and
genius, and, alas! sin and sorrow also, dwelt. From this
painter's pencil has come to us, in the ceiling frescos of
L' Incoronata, the face of that lovely, hapless queen,
Joanna.  In this portrait she looks pleasure-loving and
insouciante; her long, almond-shaped eyes ask only tenderness and ease; her full lips, soft cheeks, and beautiful
head, which bears the crown with sweet dignity, all express love and joy more than pride and ambition.
The haughty beauties standing behind her in this fresco
picture of her marriage - her cousins, Boccaccio's Fiammetta, and the Countess Durazzo - have enough of these
dangerous passions in their faces; but the countenance of
this calm, happy-looking woman is free from all harsh
emotions.
" E tu madre d' amor, col tuo giocondo
E lieto aspetto."
Pretty creature!  She and her gay, pleasure-loving
cousins had great poets for lovers; world-poems to fetch
down their names to us; and Giotto, "the lord of painting's field," to give us their delicious forms; but alas!
they had history, also, to stand grimly by, and point with
red, dripping finger to their poison bowls and headsman's
block and axe! 
"merely born to bloom and drop,
Here on earth they bore their fruitage, mirth and folly were the crop;
What of soul was left, I wonder, when the kissing had to stop?' Dust and ashes'! so you creak it, and I want the heart to scold.
Dear dead women, with such hair, too, - what's become of all the gold
Used to hang and brush their bosoms? I feel chilly and grown old.;' *
* Browning's " Toccata of Galuppi."




CONSEQUENCES OF THE BALL.           347
When the servant brought me word the carriage was
ready, I stepped out of my window on the terrace, and
found Philip there reading.
"I thought I smelled your cigar.- Why did you not
announce yourself?"
"I have been waiting patiently for you ever since Mrs.
Dale went out," he said.  "You are going out also.
May I accompany you?"
" Certainly, if you wish to."
"Where are you going?"
" I intended driving to L' Incoronata; but-as you doubt
the verity of my beloved Giotto frescos, you would be
bored. Therefore we may go somewhere else, and I can
visit the old ceiling another time."
" Of course," he said, in a gentle tone; "you allow me
to be bored, and you yield to instead of controlling me,
and making me more amiable. Dear Ottilie, you are an
angel! "
"Not quite, Philip. But say, where shall we go?"
"To L' Incoronata, my friend; and I will promise not
to utter one slighting word against the objects of your
sweet faith. Where is San Lorenzo?  I wish to visit
it some time, for it is the church in which Boccaccio first
met his Fiammetta."
Love is making Philip heavenly, I thought. I let him
lift me into the carriage, arrange the cushions and footstool, and do everything for my comfort he could, while I
directed the coachman to drive to the Largo de San
Lorenzo. While we were driving there he said: " Ottilie,
you and I should have been lovers. You understand me
so well. I wonder if any other woman could now be as
patient and forbearing with me as you are?"
"If you loved her, Philip, she would not have the




348            ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
need; and as to understanding you, the knowledge I
have a wife should not wish, — indeed, would be better
without."
"Why, fair Portia?"
"Because a wife does not need to understand her husband as I do you. Sweet love and faith are her best
gifts."
"And have you not love for and faith in me?"
"Yes, both; but, with them, a deeper knowledge of
you, which places us abreast. I am not the sort of wife
you should have."
"What sort of wife should I have, Ottilie?"
"Some one to love you trustingly, confidingly, adoringly, with a young, fresh, happy heart; just as I could
and ought to have loved your father, Philip."
Philip remained silent, but he held my hand in his
kindly, and once ill a while grasped it with a firmer clasp.
We reached the Franciscan church of San Lorenzo. As
we looked up at the great marble doorway, which is one
of the last remains of its original Gothic glory, and then
stood under the vast stone arch, which spans the interior
with stern beauty, we helped each other's memory in running back over the famous history of this great old church.
Every stone we stepped on had a legend or commemorated a great name. The very ground on which the
church stands is classic.  Here was the Forum, the
Augustinian Basilica, and near it a temple of Castor and
Pollux, in old Roman days.
The church was built by Charles of Anjou, that warlike,
adventuring brother of St. Louis, to commemorate his
victory over the "flaxen-haired Manfred," at Benevento
(1266).  Robert the Good and Wise, his grandson,
finished it. Good and Wise! How sad those titles make




CONSEQUENCES OF THE BALL.           349
us feel; for when this good and wise king died, all those
virtues seemed to be buried with him.
" Heavens!" wrote Petrarch to Cardinal Colonna,
after his arrival in Naples, when sent there on an embassy to the new government succeeding good old King
Robert's death,  " Heavens! what a change has the
death of one man produced in this place. No one would
know it now. Religion, justice, and truth are banished.
I think I am at Memphis, Babylon, or Mecca."
On entering the church, our first footsteps fell upon the
tombstone of Giambattista della Porta, that friend of all
hasty, eager, nineteenth-century students, who have so
much to learn; for Time's book has grown very ponderous, and life has not one day more added to its length,
nor is its strength any greater.
" Blessings on the memory of the old Italian!" I said,
as we stooped to read his name chiselled in the stone,
and the date of his death, 1515. " From his plan came
all these great digests of knowledge, called encyclopedias,
which has formed a true community system for the mind,
more successful than those which political dreamers have
attempted for governments."
Then Philip hunted up the tomb of Tasso's enthusiastic
friend and biographer, the young Neapolitan nobleman
Manso. After that we groped back in the old Chapterhouse, where we admired a remarkable window, and the
vaulted halls, now in ruins, which retain the original
Gothic form of the church. As it was very dusty and
close there, we returned to the front and sat down in one
of the polygonal chapels, near the tribune or choir, where
we talked over the Petrarch and Boccaccio history of the
building. It was in the monastery of this church Petrarch
resided during the period of his embassy from Rome to




350            ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
the court of the ill-wedded sovereigns, Queen Joanna I.
and her cousin-husband King Andrew.
" Do you remember, Philip, the account Petrarch gives
of the great storm which took place while he was here,
25th November, 1343? " I asked. "Just fancy this church
at midnight, with the raging tempest outside and the poet
Petrarch prostrate before that pulpit; the friars and
prior of the convent holding crucifixes aloft, chanting litanies and prayers and burning incense, while the great
body of this church was filled with the shrieking people.
Then the lightning flashing in at the Gothic windows, and
peals of thunder shaking the building' from turret to foundation-stone.' And as day dawned, the holy service of
the mass commencing;'but though the priests chanted
Kyrie eleison, C]triste eleison, the rest of us,' says Petrarch, devoutly,'did not dare lift our eyes to heaven,
but remained prostrate on the ground.'"
" The closing of that famous letter," said Philip, " has
the best part of the story, and shows the courage of the
poet as well as his piety.. After mass was over, and day
had fairly dawned, he writes:'Despair inspired us with
courage. We mounted our horses and arrived at the
port. What a scene was there!' They found the shore
strewn with shipwrecked bodies, and a thousand Neapolitan horsemen assisting in the burial of the poor mangled
bodies.' I caught from them a spirit of resolution,' writes
the poet, naively,'and was less afraid of death from the
consideration that we should all perish together."'
"O yes, Philip, and when the sea sapped the foundations of the ground on which they stood, and they rushed
to a higher point of land, what a touching scene they
saw! The young Queen Joanna, with naked feet and
dishevelled hair, —those beautiful feet and that amber




CONSEQUENCES OF THE BALL.           351
flood of hair, Philip! - attended by a number of her
ladies, rushing to the Church of the Virgin, crying out
for mercy and help,- that very Church of L' Incoronata
we are going to presently, which is not far from the port,
you know. Poor young queen! Very blessed instead
of fearful would death have seemed to her then, could
she have only known her dreadful future. Why do not
mortals accept death willingly when it first comes?
Averted by prayers, it always takes a more frightful
form in the end, which end must come some time. Better would it have been for her to have been swept out
of existence by the fury of the elements, than to live as
she did through years of black, bitter shame, and then
have her sweet loveliness mangled by man's rage and
brutality."
"The Fiammetta must have been in that group of
beautiful, frightened women," said Philip. " Let us leave
that sorrowful memory, and recall the gay Easter-eve
a few years before this terrific storm took place, when
Boccaccio saw for the first tinme, in this very church, -
probably by this very column, -- who can deny it? - the
Princess Mlaria, whom he made known to fame by the
name of Fiammetta, forming thus a quartette of beautiful
women in the poetic diadem of Italy, - Beatrice, Laura,
Fiammetta, and Leonora."
" Yes, Philip, but we shall put the gay, naughty Fiammetta in the back part of the diadem. Beatrice shall be
the centre gem, with the cold, chaste Laura and the suffering Leonora on either side of her. Fiammetta must
be content to shine alone, and in the background; she is
not worthy of being placed in any closer companionship
with these pure, good women, though a great poet did
immortalize her."




352            ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
Philip shrugged his shoulders saucily, and said, as we
left the chapel and church, " Commend me to a woman's
charitable judgment of her sex."
We drove to the Strada Medina, in which is the
Church of the Virgin, of which Petrarch speaks, - L' Incoronata, - near the street or Vica delle Corregge (Corteregia).  It is a small, unpretending building.  On
entering it there is a descent of several steps, which De
Reumont says is in consequence of the elevation of the
ground which has taken place since the sixteenth century.
The exterior is unsightly; and the crowding in of more
recent buildings makes the place more difficult to find.
I remember I spent two or three mornings hunting L' Incoronata, when I first came to Naples, never thinking it
could be this insignificant-looking chapel.
We stopped, before entering, to look at the sculptures
over one of the portals, - the arms of the Neapolitan
princes of the house of Anjou. On the right is the red
cross of Jerusalem, on the left the golden Jfeuw de lis
of France, with the border of difference, and near these
arms are little angels holding up a crown of thorns.
Poor Joanna! It was indeed a crown of thorns thy wise
and good grandfather placed on that golden head which
he loved so fondly.
The famous frescos are in the choir of this church,
which choir was formerly the Capella Regis, or Royal
Chapel, of King Robert's Palace of Justice.  In this
chapel Joanna was married, when a girl, by her grandfather, to her cousin, Andrew of Hungary, who proved
to be not only a bad husband, but a wicked sovereign.
He was poisoned some time after his accession to the
throne; the queen was accused of being privy to the
act, just as Mary of Scotland was charged with a similar




CONSEQUENCES OF THE BALL.            353
crime two centuries after, and for the same reason, - an
ambitious cousin coveted her crown.
In 1352 Joanna married another cousin, Louis of Tarento, and built this church, L' Incoronata, in commemoration of her second marriage, and also in honor of the
sacred crown of thorns of our blessed Lord. She incorporated in her new building the little Capella Regis,
making it the choir; for on its vaulted ceiling were the
fresco gems Giotto had painted for her grandfather, and
they were a desirable possession for the new church.
This little bit of history is very precious to me, for it
settles the doubts against the authenticity of these beautiful frescos; which doubts were founded on the anachronism that Giotto was dead fifteen years before L' Incoronata was built. To be sure; but this little Royal Chapel
of the Palace of Justice, the scene of Joanna's first marriage, was decorated by this great painter when she was
a girl, many years before its annexation to her new
church. Her grandfather was alive and on the throne
when Giotto painted the frescos on the Capella Regis.
When L' Incoronata was built King Robert and his
painter friend were both dead, and had been many long,
sad years, and the girl-bride had grown to be a woman,
was a queen, had been an unhappy wife, a widow, and
was dreaming of new happiness in a second marriage.
The authority for this opinion is Chevalier Stanislas
D' Aloe, the distinguished Secretary of the Mus6e; he
has written a fine and exhaustive work on the subject,
which sets at rest all doubts.*
The vaulted ceiling of the chapel, or choir, is divided
into eight compartments, on which are these great old
* Les Peintures de Giotto dans l'Eglise de L'Incoronata, ac Naples.
Berlin, 1843.




354            ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
frescos; seven represent the seven Sacraments of the
Church; the eighth contains the Triumph of Religion,
an allegorical picture, in which King Robert and his
son Charles the Illustrious (Joanna's father) appear
carrying royal banners sown with fleur de lis. In the
Sacrament of Baptism the portraits of Petrarch and
Laura are supposed to be; and in the Sacrament of
Marriage (the one containing Joanna's portrait), Dante
is pointed out. To see these frescos to advantage, it is
necessary to go into the gallery of the choir; to reach
this a narrow, dirty staircase and then a steep, unsafe
ladder have to be clambered up; but they are worth
that or any trouble to me.
On reaching this gallery of the choir, we sat and gazed
up at these strange and beautiful old creations. We
traced out the fabled portraits of Petrarch and Laura;
then looked at the golden, gay wedding, —that sorrowful, ill-starred marriage of Joanna to her cousin Andrew,
commemorated by Giotto so gloriously; and we hunted
out in it a stern, hook-nosed, long-visaged face for Dante.
"That face, Philip," I said, " whether it be Dante or
not, is harsh enough looking to be one of those wretched
beings, in the existence of whom Italy believes yet, - the
jetatori, - they who have power through their eyes to
cast an evil fate over those they look upon. That man
is the jetatore of the picture. His priestly mantle and
cowl hang meekly enough, but that stern face sees farther
into futurity than the rest; and while all are gazing at
the ceremony and the soft, voluptuous beauty of the girlbride, and the gay, imperious princesses behind her, —
some tenderly, some rejoicingly,  he averts his look, as
if loath to cast his jetatura there. He need not fear his
own sad power, for Fate has been beforehand with him,




CONSEQUENCES OF THE BALL.           355
and already cast her evil destiny in the forms of unbridled
licentiousness, strong will, and freely indulged passions.
What a sermon that Dante face preaches, however! "
" I had rather hunt up the brilliant Fiammetta," replied Philip, laughing, " than let those sorrowful events'cast their shadows before.' On the whole, I think King
Andrew quite ugly and silly enough to be put an end to
in any way. That fat, leering priest beside him, looking
like such a sycophant, is doubtless the wretch Petrarch
hated so bitterly, of whom he wrote with droll pedantry,'In vice and cruelty he was a Dionysius, an Agathocles,
or a Phalaris.' But help me with your woman-wit, Ottilie. Which one of those imperious-looking princesses
is Fiammetta?"
"She who is standing to the right, directly back of
Joanna; you can only see her face and head. The pretty
chin is raised, the full nostril dilated, and her superb brow
a little bent, as if looking at some one in the distance.
She surely spies her lover, Boccaccio, in that gay crowd
of knights and ladies."
"The outline of her face is beautiful," said Philip.
"Yes, but it is not a face or a style of beauty I like.
It is sensual, haughty, and reckless."
" She should have been queen," remarked Philip, "in
the place of that luxurious creature. Joanna should have
had more firmness and less heart, if she intended to be
wicked."
"No, Philip; if she was wicked, as you say, I like the
way history gives it best. Had either of those two imperious women stood in her place, the story would have
been revolting. The sweet, womanly touches of tender
weakness, which we see in the sad history of poor Joanna's
regal sorrow and shame, give a soft haze to the crimson




356            ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
flood of sin and grief that flowed around the beautiful
motherless girl as impetuously as love and pleasure
coursed through her veins.  But look at that violinplayer, Philip! how tenderly he rests his cheek on his
instrument! He seems to have forgotten the gay crowd,
the royal pageant, the courtly dance, everything, to listen
to the sweet tone he is drawing from his instrument:
surely it is the voice of his ideal speaking to him. Look,
he has just caught it! Poor fellow, when you were alive,
you lost it the next instant; but Giotto seized you and it,
and put you both there forever."
It was a pleasant hour we spent in that old choir gallery; at last we rose to go.
"It is not yet three o'clock," said Philip, looking at his
watch; "have you not another church to show  me,
Ottilie?"
"Yes; Monte Oliveto."
And there we went. This church is a perfect gallery
of monumental sculpture, as well as of exquisite inlaid
work of precious marbles. While we were admiring the
high altar, with its gay flowers and strange birds formed
of malachite, lapis-lazuli, verd-antique, and mother-ofpearl, skilfully blended, some clergymen entered, and an
afternoon service commenced. We withdrew into the
beautiful Piccolomini chapel, at the lower end of the building, to the left of the entrance. This little chapel is the
crowning jewel of the church. Over its altar is a famous
"marble picture, in relief," of the Presepio, or Nativity,
by the Florentine Antonio Rossellino. Vasari gives a
glowing description of this work. There is a great deal
of tender life in this sculptured picture; as Vasari says,
the little band of angels hovering in the air over the Holy
Infant, their lips parted, chanting the Gloria in Excelsis,




CONSEQUENCES OF THE BALL.           357
seem almost to breathe. The Virgin Mother looks like a
young, innocent girl; she has a round, immature forehead,
with soft hollows on the temples, which give the brow an
infantile expression, and childlike features; innocence,
calmness, and simplicity characterize the whole creation.
But the finest thing in the chapel is the tomb of the
Duchess of Amalfi, to the left of the altar when standing
in front of it. This tomb is by Rossellino also, and an
exact copy of one he made for the Cardinal of Portugal,
in the Church of San Miniato, near Florence. When the
Duke of Amalfi buried in this chapel his young, lovely
princess-bride, and with her his ambitions and hopes, he
ordered Rossellino to erect over her a counterpart of the
Florentine.tomb. She was the daughter of a king. Her
father was the unfortunate Ferdinand of Aragon, whose
ancestors' ashes rest in the velvet-covered chests in the
sacristy of San Domenico Maggiore, and who was so
sorrowfully betrayed by the Great Captain, Gonsalvo de
Cordova, to that other Ferdinand of Aragon, Charles the
Fifth's grandfather and Isabella of Castile's husband.
Duke Amalfi had also good lineage to boast of. He
was a Piccolomini, and nephew to a great Pope. His
uncle was the celebrated Etieas Sylvius Piccolomini,
Pope Pius II., the learned secretary of the Council of
Basil, and one of the finest scholars that ever wore the
triple crown, but who died of disappointment and mortification, because, when lhe summoned all the princes of
Christendom to go fight the heathen, he found only a few
pious old men ready to embark with him.
Five years before this last crusade, projected against
"Paynim dog," the beautiful young Duchess of Amalfi
lay down to sleep under this superb sarcophagus, surrounded by worldly prosperity. Death must have sounded




358            ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
an unwelcome summons to her, and yet it was a friendly,
tender withdrawal from approaching sorrow; a few years
after, her royal father was wandering about, a deposed
king, seeking a home and a grave in an enemy's land.
The fine tomb raised to her memory by her husband
occupies the whole of one side of the chapel. There is a
large marble chest, of beautiful form and workmanship;
above this is a stone couch, and at each end a young child
holds back the head and foot drapery, showing the sculptured marble form of the Duchess, who lies in the dreamless sleep of death; floating above her are two angels,
and in the centre of the panel behind her is a medallion,
containing a Madonnfa and an infant Christ. A finelysculptured arch rises above the whole composition, and
from this arch falls a marble curtain, which is drawn and
looped back on either side, knotted up in light, graceful
folds.
After we entered the chapel, we sat still for some time
on a high marble seat, which runs along the wall opposite
the tomb.- There was some fine music being played for
the service at the high altar, and heavy, rolling pedalnotes from the great double diapasons of the organ were
filling the air with glorious sounds.
I looked at the lovely marble effigy of the Duchess,
and framed fanciful notions about the invisible musiccurrent, which like a subtle, permeating fluid was making
its way into recesses and around columns, in a manner
very different from light; it came pouring down from
that great organ, like the rays of light from the bull'seye of a lantern, travelling forwards and sideways, upwards and downwards, spreading as it proceeded; yet,
from being more reflexible than light, it was able to
make its way around solid interpositions such as columns




CONSEQUENCES OF THE BALL. -         359
and walls, instead of lying against them as light does,
anid casting heavy shadows.
Sweet philosophy of sound! So should we wind around
our pillars and columns of grief. But we stand under the
glorious arch of Divine Wisdom.; we are as little children; we cannot take in its perfect proportions nor see
its sublime intention; we can only sit down and mourn
sadly in its shadow.
The music filled the little chapel with its rich golden
and purple tones; chords and harmonies seemed to blend
like curious broiderings on a fine tapestry.  The full,
sonorous sound of the open diapason formed a solid groundwork. The music was slow, the harmony dispersed, and
many suspensions occurred in the progress of the piece.
Once in a while the stopped diapason was added, giving
body to the pure sounds of the open pipes; then the dulcinea was drawn, adding a haze or atmosphere.
Philip, who had been wrapt in meditation, suddenly
started, and, leaning towards me, said in a low voice:
"Ottilie, there is a fine passage in De Quincey's Suspiria which tells just the effect this music has had upon
me:' This harmony has displayed before me, as in a piece
of arras-work, the whole of my past life; not as if recalled
by an act of memory, but as if present and incarnated in
the music; no longer painful to dwell upon, but the detail
of its incidents removed or blended in some hazy abstraction, and its passions exalted, spiritualized, and sublimed."'
He fell into a still deeper meditation, and gazed with
glowing eyes at the richly sculptured tomb raised by a
husband's love over his young wife's dead beauty; presently he turned to me, and said to me in a hoarse whisper:
"That Duke of Amalfi loved his wife, Ottilie, did he
not?  Tell me, what does the legend say?  Did he ever




360             ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
love another? Or hadt he enough cold firmness to go
through life without the warmth of a living love beside
him? Tell me."
"I do not know, Philip.  But he could have loved
another and not wronged her; do you not think so?"
Philip looked at me keenly, and I returned his look
with steadiness. I understood the meaning of his strange
talk, but I could not venture on such a sacred subject unbidden. It was but an instant I had to wait, however,
and then it came, —the whole full tide of confidence. He
loves Florence Folhat with all the force and strength of
his matured nature, of his "old sorrow put to new uses."
"Yes, Ottilie," he said, with deep feeling, " I, who had
given up all hope of ever loving again, and should have
condemned myself for even thinking of such a possibility,
am out in that old whirlpool of doubt and fear and hope,"
" And why not, Philip? It is very right and natural."
" You do not condemn me, then?  You do not call it
perfidy to the past?"
I knew what he meant: he was thinking of Ellen; but
we could not either of us speak of her, and yet we were
both true to her dear memory. I remained silent a few
moments; then taking his hand I said,
"'Because we love instead of sorrowing,
When life is shriven,
And death's full joy is given
Of those who sit and love us up in heaven,
Say not we "loved them once"!'"
The organ ceased; after the benediction the high-altar
service ended, and we left the chapel. We drove along
in silence for a while, I thinking much of Philip and Florence.  The love for her is beautiful, and comes most
graciously in season. His affection for Ellen was differ



CONSEQUENCES OF THE BALL.           361
ent: it began in his boyhood; there was no doubt, or
fear, or sweet, wild delirium about it, — a quiet, sweet blossom of the spring-time of his life, which, if death had not
intervened, would have ripened into golden fruit. Just
before we reached home, he turned half playfully to me
and said with a laugh, which was intended to hide his real
feeling, "She may not love me after all, Ottilie, for I
have not asked her; and upon my soul when I think of
doing so, I wonder at my presumption in supposing such
a blessed possibility."
" How can you doubt it, Philip? Why, her love is as
plain to be seen as yours; clear as the sun at noonday.
She reminds me of Coleridge's Genevieve. Go tell her
some tender love-tale; she would forget and fling herself
into your arms as naively as the poet's pretty maiden did."
He shook his head doubtingly, and began to look very
solemn. As he lifted me from the carriage, when we
reached our own court-yard, I whispered to him gayly,
"Have courage, and, like M6ntrose,
"I' put it to the touch,
And win or lose it all.' "
He did straightway. This evening he came to me
triumphant. When he told the dear girl of his love and
asked her to be his wife, she rose from her seat, stood
frankly before him, rested her two little hands in his, and
when he put his arms around her, she buried her glowing
face on his shoulder and wept like a little child.
16




BEGINNING OF THE END.
HAVE been neglecting my journal for quite
two weeks; and now I have so much on my
heart, that, woman-like, I wish to begin at the
end, and tell that which is troubling me most,
instead of that which makes me happy. But, soberly and
in order.
Philip is married! Yes, married and off. A few days
after his pleasant and gratifying acceptance by the Folhams, -who showed a very frank satisfaction at having
their daughter so "nicely established," as Mrs. Folham
said, - he received news of the death of an uncle in Germany, his father's eldest brother.
The death of this uncle brings a great deal of business
on Philip. He has to go immediately to his father's old
home in Saxony, to attend to the family affairs; thence
to America, to settle up the business interest which his
uncle and father had for many years together there, and
which has been hanging half unravelled since the death
of Philip's father, owing to the age and ill-health of this
uncle. All the heirs look to Philip to settle matters;
and he feels himself responsible, as his father's representative, to have the business arranged promptly and
advantageously for all parties.  But to do this might
require a year's absence; and to be separated from Flor



BEGINNING OF THE END.             363
ence such an age seemed to him an impossibility; yet go
he must.
"Why separate at all?" asked the practical, straightforward Janet.  "Why not marry at once?  You are no
stranger to the Folhams, so far as name and position are
concerned; nor are they, - to me at least. And as for
qu'en dira-t-on, why need any of you care?"
Common sense carried the day, especially as common
sense and inclination went hand in hand. Mrs. Folham,
to do her justice, demurred a little, very properly; but
the approval of such persons as the American Ambassador
and his wife, and Mrs. Dale, also Philip's distinguished
position, had great weight with her, and overcame her
"natural scruples," as she called them.  Such scruples,
arising from that sort of delicacy which is the growth of
society, not nature, generally seem satisfied with a mere
announcement of their existence; and as they are convenient mythical feelings, perfectly innocent, on which
society's proprieties can be hung, they surely may be
treated respectfully, as, half the time, they only ask to be
acknowledged, not yielded to.
Florence behaved beautifully. The good, sweet girl,
without any boldness or forwardness, said frankly and
trustingly, " I should rather be married at once, if Philip
wishes it, than wait for his return."
So the affair was settled; and yesterday morning, - as
midday is called, in such matters, - they were married in
full and proper state. I cannot stop to give all the details, which at any other time would be so agreeable for
me to dwell on, - the costly gifts, the ravishing toilet of
the bride, the touching, impressive ceremony; —no, I
must hurry on to that other romance, which has been
blending its scarlet and purple threads in with this lovely




364            ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
golden one, making up the sacred -life-chord of joy and
sorrow. At the breakfast yesterday Luigi and I.stood
beside each other.
"Now Edelhertz is off your hands, Ottilie," he said,
with an attempt at playfulness, "you can have a little
time for me; shall you not?"
I have been neglecting Luigi lately; but, to tell the
truth, I have thought he showed a disposition to avoid
me. He has seemed for several weeks indisposed for
any companionship except that which we could have
when all together.  He has excused himself from our
rides, preferring to drive with Janet and Venitia. Our
little family circle has thus divided off during the daily
pursuits of pleasant occupation; uniting, however, always
in the evenings over the music, or in conversation with
visitors on the terrace.
But I have willingly yielded him up to Venitia, hoping
that his love for her, which has seemed to have an
unaccountable tangle in it, might announce itself in
some way. I could not see how I was able to help him
in the matter; and his seeking Venitia's and Janet's
society instead of mine appeared the most natural path
to the conclusion, which I had convinced myself, from
outward appearances, must come sooner or later.
And it has come; but Heaven knows in a form and
shape I little anticipated! Eager and hasty as I was, a
few pages before, to begin at the end, my pen falters as I
approach it. O, to shut up Life's book once in a while,
and not open it again until all the sad pages are passed
over!
I was very gay yesterday, as I always am when under
the high-pressure of memory.  Philip's marriage could
not be a true merry-making to me.  It struck on the




BEGINNING OF THE END.            365
hundred portals of the past; and there came thronging
out around me the invisible presences of the lost and
gone, holding to my lips the weird goblet filled with that
rare wine of Cyprus, whose draught
"Stirs the Hades of the heart,"
and gives an intoxication to the laugh and looks and
manner, more subtle and brain-wildering than any grapejuice of this earth's vintage can cause.  So I laughed
sharply, and wore my gay face-mask bravely; but Janet,
who knows me so well, came silently and tenderly to me
every little while, resting her hands on me with sweet
looks of sympathy and love.  Luigi, too, who looked
very pale and haggard, kept close by me, and gazed
wistfully at the scarlet hue which the secret dripping of
the old heart-wound sent glowingly up into my cheeks.
After we had seen Philip and Florence off in the steamer,
and had returned home, I was standing in the late twilight on the terrace with Luigi alone. He said, "I wish
to have a long ride with you, Ottilie. Can you give me
to-morrow?"
" Certainly. I shall need some pleasure of that sort
badly. You know I believe in appeasing the tumult of
the heart by rapid movements of the body, my friend;
so it is very kind of you to think of it. But you are not
going! Stay and drink tea with us."
"No, do not urge me. I cannot. I shall be here early
in the morning. Say seven o'clock, that we may go to
Lago d' Agnano before it grows warm. We shall be gone
all day, remember; and —" he hesitated, then added
hurriedly, "Ottilie, I wish to have you all to myself tomorrow; so, let us be entirely alone."
At seven o'clock this morning, therefore, before Janet
or Venitia were awake, we were trotting out of the court



366            ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
yard gate, on to the broad, lava-paved Mergellina. The
morning was glorious, and we cantered nearly the whole
route, for both of us felt an indescribable embarrassment.
We soon arrived at our old haunt of Lago d' Agnano,
and rode around it, and through the neighboring paths,
until we felt tired of the saddle and wished to breakfast.
We found the lovely lake as still and delightful as it
had been in early spring, when we used to go there in the
commencement of our pleasant friendship. The woody
hills which surround it closed in more shadily than then,
and the soft, grassy banks we found not yet touched with
the heat, which is growing so oppressive in Naples as to
make us talk of the necessity of seeking some Capri or
Sorrento retreat for the midsummer months.
We rode up to the trattoria, where we dismounted,
left our horses, and ordered refreshments for the day.
The beautiful Roman woman Delaita, who keeps this
Lake inn, gave us a friendly greeting. She helped me
off my horse, and took me from the saddle in her strong,
beautiful arms as if I had been no heavier than one of
her own "iron-jointed, supple-sinewed," dusky babies
who rolled jollily about on the ground, almost under
the horses' heels.
Luigi and I had a pleasant chat with her; then as we
walked slowly off from the trattoria to go into the woods,
we talked of her beauty as if we had not observed it a
hundred times before. We stopped a little way from the
house, and noticed her fine points as she moved gravely
around, with the slow, dignified step of a Roman matron
of antiquity.
Delaita indeed seemed more beautiful than usual this
morning, giving us a good excuse for growing enthusi



BEGINNING OF THE END.             367
astic over her. She stood sideways for a while, affording
us a chance of observing the simple but powerful outline
of her person, the fine poise of her head and neck, and
the richness and quantity of her glossy black hair. The
form of the necks and shoulders of these Roman women
is bewitching. Some one has said that the graceful lines
formed by the movements of their heads and throats recall those of swans and doves; and it is so.
We admired the gay yellow and green of her dress,
the rich knot of hair fastened at the back of her head by
a long gilt bodkin, and the bewitching little curls that
strayed rebelliously out of the pin-fastening and clung as
caressingly around the broad, firm base of the head as
that brown boy of hers who clambered up at her feet.
We noticed her self-possession and tranquillity with
the restless children, the screaming donkey-boys, and the
passing travellers, the calmness with which she responded
to the thousand and one demands made on her by babies,
boys, and people, and her still dark eyes gazing on everything quietly. Those eyes of Delaita have a rich, full
look, such as may be seen in those of some fine cow, or
beautiful dog, or horse; and when we see this look in
them we say, "How human! "  Yet, again, when we see
it in human beings, the animal look, free from coarseness,
just in its simple, true nature, is always suggested to us.
This subject thoroughly discussed and the pleasant little savory breakfast Delaita had sent us —of fruit and
curds, delicious bread, and really good black coffee - finished, we took a leisurely stroll among the hills. We
walked along in a silence which was only broken by some
vague, half-understood, indeed only half-uttered, remarks
on the beauty of the landscape. WVe had chosen the side
of the lake to the west of the trattoria, on a beautiful




368            ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
slope, where, under the shade of the trees, we could loiter
or ramble at will.
Each was full of an unexplained anxiety. I knew
Luigi had asked me to take this ride purposely to give
himself a chance of relieving his mind of some annoyance. To request me to be his intercessor with Venitia
seemed absurd; the girl's frank acceptance of his attentions, and innocent, unconscious admiration of him, his
superiority in her eyes over all other persons, surely
must have made him certain of her love already.
No, there must be some other obstacle than doubt as
to her feelings I was certain. His restlessness and unhappiness at times, his fits of "frolic grief" after these
sombre moments had passed, all proved to me that
there was some impediment to a disclosure of his love;
an imaginary one I felt sure, heightened by the exaggerated apprehensions of a young man in love; such as comparative poverty, or the fear of inflicting on his beloved
the troubles and privations of exile, which to him, an
Italian of high rank, brought up without a profession or
positive means of support, might seem terrific. But although I thought whatever obstacles the young man's
delicacy had conjured up could be readily dispersed by
the plain light of a friendly talk, there was a silent anguish about him which made me feel - I did not know
why - uneasy.
A shady, solitary part of the woods attracted us, and I
sat down on a rustic seat under some trees, while Luigi
walked leisurely up and down, trying evidently to appear
occupied with the enchanting scene around him. How I
pitied him, and yet I could not help him. For is not
Venitia almost like a young sister to me?  Therefore I
could not urge him to an avowal of what should be volun



BEGINNING OF THE END.              369
tary. He turned suddenly and looked at me. I suppose
my face must have expressed very strongly my perplexed
feelings of sympathy and anxiety.
He came to me as if intending to speak, then sat down
on the ground near me in silence. Luigi is never melodramatic; his Saxon blood tempers the Italian fire, -
indeed, the southern current seems to make him languid
under intense excitement, where a northerner might show
something like emotion. He has always about him a refreshing repose of feeling as well as physical quiet, which
is so very attractive in a person who possesses as he does
capability of passion and energy. It is this self-control
which gives him an unconscious air of superiority, and
has made me feel from the beginning, he could do nothing ignoble.  He gathered some delicious violets that
grew within a hand's grasp of him, put them in my lap,
and then looked earnestly up in my face.
" We plighted brother-and-sister faith, Luigi, soon after
we met," I said, half playfully; "let me claim a sister's
privilege in entreating you to tell me if I can help you
in any difficulty you may have."
I could not endure silently the appealing look of this
usually self-sufficing man any longer.
"I do not wish to intrude on your confidence, my
friend," I continued; "but intrusion or not, however it
may be, I do wish to relieve your mind, if possible, of this
unspoken trouble which is making you so very miserable."
"Ottilie," he said abruptly, "after all, I think the expansive confidence of some natures, like yours for example, is far better, nay, wiser and safer, than the prudent
reserve of mine. Now, of your whole life I know, and
also of Mrs. Dale, and -" he stopped as if he had
touched a nerve, then he continued: "But how little
16 *                           x




370            ST. MARTI~i'S SUMMER.
you know of mine. Fear of intrusion keeps me silent;
then the reserve which is taught us early in life, here in
Europe, - where concealment of one's personal matters
is regarded, if not exactly a virtue, certainly a mark of
refinement, — acts upon me.  But" — here he sprang
to his feet, and stood erect before me - " no matter what
may have been the reason for my yielding insanely to a
wildering temptation, you, you, Ottilie, will surely do me
justice,- you never will accuse me of meaning anything
dishonorable by this reserve."
"Never, Luigi," I answered promptly.  "I would
trust you, my friend, as I should Janet or Philip, and I
have felt so from the first."
I held out my hand to him, for he was looking intensely
sad; he took it, and as he sat down on the bank again
he pressed it to his lips with the graceful courtesy of an
Italian.
"But, Ottilie," he said in a low voice, the anguish of
which I shall never forget, " this reserve is now becoming
dishonorable."
He trembled with emotion, and remained silent, as if
not daring to trust his voice, and I felt a hot tear fall on
my hand.  I was perplexed and distressed.  I rested
my other hand on his head as if he were a boy whose
young heart had been wounded bitterly by some injury
or insult; but I could not say anything, except a tender,
soothing reiteration of his soft Italian name, "Luigi,
Luigi."
Then followed a sad story, which put us both in a
woful tangle. An obstacle to his love for Venitia! I
should think there was.  And this obstacle is nothing
more or less than a wife.
He had married very early in life one to whom he had




BEGINNING OF THE END.            371
been betrothed by his parents in infancy; it was a mariage de convenance, so common, as we all know, in
Europe. Soon after, he discovered that his wife was
no companion for his heart, head, or life.  She was
wealthy and high-born like himself, but ignorant, - and
worse,-vain and impure. When Luigi made himself obnoxious to the government and had to leave Milan she
gladly returned to her mother's house, where, under the
protecting shelter of her roof, she could lead, as a married
woman, the life she best liked, - a life of veiled impurity,
shrouded by all decent attentions to the outward proprieties of social life. They luckily never had children, and
their separation, so agreeable to both, had continued for
years, indeed would last for life.
"Indeed," said Luigi, ".I was beginning to forget I
had ever been married. My immediate kindred having
all died, my associations lying far, far away from the social circle in which my wife moves, and this for so many
years, I have had nothing to recall to me that which was
for a short time the misery of my existence. I do not
suppose any friend or acquaintance I have in Paris,
Rome, or Naples, except his Eminence, know of my
former real position or marriage; the name I bear is
an obsolete one of my family, quite forgotten. I have
always known that my wife and her relatives would be
only too happy if they never heard of me again, and I -
I embraced willingly the life of freedom which a humbler
and unknown station afforded me.
"When I met you and your friends, I entered frankly
and without scruple into the pleasant, friendly commerce
which an acquaintanceship with you offered me. Had
you belonged to the ordinary class of women, having a
daughter or sister to marry off, I should have avoided




372            ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
you; but we met as intelligent, thinking, active-minded
people; we had no thought of marrying or giving in
marriage. For a while I imagined our happy intercourse
might last forever. Some nights, after leaving you, I
have sat in my library and lived over, in fancy, a future
spent with you as your brother, travelling, studying, living
real life with you. But now," and the young man looked
hopelessly up at me, -" now, my dear, dear friend, it is
at an end, - all this future; for I love Venitia.  Love!
my God, I adore her!"
There was no reason for condemning the young man.
My straightforward woman's wit saw that. There had
been no perfidy meant. Had he intended to be dishonorable, he would never have disclosed his real situation, but
gratified his love by marrying Venitia. We had been
completely in his power.
This young man had met with us, liked us, visited us.
We were three women, as he said, who had no thought
of hunting up husbands, and were quite as ready to enjoy
a frank, honorable friendship with a good, intelligent man
as with a pleasant, honest woman.
Thus I rapidly reasoned on the subject; consequently,
there was no mute reproach in my manner, but a freely
expressed sympathy. Venitia has drawn a prize of passionate true love in her life-lottery; the prize simply cannot be made available. I think I felt all the time more
sorrow for Luigi than for her. He will be so hopelessly
lonely in the future.  Self-sufficing as men are, their
loneliness is more withering and desolate than ours.
We spent the whole day wandering about on the banks
of that beautiful lake, talking of Luigi's past life.  During all this long conversation, I gathered that which I
have been able to put into immediate information, for




BEGINNING OF THE END.            373
lhe was loath to condemn his wife when he first told me
his story.
Sunset came, beautiful, golden, gorgeous. It had been
a glorious day; but we had not enjoyed as much as we
usually do this lovely place, - the overarching trees, the
soft, half-sleeping winds, the buoyant clouds, and the deep
pulsating blue of the sky. But the fever and torment of
acknowledgment was over; a generous, just sympathy
had been given; and now, as evening approached, we
both felt calmer. Before leaving the lake, we sat down
again to enjoy as much as possible the beautiful close of
the day.
All the tumult of life seemed to me to be suspended.
The wind rose up as if it had been reposing on the broad
bosom of mother earth, and commenced toying with the
branches and leaves of the trees on the other side of the
lake; then it came frolicking over the water, breaking it
into a million of sparkling ripples, while the tops of the
trees on our side bent down to meet its passionate grasp.
I grew reconciled with life and its shortcomings. A superb balance appeared to be established before me, as I
thought of the " mighty and equal antagonisms" of grief,
which are rolling up forever like waves, making broader
and deeper our capabilities of feeling for each other's
sorrows.
But Luigi, though calmer, seemed more sad than he
had in the morning. Then, something remained to do;
now, it was done, and the certainty of his fate stood
sternly before him. There was a quiet melancholy on his
face, which was very sorrowful to see. We returned
home as silently and rapidly as we came, and parted in
the court-yard with yearning looks for a hope and a help
which neither of us dare give to the other.




A NOCTURNE.
LL day Venitia has been so constantly with us,
fl//&L@ I have had no chance to talk to Janet alone.
However, after tea this evening she went into
the salon to the piano, and Janet and I remained out on the terrace.
Where a deep feeling or an urgent necessity imposes
explanation, the words come naturally if we will only let
them. I never trouble myself about preparing what I
shall say or do in an emergency; the power that permits
the difficulty will supply means of supporting or extricating us, if.we only trust firmly; and so it was in this case.
I told Janet, as soon as we were left alone, all that had
passed between Luigi and myself yesterday; and the just,
generous-hearted woman received the sorrowful information as I knew she would. I felt instinctively, without
his telling me, that Luigi dreaded Janet's first hearing of
his position. He could not comprehend her as I did, of
course.
There is in Janet's character a clearness of mental
sight, a strength I love to call manly, and a nobility of
feeling, which, with a little more demonstration; a little
more show of tenderness, would make the life-harmony
sound exact to unskilled ears. She is so just in her judgments, and so charitable and indulgent withal, that she




A NOCTURNE.                 375
has taught me many a lesson of true love; and yet our
ordinary friends would much sooner come to me, in a
questionable difficulty, than to her.
But I am more expansive, more demonstrative, although not naturally so free from prejudice or so capable
of generous judgment as she. She is cold in manner, and
so strict in judging of her own actions, as to leave the
impression she would also be of others; and this debars
many from seeking and receiving her truly valuable counsel and sympathy.
She has a way of knitting her fine broad brow and
pressing the forefinger against the firmly compressed lips,
on approaching a subject, which somehow, I don't know
why, arouses antagonism, and makes those who do not
know her shrink from baring their wounds; while probably all the time she is interrogating or giving herself a
rigid self-rebuking, not judging unjustly her opponent
or companion.
The broad brow grew terribly tangled, and, as she
leaned on the railing of the terrace, listening to -my low,
rapid, earnest words, her finger pressed like a wedge of
iron on the lips, which seemed to rebel in an eager pout
against restraint. I fancy Luigi would have shrunk in
pain had he seen her then, fearing the cold, worldly judgment of a selfish woman, who intended obstinately to see
nothing but the falseness of his position towards us, in
the inevitable trouble it would bring to her. But I knew
her better. I had not one instant of doubt as to how she
would receive it; only I could not help thinking of all
this. She spoke not a word, but sat for some time in
deep thought. At last she turned towards me and said,
in a voice of deep emotion, which she tried, in her usual
way, to veil with a little laugh,



376            ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
"What mad people we have all been, to be sure!
Poor Venitia, Cleopatra-like, she has melted a priceless
pearl in the cruel acid of an impossible love."
I made no answer; I had nothing to say.
"Come, Ottilie," she continued, "you must not sit so
silent, so dreamy. I do not often want word-comfort, you
know, but I do now. Can you not tell me some of your
satisfying philosophy about art's needing trials, and artists
requiring the heat of disappointment to ripen them? "
This forced lightness could not last; she came towards
me with a curious look of mingled appeal and distress,
and as she rested her forehead on my neck, this selfsufficing woman said, in the most tender and touching tone
of voice: "Am I not almost the girl's mother? Tell me,
Ottilie, what am I to do when she hears this solemn hour
of renunciation strikinog?"
I knew it was not counsel my strong friend wanted; it
was words only,-words which might give her something
on which to hold as human, in this first wildering moment
of a kind of trouble she, so experienced in all such lore,
had never encountered. And I had so little to say of that,
which I thought would be most fitting. Indeed, to the
clear, crystal tone of that heart-note, what mortal words
would not sound dull?  But she was out on the waves of
a wild ocean, and, as I said, any human voice of tenderness and sympathy was something to hold to, to help her
to think and grow firm. So I did as we always do in
such cases, — I talked platitudes.
" Dear Janet," I said, "I think a love which is prevented by oppositions of some kind from becoming tangible, from taking positive form and shape, is to a highly
intellectual creature the most perfect incarnation of love.
Love that reaches its consummation in this state of being




A NOCTURNE.                 377
is apt not to survive its own peculiar season; but love
which is altogether pure and holy, such as this of Venitia
and Luigi, which angels might witness and feel, and
which is free from all mortal soil, is immortal; and if
those to whom is given this divine grace remain true to
the gift, they will already have in their possession a sweet,
mysterious blossom, which has come trembling down into
their hearts from a purer sphere, in whose celestial soil
they shall find the roots of that delightful tree which bears
fruit and flower, and no thorn."
We sat in silence on the balcony; the undemonstrative
Janet leaned her head on my shoulder, and allowed my
hands and lips to rest caressingly on her soft cheek.
Venitia was alone in the drawing-room, improvising, as
she loves to do at this twilight hour. She enveloped us
in her harmonies. A broad, grand musical thought lay
superbly sketched out before us in the moonlight. Then
she wove around and out from it a curious musical web
of involved modulations, and as De Quincey, in his enchanting description of the Palimpsest, says of the pursuit
of the various lost handwritings, she " hunted back the
chords through all their doubles, and as the chorus of the
Athenian stage unwove through the antistrophe every
step that had been mystically woven by the strophe,"
so she chased back in a chorus-like chain all these tangled suspensions and modulations until she reached the
glorious starting-point, and her original motivo rang out
supreme.
" Talk to me, Ottilie," whispered Janet; "your words
comfort me. But do not tell me you have no belief in
the perfect, purple fulness of wedded love; for, my friend,
I have seen and known it, even though for so short a
season, still it was a reality and must also be immortal.




378            ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
The appointed and peculiar season of Paul's love and
mine will be eternity."
Venitia's vague, questioning improvisings wound around
us like graceful, weird arabesques.
"The love of husband and wife," I said, "when the
holy sacrament of Love is partaken by both, the sacred
chrism anointing both brows, and the Real Presence in
their hearts, is rare and almost too great a happiness for
mere mortals."
Step by step Venitia's modulations mounted to dizzy
heights, reminding me of poor Piranesi's aerial dream
flights of stairs, forever ascending, forever overhanging
perilous abysses, and he forever standing on their highest
rounds.
" But," I continued, and my words, said to the measure
and beat of that wondrous music, - unwritten language
of the newly-awakened Psyche in the girl's passionate
soul,- sounded more effective than these poor written
ones, -" but, Janet, beautiful as such love is,'With darkness and the death-hour rounding it,'
there is much more attraction to me in an unavowed or
unaccomplished love, - one which is set to that divinest
key of life, the minor key of renunciation, and which gives
rise to the most wildering soul-harmonies.
"Love, struggle, suffer, - then comes the true harvest
of the soul; and such a love and such a fate has tragic
beauty and sublimity, far exceeding those which are
called happy loves, for there is shown an exercise of
power, the overcoming of some great contending force,
all telling an exultant tale of a moral combat and a moral
victory."
Venitia commenced weaving in skilfully with her own




A NOCTURNE.                 379
thoughts chords which were leading to the solemn portals
of Beethoven's Marche Funebre (Funeral March on the
death of a hero, Op. 26). The grand drapery of purple
and gold seemed to envelope us, and give even a tinge to
the moonlighted air, which was heavy with the odor of
orange-blossoms; and the fair starry flowers turned up to
the cool night as if asking also for tenderness.
"Such loves," I said, drawing my friend closer to me,
-" such loves, Janet, have carved great statues, painted
glorious pictures, and written grand poems. Vittoria
Colonna put life into stone; and she, with the two Beatrices, - one with the myriads of Madonnas surrounding
her, like the palpitating fond of angel's heads in her
Sanzio's pictures, and the other with the'Divina Commedia' encircling her heavenly brow as with a halo, —
shall tell age after age how Angelo, Raphael, and Dante
loved."
The solemn chords of this sublime March tramped
with majestic step on the air, and we listened in silence
to Venitia's touching execution of this creation, which
tells of death, not in its sorrow, or its despair, but in all
its pomp and glory.




WANLUCK.
OW  prompt Janet is. This morning while I
was at breakfast she came into my room to
show me a note she had just written Luigi.
It was this:
"DEAR LUIGI, -We know all. We must part, my
friend. Do not let us drive you from Naples, however;
for we shall make our arrangements to leave immediately.
Before we go, of course you will come to see us. Venitia
wishes to say good by, and I a God-speed to you.
"Keep up heart, my poor friend. How many of us
live over the separation caused by death, and are able to
do our duty; and so must you in this trial. I cannot
ever write or speak half I feel, especially when my heart
is fullest; so do not think my note cold. You have no
warmer, more sympathizing friend than
"JANET DALE."
The note was sent to his apartments, and I was certain
he would reply to it immediately in person; so I dressed
quickly and went out. I thought it wisest to be absent
during their interview. I knew Venitia and Janet could
manage their trouble best alone.
We do not need our friends in the first moment of sorrow. When all is over, and the new grief and old way
of life meet,  ragged, rough, obstinate selvages, that




WANLUCK.                   381
must be fitted and adapted together patiently, - then
those who love us can help us.
I spent the morning at the Church L' Incoronata,
studying the Giotto frescos; for if we leave Naples so
soon, these are among the things I shall wish to keep
freshest in my memory. In the afternoon I stopped at
the nice cake-shop in the Strada Chiaja, near the Toledo,
and took dinner. That over, 1 lounged in at Detken's
awhile, looked over their new books, and selected some
fine large photographs, which they have just received, of
the surrounding places. One, of our glorious, mysterious
Temple of Serapis, took my fancy, - it was so finely executed. We must have it, and indeed all the others, to
take with us as pleasant mementos.
Leave Naples! It makes me very sad to think of
doing so. I am not half or quarter through. There are
the old palaces with their pictures, and Paestum unvisited;
and -O, so many places! But some time in the future
I may return. However that may be, I shall not separate
myself from Janet in her sorrow. Italy is full of delightful abodes for persons who have our tastes and pursuits,
so one place is as agreeable as another. At all events,
I must try, in my little way, to make a new resting-place
pleasant to them.
Near sundown I drove into the court-yard, and found
Luigi's carriage there. As I entered the anteroom of
the salon, I was witness to a touching little scene. Near
the door were Luigi and Venitia. Neither of them saw
me, for I was hidden by the muslin curtains and drapery
which hang over the archway between the two rooms.
She stood facing me, calm, pale, and still. He had hold
of her hand, and was just bidding adieu. His back was
towards me, and I could not see his face.




382            ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
"Grant me one favor, Venitia," he said.
"Certainly," answered the girl, frankly.
"Let me kiss that pure, clear forehead of yours, which
will always rest in my memory as the brow of an angel."
Without hesitation she leaned forward to him and
received the kiss.  Then resting her strong, beautiful
hands on the young man's shoulders, she looked earnestly
in his face for a moment, drew him close to her, put her
arms tenderly around him, and, with a faint little sob,
kissed him on his lips.
"Now go," she said in a broken voice, "and may God
help us both!"
She left the room without looking at him again, and he
tottered by me, never noticing my presence, blind and
deaf with his great sorrow; for the parting was as hopeless as death to both.
Luckily the Rochesters came in this evening, and several other visitors. I say "luckily," because it broke up
the gene of our trouble. Venitia was excused from receiving them on the plea of a headache, -that convenient,
available indisposition for a woman. Janet and I talked
to them all the evening composedly, and I even sang a
few ballads; but we both felt as if acting in a dream.
Before parting for the night, Janet and I had a little
talk on the terrace. She told me that Luigi came immediately on receiving her note this morning. He leaves
to-night for Paris. We shall go to the Baths of Lucca
for the summer, and decide there where we shall spend
the coming winter.
Janet says he spent the whole day with them, talking
tranquilly, and was more self-possessed even than she had
dared to hope. She bade him good by a little while
before he left, in order that he and Venitia might be




WANLUCK.                   383
together alone. I did not tell her what I had seen. Some
day I shall give her this journal to read; then she will
know what was too sacred to be put in spoken words,
even to her.
When I came to my bedroom, I found on my table a
short note from Luigi, bidding me good by, enclosing his
banker's address in Paris, reminding me affectionately of
our brother-and-sister troth-plight, asking me to write to
him, and signing himself my "brother Luigi."
God bless and help him in his sorrowful future, which
will be very lonely. Now, if I were a man, I could go
and be a brother to him, and make life much more easy
and bearable. And if life in this social world was as pure
as it should be, I, a woman, could be his true sister-companion. But there is no use in trying to alter the prejudices of the world by fretting at or acting contrary to
them. It is much wiser to adapt ourselves as patiently
as possible to these judgments and rules, unjust and petty
as they may seem to us; for, on the whole, they are right,
and we find them safest in the end.
It is now full time for letters from America. Even
supposing the missing mail should be lost, which I fancy
is so, a second one is due, and from it I must hear the
worst or the best. I look for these letters anxiously; in
the centre, as I am, of all this joy and sorrow of those I
love, I cannot forget my own causes of inquietude. Happiness is, after all, comparative. For instance, I, who
have so little in a worldly or social point of view to make
me happy, and not at all likely ever to possess any more,
should feel something akin to happiness if I could see the
time when the arrival of home-letters would cease to be a
cause of anguish to me.
O for a draught of Lethe! O that the separation




381             ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
between us and the living dead might be as silent and
impassable as the grave! The powerlessness of the dead
to wrong the living is a merciful limitation. But man
governs this life, God the other; and knowing this, why
do we not, the little time we live here, submit more
patiently to a power which we know is a fleeting usurpation? The old Greek gave wise counsel: —
"Do not spurn against the pricks,
Seeing that he who reigns, reigns by cruelty,
And not by right."
Good old John Newton said that he worked at the
crosses and difficulties of this life until his knuckles were
sore; then he gave up and left them all for the Lord,
and straightway they were righted and removed. How
I wish I could rest mine fully in his all-powerful
hands! But this capability of yielding up one's anxieties
is a grace in itself, for which we must also wait patiently.
So many of us, when shouldering weighty burdens of
grief, feel like poor Constance, —
"That faith would live again by death of need;
0, then, tread down my need, and faith mounts up;
Keep my need up, and faith is trodden down."
Venitia has been very ill. To my surprise, she gave
up immediately after the separation from Luigi. I should
have fancied, from my previous knowledge of her, that
she could have borne, almost stoically, any amount of
grief; but this subtle power of love has changed her
whole nature. She is out of danger now, and as soon as
she is able to travel we shall leave here.
My American mail has come, and with it a wilderness
of woe.




WANLUCK.                    385
A sudden shock of grief takes away the moral strength,
and leaves scars behind that open and ache with every
breath. Such sorrows as these are the real diseases that
make both body and mind aged, even more than those
fierce physical attacks which leave the body broken and
infirm.
The cold-hearted calumny, the pitiless persecution, the
cruel laugh and sneer, the torrent of bitterness poured
into a heart which God has already bruised, is a woful
human work. And when is the anguish ever to end?
For, alas! there are some natures who, while they tread
down a falsehood and walk boldly, proudly, yes, even
highly and holily over it, apparently unharmed by the
adder, feel a fang which strikes in at their hearts, and
leaves a mortal misery gnawing there forever.
O for a vigorous, well-educated will that is able, like
Janet's, to mount to the level of any summit of emergency, and bear unflinchingly the fierce storms of trial.
Very beautiful is her character; its material was firm
enough in the beginning to bear the sharpest instruments
of sorrow, and the master hand of discipline has sculptured it into a lovely shape. Then her will, instead of
being warped and weakened under the fierce heat of trial,
has grown into crystalline firmness.
Such beings remind me of what I have read about the
formation of mighty mountains; some fiery process compressed together their atoms, and the sharp cuttings of
Heaven's storms chiselled out their fair outlines; thus
purified and formed, they lift up their lofty peaks in serene, majestic silence, piercing the great empyrean.
But there are volcanic hills as well as granite heights,
alas! and as I look over on Vesuvius weeping its fiery
17                           Y




386            ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
rain, bathing its sides with a hot, angry flood, I cannot
help murmuring, -
" Great Architect of all!
When Thou didst build the fire-devoted hill,
Thou gav'st it but the semblance of a life!
Say, was it merciful to frame man's heart -
S6 finely fibred - on the selfsame plan?"
Several days have passed in consulting, arriving at
conclusions, and making arrangements.  The mind becomes fearfully bewildered when a wave of sudden sorrow first breaks over it; but if one waits patiently, this
wretched indecision passes away, and the confusion takes
manageable form and shape.
I have resolved to return to America and face full
front this shameful grief. I have written to Philip that
I shall meet him there; I shall need his presence and
protection.  Nor shall I be left alone in the mean while,
Dear Janet and Venitia instantly decided on accompanying me, - kind friends! And Janet makes light of their
generosity.
" Why, you know," she says, cheerily, "it will be of infinite service to Venitia, such a total and complete change
for her in every way will be obtained by it."
Venitia, too, takes great interest in the proposed journey. It seems to give her a fresh impulse. When the
news of my trouble came, it was the, first thing that
aroused her and brought back her natural self.  The
resenting of my wrongs by indignant words of sympathy
appeared to be a relief for her, - a vent for her own unuttered suffering.
We have had in view many ways of returning. As
Philip cannot be in America until autumn, I do not care
to arrive there before he does, nor do I wish to remain




A NOCTURNE.                 387
in Europe; therefore we have plenty of time before us,
and Janet proposes we should return by a sailing vessel.
We have often longed for the chance or opportunity of
taking a slow, leisurely voyage on the ocean; and as
Venitia is still feeble from her severe illness, it will be
better for her.
Janet thinks that the monotony and stillness of such a
voyage will be beneficial mentally to us, as well as physically; quiet down the fever and fret, cause the fierce vibration of feeling to fall back into a steady pulsation, give
me courage for the coming struggle, and Venitia strength
to accept with woman's endurance the new life.
So we have concluded to take the sea-voyage. Mr.
Rochester and our banker have kindly undertaken to
charter for us a nice, safe fruit-ship on a return voyage.
They have in view a pretty little clipper, now at Constantinople, but which will be in Palermo in a fortnight.
And now it is not a mere partial farewell to Naples I
am taking, with the prospect of a fair journeying to some
other delightful place, but probably an eternal farewell
to Europe, - a sight of the Promised Land from Mount
Pisgah and then a mournful turning back into the old
Wilderness.  A mysterious, wayward destiny controls
some lives.




LEAVING NAPLES.
UR last night in Naples. Dolce Napoli! We
sail to-morrow afternoon in the steamer which
runs between this city and Palermo. There
we shall join our little clipper, which boasts
the fanciful name of " Zephyr."  It was originally a warsteamer, built with great care for Santa Anna of Mexico;
but the news of his downfall came just as the little naval
toy was completed, then it was altered into a sailing
vessel, and put on the Mediterranean and Levant fruit
service.
Every arrangement has been made for our comfort.
Janet, whose easy means enable her to indulge in extravagant luxuries when she wishes, -and this she loves to
do for the pleasure of others, — has had a good cabinet
piano fitted into the cabin.  She has also had strong
water-proof cases made, and had them lashed to the
quarter-deck; in these have been placed a small, wellselected collection of books. The preparing for this voyage has given her infinite satisfaction, and she has not
forgotten even such pleasant and palatable luxuries as
wines, fruits, and the like. She came to me yesterday
holding up triumphantly a peculiar looking tin box; it
had a curious arrangement for the lid, which I did not
comprehend.




LEAVING NAPLES.               389
"It is a water-proof case, and can be closed hermetically," said Venitia, examining it. " What is it for?"
Janet enjoyed our surprise a little while, then going to
my desk, took this journal, clasped it, and laid it in the
box.
"For Ottilie's journal! " exclaimed Venitia.
"Yes, she is the only member of our family who keeps
one; and if any accident should happen to us during the
voyage, I should not like to have the book lost. We shall
not be sunk at sea any the sooner for making preparations
for such an event," said Janet, coolly.
So nightly I am to shut up this precious volume in the
box.
To-day I heard from Luigi. He wrote to me immediately on receiving my letter which informed him of our
intended return to America. He begs of me to keep him
always advised of our movements, and to do as he shall,
— write at stated times unfailingly and trustingly, even
though we may sometimes miss hearing from each other.
He makes no allusion to his late trouble, mentions Janet
and Venitia naturally, sends his remembrances to them;
altogether the letter is just such a one as he might have
written two months ago, before he and Venitia had gathered the sad fruit of knowledge, which has driven them
from their paradise.
I knew that from his writing thus, he wished his letter
to be seen by them, so I handed it to Janet. She gave
the letter to Venitia without any remark. When it was
returned to me I found pencilled on the margin, in Venitia's handwriting, " Dear Ottilie, remember me affectionately always to Luigi whenever you write to him."
Jean Paul somewhere speaks of " concluding a great
past with a little present"; such has been our farewell




390            ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
night in Naples.  We have had a crowded, talkative
evening; all our friends calling to say good by. We
shall miss many of them a great deal, for our social surroundings here have been very agreeable. The Rochesters, who have been our most pleasant acquaintances, we
hope to meet again in America, and keep up unbroken
the intercourse which has ripened an acquaintanceship
into a very deep feeling of regard.
But we shall miss most of all our beautiful surroundings, - this lovely home, - for home it has been, - a
home that has seen the birth and growth of pure, deep
love, a strong temptation resisted, the brave facing of bitter sorrow, and the triumph of honor and true feeling.
Beautiful, golden, glorious Naples! with thy rich sunlight, pure moonbeams, pulsating blue sky, and atmosphere filled with delicious life-drops and exquisite odors.
Often in the future, while far off in my American home,
my heart shall stretch out tender, yearning memories to
this enchanting place.
Angelini the sculptor, who also called to bid us good
by to-night, said to me, in his soft, melodious Italian
voice, "Ah, in Naples one needs so little. The simple
act of living, the breath Nature gives us here, is a priceless luxury in itself. Here sight and sense are fed most
gloriously by the good God."
They have all left, and I have come to my room to be
alone with my fast-rushing thoughts. Janet and I have
been walking up and down the terrace silently together,
looking over at Vesuvius, whose lava streams still flow,
though sluggishly. The beautiful lichen-hung hill above
the terrace is buried in sombre shadows, although the sky
is glowing with stars, -the hundred-eyed Argus watching for the lost o, — for the moon is gone. It is near




LEAVING NAPLES.                   391
midnight, and this living whirlpool, this noisy, shrieking
Naples, is comparatively quiet; around us all is still, but
from the more densely inhabited part of the town arises
a hum and beat like the roar of a distant ocean or the
fevered throb of a factory.
Venitia is in the drawing-room, "holding commune sad
and sweet" with- her lovely Erard, from which she is to
be parted forever.  Now her hands sweep voluptuously
over the ivory rocks, like the grand swell of some shining wave holding aloft on its dashing crest a divine seanymph.  That most delicious of all nocturnes, Chopin's
"Murmurs of'the Seine," floats on the air, - a true music
mist and spray. The plaint and descending gamut in
the motivo, sparkle just as I have seen the shafts of
moonlight, when standing out on dhe terrace in the Villa
Reale, fling themselves passionately down on the innocent
bosom of the sea, and break into golden spears and arrows
of light, while the waters washed up against the stone
foundations of the terrace, as if in sweet pain and sorrow.
Venitia is in a true playing mood to-night. Now she is
improvising. She seizes the music-grapes, and, Bacchuslike, crushes out the purple and golden flood of musicwine. Her fingers seem dripping with the rare, priceless
juice; and as they rise and fall on the keys the rich, invisible liquid sounds gather around me like a delicious
flood of many waters, and bathe my suffering senses in
the sweet intoxication of
"Desires and Adoration,
Winged Persuasions, and veiled Destinies,
Splendors and Glooms, and glimmering Incarnations
Of hopes and fears, and twilight fantasies,
And Sorrow with her family of sighs,
And Pleasure blind with tears, led by the gleam
Of her own dying smile instead of eyes."




392            ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
O, this potent rhetoric of music that stealeth away all
weapons of pain and steepeth the whole being in a wave
of exquisite rapture, soothing the sting of " wounds that
will never heal, and silencing the pangs that tempt the
spirit to rebel"!
But, alas! just as this gloomy pageantry of "Winged
Persuasions" had quieted all unrest with their Lotus
draught, there comes creeping on the ear a despairing
interrogatory, - solemn, dumb, questioning chords, fol].owed with wildering, maddening doubt, -pure Wanhope!  And with  these sorrowful chords the music
ceases. Poor Venitia!
And now to bed and to sleep, but not to partake of
sleep's sweet refreshment; for it spreads no banquet for
the heavily laden, but'sits down a solemn veiled ghost
beside the sepulchre of our buried hopes, like Buonarotti's
spectre, watching over the dead Duke Lorenzo.' In our hearts
There is a vigil, and these eyes but close
To look within."




" CONCA  D' ORO."
E arrived quite early at Palermo yesterday
morning. On approaching the town we were
charmed with its loveliness. Putting Vesuvius out of the question, it is as beautiful as
Naples in its ravishing surroundings. It rests on the
bosom of a sloping plain, which plain is called, on account
of its luxuriance and fine situation, Conca d' Oro, - Shell
of Gold.
First, the city spreads graciously out; back of it are
rich forests of orange and lemon trees, and here and there
the curious nut-tree with tufted top; — these form a rich
framework; then around and above this foliage arise
sloping mountains, ascending in terraces four thousand
feet high, whose bold edges lie clear against the soft blue
of the heavens.
This lovely island was the home of ancient mythology,
the throne of the gods of Hellas. Jupiter reigned on
Etna, and held chained under its fiery feet the giant Enceladus. On its plains of Enna, Proserpine was roaming, when Pluto carried her off to his dread abode. The
whole land was Ceres' kingdom. In its forests, Diana
and Minerva rambled in their girlhood. Here Vulcan
forged his thunderbolts, - hence the name of the island
Vulcania Tellus; and here also the terrible Cyclops
17*




394            ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
lived. The story of Acis and Galatea, the myth of
Polyphemus, with old Homer's songs, all bubbled up in
our memories, as we fell stormily into port under the
raging, shrieking sound of our steamer.
"Arethusa arose
From her couch of snows
In the Acroceraunian mountains,"
I chanted half to myself and half to Janet as we stood in
the end of the boat looking with eager eyes on this island,
which spoke like a huge, many-leaved illuminated book
to us.
" You are thinking of that delicious story and poem of
Alpheus's pursuit of Arethusa, which the poet Read has
painted with as much inspiration and beauty as Shelley's
verse tells it," said Janet; " but the memory roused in me
is a more strange, mysterious one. The shrieking noise
of this steamer, the various things around me which tell
of man's strength, remind me of that weird myth of Polyphemus. Do you remember, or did you never hear, the
old Norwegian version of this Polyphemus myth?"
I nodded my head affirmatively, and she continued:" The child, through adroitness, not strength, you know,
deprived the Trold, - the northern Polyphemus, - of his
eye, and thus not only took from him a divine power,
but held him in subjection. He made the Trold give
him gold and silver, and also two bows, the arrows of
which were unfailing in their aim and flight.
"So it is with man the pygmy. He has cunningly
seized on the eye of Nature, and is wresting from her all
her secrets. She gives him the treasures of the earth,
the steel bows of lightning, and that unknown power
called magnetism, on whose viewless current fly with
unerring aim the swift arrows of intercourse. Then the




"CONCA D' ORO."                395
relation between Man and Nature, how like to the legend
also.
" After the Trold granted the child's requests, he and
his brothers retired sternly and quietly into darkness,
leaving the boy in ignorance of their greatest secret, -
who and what they were! All he knew was, that they
represented a vast, mysterious, giant power, which could
be governed only through adroitness and skill.
"So Nature acts with man. He may wrest marvellous gifts and secrets from her, but after a sullen and
unwilling bestowal of them, the great Cause of all these
wonders recedes into the darkness of silence and mystery."
Just then the current of passengers ebbed back against
us; there was a dragging of luggage, and a bustle which
interrupted our pleasant talk. The steamer struck the
wharf, and people sprang eagerly ashore and aboard;
among those who'came on the boat were the courteous
American Consul, Mr. B., and our captain, who were in
search of us.
We went with them directly to our vessel, and were
much pleased with it. This beautiful little sea toy,
which is to be our home for so long a time, the gentlemen tell us is a safe, swift sailer. The appointments of
the clipper are very satisfactory; there are three nice
state-rooms, small, but prettily finished, as indeed the
whole vessel is, with mahogany; then there are berths
back of the cabin for our two maids. The piano fills up
most of the space to be sure, but we do not intend using
the cabin as a dining-room. We shall take our meals on
the quarter-deck, where a low awning can be stretched
to protect us from sun and rain.
After establishing ourselves aboard, seeing that all the




396            ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
trunks, boxes, provisions, etc. were arranged properly,
and dining comfortably, we accepted the kind invitation
of the Consul to drive through Palermo, and drink tea
with his family.
"You have arrived just at the luckiest time," he said.
"To-night is the vigil of our great fete of Santa Rosalie."
The first thing we did was to drive out the Palermo
Toledo, to see a colossal statue of the saint, which we
found in a huge pavilion, mounted on a car or chariot,
that is to be drawn by over fifty oxen. It was a curious
compound of stucco ornaments, gay flags, plaster statues
of various saints and flying cherubs, with our -old Neapolitan friends, the little colored glass cups and tapers,
arranged in all manner of forms, so that when the whole
structure shall be illuminated, which is to be every evening of the fete, it will produce a superb effect.
The fite continues five days, and we wished we could
stay to see the whole of it, but the captain was anxious
to sail with the first fair wind; the illuminating of the
cathedral dome with twenty thousand lights was in itself
a sufficiently strong temptation to us, but such experienced travellers as ourselves know we cannot see everything that is attractive.
On our drive through the town we found them decorating the houses and stores with the inevitable glass
cups; strings of them were suspended in every direction,
forming stars, crosses, monograms of " Mary" and " Our
Lord," and every other religious device and shape that
could be thought of. We were glad to see one more illumination before we left Italy.
First, we drove out on the fine old promenade of Palermo, the Marina, or Cours de Bourbon, which used to
be the fashionable drive.  It commences at the Porte




" CONCA D' ORO."              397
Felice, - the entrance' to the Toledo, where the statue
and car stand,- and extends along the bay shore to a
public garden called the Flora, with its beautiful Villa
Julia, which was built nearly a century ago in' honor of a
viceroy's wife, Julia Guevara Colonna. The Marina is
also adorned with fine statues by various Italian sculptors
and costly buildings, but its most striking adornments yesterday were the large transparencies and preparations for
the evening's illumination and to-day's procession.
After leaving the Marina we returned to the Toledo
and drove out its full mile length. ThisToledo, when it
reaches the centre of the city, is crossed at right angles
by the Strada Nuova, another grand avenue or city artery
like the Toledo. The square or place where the two
streets intersect each other is an octagon called the Villena, beautifully decorated with fountains, statues, and
fine buildings. These two great streets of Palermo divide the city into four equal quarters, the Loggia, the
Kalsa, the Albergaria, and Siricaldi. Very Moorish
sounding are these names; the old name of the Toledo, too,
was Al Kassar. Indeed, I noticed on driving through the
town the Saracenic and Moresco style of its architecture.
Some of the houses have high, large, iron balconies to the
second floor, like those in Spanish towns, recalling to me
what Philip had said of Palermo, "that it should be the
city of iced sherbets, serenades, and silken ladders." The
convents have grated fronts to their balconies. The whole
appearance of the city is pleasure-loving and luxurious.
Palms and cacti on the surrounding hills and by the
roadside Moorish buildings, Saracenic names, - we felt
as if transported by some enchantment suddenly into the
Oriental atmosphere of an Arabian tale.
We did not visit any churches or interiors of public




398            ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
buildings, as we had only enough'time to drive through
the town to its most prominent points; for, beside supping
with the Consul, we wished to see the Marina illumination,
and our captain looked for a favorable wind at midnight.
When we passed the Cathedral Santa Rosalie, the sight
of it deepened the Moorish impression which the other
buildings had already made on us. It is half Norman,
half Moresco in its architecture; for in Saracenic days it
was a mosque.
It dates back to the twelfth century; but the delicious
climate of this fabled home of the gods has not blackened
or injured the stone. The indentations of the festoons
and other carvings which run around its margins and
domes lay against the sky clear, fresh, and golden-hued,
adorned with the gift of eternal youth. We were told
that the interior would disappoint us; but we knew it
contained some tombs we should have liked to have had
time to look at.
The tomb of Roger - the great Roger, who was father
to Tasso's Tancred — is there; also his daughter's, that
"mighty Constance" whom Dante's "gentle Beatrice"
unwillingly condemns; and her son's, the gallant Frederick II., "the third and last great Suabian blast," as
Dante sings; these three famous old tombs still stand in
that Cathedral, though the world has swung around with
mahy fierce plunges during the long six hundred years'
sleep of their famous occupants (Roger II., 1154; Constance, 1198; Frederick, 1250). Janet caught my eye
as the carriage rolled slowly by the handsome old building, and heard me saying to myself,
"This is the luminary
Of mighty Constance, who from that loud blast
Which blew the second over Suabia's realm,
That power produced, which was the third and last."




"CONCA D'ORO."                 399
"Yes," she said, "it is a pity we cannot see her tomb.
I, too, should like to stand beside the resting-place of that
woman, who'held affection to the veil,' even after she
was wife and mother; and, to uphold her son's rights,'did what she would gladly have left undone,' as'gentle
Beatrice' says."
"I always thought Beatrice made a delicate'distinction without a difference' on that point," I replied.
" Divine judgment did not agree with her also, for the
great Nun-Empress had a pleasant place allotted her in
Paradise: Piccarda's glowing description proves this.
She describes her as' This other splendid shape which thou behold'st
At my right side, burning with all the light
Of this our orb.'"
It was useless to lament over the pleasant talk we might
have had beside that "single slab of precious porphyry,
and the superb canopy of six columns of white marble,"
which are said to mark the resting-place of this wedded
nun, who at fifty years of age left her convent, where she
had lived from early youth, to become an empress, and
mother to one of the greatest monarchs history has
chronicled.
"At an age when a woman has few hopes left of obtaining a brilliant establishment," Janet drolly remarked,
as we lost sight of the church, " this cloistered Princess
became the bride of the handsome young son of the
mighty Barbarossa, and mother of that imperial warrior,
philosopher, and graceful troubadour-poet, Frederick II.
During the reign of this great son of Constance, Palermo
was one of the most polished cities of Europe; and it was
in her father's reign, King Roger II., that the first Italian
verses were written."




400            ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
We drove out to the extremity of the Strada Nuova
(also Macqueda and Favorita, as this other great street
has been called at different periods; for, like the Spaniards
who built it, it carries a legion of names). There we found
what Europeans call "an English garden"; a sort of
park, with fine walks shaded with trees and shrubbery,
and pleasant drives. This place is now the popular promenade of Palermo; that capricious authority, Fashion,
bids "everybody" to come here, instead of going to the
old and much more lovely resort on the Bay, the Marina,
with its superb sea-view, fine Flora garden, and pretty
Villa Julia.
We left the carriage and walked through some of
the paths. The whole fashionable world was there. It
was at the hour of sunset; and the rich dark foliage
of the orange and lemon trees, the livelier greens of
the other shrubs and trees, the sweet odors, golden sunbeams breaking in between the branches, and gay world
around, made us also forget the Marina and its deserted
loveliness.
The fashionables were in every variety of modish costume, - gay walking, dinner, and even light gossamer evening dress, as can be seen in all Spanish and Italian summer-evening promenades; and they displayed also every
style of equipage that could be thought of. A dashy little
affair flew by us several times; it was something like an
English drag, painted in gay colors, and "picked out"
in gilt, looking like a royal state-coach; it had four horses,
two abreast, and two jockey-like postilions; the livery
and mountings were brilliant, and it did not appear so
gaudy as one might suppose, under the glowing sky and
fine Vanity Fair surroundings; We were told that the
young gentleman who was in it, its master, was the Duke




"CONCA D' ORO."              401
of Monte Leone, whose mother is a woman of immense
fortune and curious reputation. We remembered, then,
having seen this Duchess and suite on board the steamer
which brought us to Palermo, and observing that she was
a bold, handsome-looking woman.
The whole scene was Parisian, a bit of Bois de Boulogne. It was strange to be thus suddenly jostled against
modern artificial life, after driving through those old
Saracenic streets, our memories filled with Middle-Age
legend and poem, and those old legends too seeming new,
alongside of the myths we had recalled when first landing
on this "happy island of the gods, these eternally classic
heights of the ancient wdrld."
After leaving this gay throng, we drove to the Palazzo
in which the Consul lives. Its court-yard, stairways,
corridors, and rooms made me think of old Moorish tales.
We supped with the Consul and his family, and then reentered the carriage, which was waiting in the court-yard,
and drove through the streets, blazing with illuminations,
to the crowded Marina.
We drew up in front of a large marble building, designed by King Ferdinand II. as a shelter for an orchestra, -a costly, unsuitable place; for the columns and architectural construction cause the greater part of the music
to be lost, or to fall upon the ear with muffled sounds;
but on this evening I rather liked the effect.
Our barouche was on the outside of a throng of fine
equipages, and very near the sea. The Marina was
superbly lighted. Near our carriages were some large
transparencies, which made the place look like a grand
picture gallery. They represented, in glowing colors,
various incidents in the life of the famous Sicilian Saint
whose fete was being so superbly celebrated.
z




402            ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
This Princess Rosalie was the niece of the Empress
Constance. When she was a young girl, she was so saddened with man's doings that she left palace, court, and
knightly lover, and went clambering up, all alone, the
rugged, thorny sides of Monte Pellegrini,
"To liberty and not to banishment."
There on this lonely mountain the pious maiden lived out
her innocent existence, far removed from the storms
which the fierce Barbarossa and haughty Hildebrand, the
struggling races and faiths, were making together out in
the world. But she was safer in those dripping mountain
caverns, with the thorny cactus fortifications and in faroff, forgotten loneliness, than if, like her brilliant aunt,
she had chosen one of the gay new convents in the royal
city of her grandfather, Roger.
In this abode, rude and harsh for one so tenderly reared,
she lived and died in sweet ignorance, I will dare vow, of
all the vivid stories her "exalted mount" could read to
me; her saintly thoughts were never disturbed by the
gorgeously illuminated myths, which would dance before
my eyes, from every island point, as brilliant as some of
the rare, gay-colored leaves in one of her own curiously
painted Missals or Hour Books.
Blessed ignorance, and thrice-blessed faith! The gentle maiden soon slept a quiet sleep; "in the flower of
her youth and beauty she died," — so the legend says;
and her long slumber was undisturbed by the clashing of
arms, the swaying to and fro of the Christian and Paynim
world; for five stormy centuries she rested there quite,
quite forgotten.
Then a fearful pestilence raged in the island; and holy
men were directed, in sacred visions, to go to a lonely




"CONCA D' ORO."              403
cavern on that grand old headland for relief. They went
in solemn procession, holding the Cross aloft, with banners
swaying to and fro, and clouds of incense arising; priests
and peasants clambered up the rugged, zig-zag paths, to
whose rocky sides the moss scarcely clings, and in a dark,
dripping cavern, near one of its highest points, they found
the remains of the fair maiden. They gathered together
these sacred relics with pious reverence, and carried them
to the suffering world. Wherever the procession moved,
sickness ceased; and the grateful Sicilians made the saintly
girl their Lady Patroness. For over two hundred years
her memory has been lovingly preserved.
The bleak, bare cavern in which she wept tears of
anguish for that poor father whose name has come down
to us laden with the sorrowful title of " Bad," and where
she sighed out in solemn solitude her last gentle breath,
has been adorned with all the costly decorations the loving Catholic faith so tenderly hangs around its beloved
sanctuaries. A monastery and a church spring finely
out from the side of the mountain-height, and cathedrals
and churches are raised to her memory in every Sicilian
town.
I thought pleasantly of all this old history and legend
while I sat leaning back in one corner of the barouche,
looking out on the dim outline of the coast towards Cape
Zaffarina, which stretched off its picturesque indentations
of bays, isthmuses, and headlands, with the starry heavens
above and sparkling waters beneath.
The dull plash of the waves against the shore mingled
curiously with the heavy, muffled sound of the Overture
to Sicilian Vespers. The undulating rhythm of the opening movement in the Overture, and the clarinet solo,
sounded like the mysterious beat of muffled oars in bright




404            ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
waters, and the violoncello passage was as dark and sombre as these very waves of the Palermo bay are said to
look even at the brightest noonday, for the shores and
mountains hem them in so jealously that they keep every
ray of sun-glitter off from their pure crests. We did not
talk, - not a word was spoken, -each one sat still, enjoying the pleasant sights and sounds.
Midnight struck, and we drove along the Marina to
the vessel, which we found ready to sail.. We bade our
kind, gay entertainers good-by, and after the little rocking, dancing boat had carried us to the ship's side, and
we had clambered up the ladder, we settled ourselves in
the hammocks, which are slung on the quarter-deck, and
there watched in silence the starting of the vessel. The
beautiful outlines of Monte Pellegrini lay sharply cut
against the clear sky, which was crowded with thickly
studded stars, while Palermo, with its many lights growing a little dim, looked like some half-extinguished meteor
dying out on the bosom of the valley.
On leaving the harbor, we sailed towards Cape Zaffarina, at the eastern arm of the bay.  This movement
gave us a fine view of Santa Rosalie's home, Monte Pellegrini: it is one of the boldest mountain headlands in
Southern Europe, and said to resemble Gibraltar, being
nearly as high.
The scene produced a delightful effect upon me. I listened to the plash of the black water against the vessel's
side, breathed the novel and peculiar odor of the sea, noticed the gracefill outlines of the mountains, the bright,
starry heavens, whose fire-points seemed to throb and
scintillate like pulses and sparks, while quick-changing
memories pursued each other with shadowy haste through
my mind. The surging of the vessel rocked all sights,




"CONCA D' ORO."                 405
sounds, and thoughts into a curious compound, from which
arose a succession of strange, grotesque forms, created by
that mysterious "chemistry of sleep called dreams" and
the opium-like power of the sea.
Solemn processions seemed to wind up the mountainpaths, contending armies thronged the coast, and gay
pageantries filled the ocean. The various epochs of the
past presented themselves before me, and these shores
gave up their dead in a brilliant, curious phantasmagoria.
There was the magnificence of Tyre and Sidon blending with mediaeval splendors; the fierce conflicts of Punic
wars, raging beside crusading knights, when
"Christian swords with Persian blood were dyed."
Romans, Northmen, Saracens, and Christians all mingling
in one wild, hot contest; while floating over the whole
changing vision, as a brilliant sun-lighted mist, was the
faint memory of strange myths glowing with the far-off
light of ancient poesy, - fleeing nymphs and pursuing
gods, quick-leaping fountains holding aloft exquisite forms
of beauty, cresting waves bearing divine shapes, -
" The feast of Neptune, and the cereal games,
With images and crowns and empty cars;
The dancing Salii, on the shield of Mars,
Smiting with fury, and a deeper dread
Scattered on all sides by the hideous jars
Of Corybantian cymbals, while the head
Of Cybeld was seen sublimely turreted." *
* Wordsworth.




IBERIAN COASTS.
ULY 13.- On land I rarely date my journal
here on the sea I must hold fast to dates;
having no busy world around to do it for
me, I shall forget how time passes in this
"cycle of Cathay." Yesterday we did nothing but lie in
the hammocks on the quarter-deck; for although we do
not suffer from actual sea-sickness, we feel a delightful,
indolent languor and an unwillingness to commence any
regular occupation.
Janet laughingly reminds us of Novalis's saying, " Rest
is peculiar to the spirit. Life is a disease of the spirit, a
working incited by passion."  From  this she concludes
that we are in a more healthy spiritual state while feeling this enchanting indolence. I must confess my usual
restlessness is quieted, and a sweet peace, which must
come from mental health, fills my whole being.
Sicily is still in sight, with its bold, beautiful coast.
Last night we passed three islands, Ustica, Alicuri, and
Felicuri. The blue'of the sea is of the deepest hue, but
the sky is clear light blue, and yet the most perfect harmony exists; there is not a shadow of a discord between
the two shades. Nature is unerring; and he said well
who told us that "Art is a prudent steward that lives on
managing Nature'd riches."




IBERIAN COASTS.               407
The haze and atmosphere over the mountainous coast
of Sicily are very soft, and the heavens are filled with
light floating clouds, that dissolve into the blue as the
white crests of the waves do into the sea. The sharp
cutting which the prow of our swift little ship makes
through the waters dresses up the waves with glorious
white crests.
15th.- We are all doing very well. We have commenced our regular employments. As we have no sightseeing or land-journeying to keep us occupied together,
we separate immediately after breakfast, each to her own
pursuit. Venitia goes to her music, the theory of which
she is examining very closely. Janet studies languages;
and two hours daily I join her in French, German, and
Italian. After that, I lie in the hammock and read, or
dream waking-visions while listening to Venitia's earnest
study of modulations and intricate tone-webs woven from
curiously blended chords; sometimes I talk and walk the
deck with Janet or read aloud to her.
16th.-We are having glorious sunsets, beautiful moonlight, and glassy seas. There is very little wind, and the
sails flap lazily to and fro in this July calm. Ah, how
charming is this life! Not luxurious like that Neapolitan
existence of two baths, five repasts, and three sleeps in
the twenty-four hours, but possessing its own peculiar
pleasure. Out on the broad sea we are cut off from all
provocations to anxiety, and, such as we are, enjoy this
calm episode to the very full. On land, humanity and
humanity's cares, hopes, ambitions, likings and dislikings,
press in upon us, and disturb our tranquillity; here all is
divinely still.
At sunset this evening the scene was what might -be
truly called "fairy-like."  The whole horizon opposite




408            ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
the sun reminded me of Shelley's " dissolved opal." The
sky had the delicate pink hue of a conch-shell, then it
melted itself into a soft blue, wedding itself to the ocean
without a line of separation, while over the mysterious
union of sea and sky flitted fitfully faint but exquisite
shades of color; here a blue, there a rose, and then a
green, while the soft west-wind hovered over the waters,
rippling them prettily together.
On the other side of the heavens hung the "infantine
Moon, with her attendant star." As the twilight darkened and the moonbeams shone down, we leaned over the
guards and watched the fiery line made by the sharp
cleaving of our quick little vessel through the brilliant
phosphorescent waves; small diamond-like sparkles
danced and trembled over the waters. While noticing
this phosphorescing of the sea, Janet's classical memories
were quickened, and she rhapsodized playfully, with " divine frivolity," about the Nereid Mera, who, according to
Hesiod, was the one to whom these mysterious ocean
beams belonged.
These medusidans give the sapphire-hued sea a metallic
lustre in the daytime;, at night, sweeping by in huge
shoals, they look like smothered flames; and when the
vessel strikes them,'they emit sharp electric sparks.
In the morning the waves are adorned with dozens
of baby nautili sailing gayly along like fairy fleets, with
their tiny sails erect. Venitia caught one on the handle
of my riding-whip to-day. I fastened it to this page of
my journal, but it was like a delicate flower-petal from
poor Kilmeny's fairy-garden; it faded and crumbled away
in our mortal atmosphere; and yet I wished to preserve
the pretty thing, for the deep blue base and transparent
lilac and pink sail were bewitching.




IBERIAN COASTS.                409
The veriest trifles on shipboard possess interest. We
are like children in watching them, and find not only
quiet as children do, but food for thought and fancy in
our observations. This morning the captain and his men
amused themselves by catching turtles. The lowering of
the boats, the going to and fro of the men up and down
the vessel-side, the rowing off, the silent, stealthy approach to the poor, silly, sleeping things, and the shouts
made over their capture, gave rise to more entertainment
for us than one might fancy.
Then we leaned over the side of the vessel and watched
the playing of a rope in the water while a boat was
lowered and drawn up. As it caught the sun's rays, it
looked as if made of molten gold; and the most fantastic
lines and traceries were formed, every change brilliantly
beautiful, offering studies of divine shapes for arabesque
ornaments.
To-day has been very calm. At times we did not seem
to stir. The whole image of the vessel, sails, cordage,
and masts, lay reflected on the truly glass-like bosom
of the sea with startling clearness, like the ancient
mariner's
"Painted ship upon a painted ocean."
I try to grow learned over the various sails, and to
distinguish them by their different names, but in vain;
that which is apparently so easy to these uneducated
sailors is grimoire to me. Our ship carries a great number; yesterday I counted thirty-three at one time, spreading out their white wings and making the little vessel
skim over the waters as swiftly and lightly as a true
zephyr. But a good deal of skill, and of watchfulness
too, is needed in using them, for an unlucky squall of
18




410            ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
wind might make us pay dearly for our top-heavy finery,
by giving us an unexpected capsize.
21st. - There is a brisk wind, and the pretty little
clipper cuts sharply through the waves. We are now
passing Fromantera, one of the Balearic Islands. A little
while ago, we were close to Majorca; its sharp cut coast
lay clear against the purply blue sky, with beautiful leafy
indentations running along its edges, formed by the aloes
and palms.
I leaned on the chain of the quarter-deck watching the
island as long as I could see it, and recalled Chopin's
sufferings. I thought of the desolate winter he spent
there, the intense loneliness and sadness he felt, when
the cry of the hungry eagle, the wail of the north-wind,
and the sight of the desolate yews covered with snow,
united to the heart-weariness of the woman he loved,
wrung from his soul those divine cries of music sorrow.
Venitia evidently had the same memories awakened,
for she also gazed intently at the island.
I looked at her and observed how much her face has
altered in the past month. The arch of her brow is, as I
have said, a shadow too prominent, and formerly the expression was hard; now it is stern and reflective. There
is also a sombre and mysterious look in her eyes, which
is like distant thunder and far-off lightning, making me
think of the flashing of a storm through the painted windows of a chapel.
The same smile has settled on her face which rests
forever on Janet's, and which first attracted me to her.
This smile has a pitiful meaning, is sadder looking than
tears, and both mouth and eyes rebel; it can be seen on
the face of every proud, self-contained person in a season




IBERIAN COASTS.               411
of fearful uncertainty, or after some great loss has been
experienced.
To-day Venitia's deep prophetic eyes had an expression
that was too intense for one so young; and the blueveined eyelid drooped with a tender weight over them, as
if heavy with unshed tears. The thin, flexible nostrils
dilated with the passionate memories that were agitating
her. Her beautiful mouth had lost the bewitching childlike pout of the under lip, the short Greek cut of the
upper one grew thinner, and both became like two trembling crimson lines, under the influence of the quick
quiverings of emotion excited by the sight of these Majorcan rocks.
After the island was quite out of sight, she went down
to the piano and played, as if improvising them, those
great Majorcan preludes of this master, which make " a
single instrument speak the language of the infinite, and
where in ten lines of music are enclosed poems of the
highest emotions, and dramas of unequalled energy." *
23d. - The coast of Spain is still in sight. The graceful outlines of its mountains and hills are beautifully
traced out against the sky in the morning sunlight. We
have just passed Cape di Gata, and the captain has
pointed out where Almeria should be. Now we are sailing in front of a beautiful plain, to which slope down
laughing hillsq bathed in a " leafy tide of greenery," rippling in the shadowy wind; and equally charming ones
wrapped in a soft green misty haze, make a lovely background.
Farther along toward the southwest, high mountains
can be seen, topped with dazzling snow. Soon we shall
be coasting in front of old Granada, so rich in Moorish
* George Sand, Mm;noires de ma Vie.




412            ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
legend. We are going very fast, — ten miles an hour.
If we continue making this good time, we shall be at
Gibraltar before this hour to-morrow.
Night, Telez Malaga. - The fine sail of to-day from
Cape Gata to this point has been charming. The mountainous coast was enveloped during midday with a soft,
peach-colored haze; the hills rose up, one above another,
amphitheatre like; and the distant ones were topped and
dashed along their sides with glittering white snow.
This Iberian peninsula has a garden-like coast; vines
cluster around precipices, and hefe and there little chapels
peep out from the rich groves of orange, lemon, myrtle,
and cypress trees that wind around, or sweep across the
mountain sides in graceful ascending terraces. We have
coasted quite close to shore; moreover, we have fine spyglasses, which give us a full view of the distant part of the
country.
24th. - Becalmed off Velez Malaga. The sails hang as
if wearied with their swift run of yesterday. Now one
flaps lasily as a teasing little breeze steals over and under
it. The vessel sways dreamily to and fro on the water,
giving a true opium feeling to the brain. The sun has a
white hot beam, and its rays pour down like a molten
silver stream, bathing sea and sky, and even the whole
landscape, in its dazzling atmosphere.




THE GADITANIAN GATES.
ULY 27.-Last night we remained awake
until after midnight, watching the vessel as it
passed around the Gibraltar Rock, and entered
the Gulf of this Calpe of the ancients. We
had a very rough sea yesterday, with strong head winds;
but this ship lies the closest to the wind that is possible,
and the captain, by dint of tacking and patient going to
and fro, managed to arrive here notwithstanding the difficulties.
The sun went down behind the purple hills of Spain
slowly and languidly, enveloped in rich golden and yellow
clouds. About ten o'clock the moon arose full and clear,
and poured down upon the waters a flood-like stream of
silver light. As we approached the Rock, the sight was
superb; the moon shone upon the gray old height, the
light-house on the point burned brilliantly, and over on
the African coast the revolving light of Ceuta by turns
flashed out sharply, then died away.
We could not help thinking of the effect produced on
ancient voyagers by the sight of these high headlands
which terminate the two continents, standing like pillars
of boundary to their own world, or grand gates of entrance to a new one. The Iberian Calpe and Libyan
Abilyx are no longer such imposing places. Men are too




414            ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
busily employed in rearing invisible Babel towers of
lightning and magnetism to be awed now by such tangible forms as Pillars of Hercules or Gaditanian Gates.
This morning we went ashore to visit Gibraltar town.
After landing, we took an open carriage, and spent an
hour or two in driving around the Rock beyond Europa
point and the light-house, to the Mediterranean beach.
We passed the Governor-General's gardens, and saw his
Excellency sitting in the balcony of his summer villa,
reading very comfortably behind a bamboo shade, which
was propped out as a blind. During the drive we observed some exceedingly pretty cottage homes, snug and
English looking, evidently officers' residences; one was a
charming place buried in shrubbery, and over its partially
hidden front clambered vines with luxuriant clusters of
white and purple flowers.
The fig-trees on the roadside were in full fruit; the aspens trembled in the west wind, showing their whitelined leaves, reminding me of the silver poplar. There
were several other shade-trees, the names of which I did
not know. One was particularly beautiful; it waved long
golden-hued, feathery blossoms in the air, which looked
something like the acacia flowers at a distance.  The
roads were bordered with blood-red wall-flowers, scarlet
geranium, and brilliant cacti, just as at Naples; indeed,
many things reminded me of our sweet Italian home,
especially the houses clambering up and clinging to the
rocks and the terraces, or hangifig gardens to the residences, filled with beautiful flowers and shrubbery.
After our drive we walked through the town; did
some "shopping," as women do everywhere, and hunted
up a piano-tuner. The streets are very clean, —a strong
evidence of that " well-regulated family," England hav



THE GADITANIAN GATES.              415
ing the control. The population is of the most curiously
mixed character. We saw Barbary Jews with black
skull-caps, flowing robes, and red scarfs knotted around
them for girdles; Moors in white turbans, full drawers,
and yellow slippers; Spaniards with their peculiar padded
brimmed hats, braided jackets, and velvet breeches, tinsel
trimmed on the seams, slashed at the knees, and hanging
full of tags; Spanish women with rebosas, high combs,
dark skins, white teeth, sparkling eyes, short petticoats,
trim feet and ankles; and among them all, fresh, heartylooking English men and women went striding about as
perfectly unconcerned and at home as if walking on the
banks of the Thames.
The stores gave us infinite pleasure. There were Persian leather cushions, covered with curious embroidery;
Gibraltar black lace, recalling the Havana blonde; and a
variety of rare ornaments. The bracelets were wildering:
strings of strange golden coins, looking as if they had been
gathered from a Haidee's brow; amber beads curiously
carved, each one holding a god and a charm; different
kinds of small, rich-colored seeds, strung with gold in
pretty forms.  The fans, too, were of course beautiful,
and had a cunning, coquettish air, as if they almost knew
how to carry on a flirtation by themselves.
We shall stay here a day or two, to have the piano
tuned thoroughly, ramble about the place, and get a little
change off shipboard. We have concluded to sleep aboard
the vessel, as we shall find ourselves cooler by doing so;
for the town is now intensely hot, suffering from a long
drought. But if the town were never so cool, our shiphome is preferable; for it gives us a perfect rest and freedom in the evening, which we find very refreshing after
the day's ramble; then the rowing back and forth in the
boat is agreeable.




416            ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
What could be more pleasant than the laissez aller of
our ship-life? This evening, for example, is a fair specimen picture. Janet is lounging in her hammock; Venitia
in hers; I am writing by the carcel lamp, the base of
which is clamped to the table-top of the little bookcases;
but its works are skilfully arranged in a swinging globe,
so as to adapt them to the swaying of the vessel. It is
near midnight, and sea and land are still.
All the evening we could hear plainly the music from
the public grounds of the town. At sunset, the Rock gun
was discharged, and then we watched the gradual lightingup of the town and the vivid sparkle of the lamps. The
different light-houses shone out brightly; and the green,
blue, and red lamps of the steamers in the harbor made
them seem, in the twilight and night, like some huge,
panting animals with fierce, staring eyes.
Above the hills, over on the African shore, glowed a
fierce red light of some inland fire, - bushwood burning,
or something like that. After the sun went down and the
night darkened, this fire reminded us of Vesuvius: tongues
of flame darted up, and, as they crept around the. edges
of the mountain, they resembled a little the lava-light,
only the smoke was more dense and black than lava-smoke,
and the forked, sharp forms of the flames told they came
from blazing wood.
Gibraltar is a free port, and thus offers great facilities,
and indeed temptations, for smugglers. About sunset, a
little boat rowed up to us and lay under our stern. It
had in it about a half-dozen Spaniards, with some parcels
and packages. They were a merry, white-teethed, brownskinned set of rogues, looking as picturesque in their
Spanish costume as a set of operatic heroes.
Janet amused herself by "airing" her Spanish on them.




THE GADITANLAN GATES.             417
When she asked their business, they replied candidly that
they were smugglers, and told her with amusing frankness
that they were only lying around our ship under pretence
of business with us; at nightfall they should row off to
Spain and smuggle in their contraband goods.
While Janet was talking to them, Venitia was swaying
indolently to and fro in the hammock, singing in an undertone a little Spanish melody she had picked up among
some music at a music-store to-day. One of the smugglers
overhearing her, drew out a guitar, and began singing it
gayly to sparkling, rattling words. She left the hammock and came to the guards to listen to him. When
the men saw her beautiful face, and large, languid, wellshaped form, which looked very lovely in the soft, white
mull robe, and purply, golden atmosphere that surrounded everything, they grew enthusiastic, and burst out into
a chorus which had a glorious fulness. They also sang
us an Ave Maria, that reminded me of Gordigiano, and
they accompanied it with a pretty plash of the oar, which
had an enchanting effect.
28th. - Our poor, poor smugglers! They were seized
and shot last night. They hung around our vessel until
just before moon-rising at midnight, singing, talking, and
making themselves very agreeable, poor fellows! They
were perfectly proper and respectful in their deportment. Venitia's beauty evidently delighted them: she
sat nearly all the evening, leaning over the guards, talking in her captivating, indolent way, which is as unconscious as bewitching. The men looked at her as if she
was some beautiful saint. She took their guitar and sang
Neapolitan boat-songs and Venetian barcarolles in her
soft, low voice and clear articulation, which are peculiarly
adapted to ballads, making them sound like sweet talking.
18 *                       AA




418            ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
About half past eleven they asked us the hour, seemed
startled, said they were very late, bade us good night
hurriedly, and rowed off in great haste.
We watched the moon rising, which was superb; it
came slowly. up over the centre fortification, and the
high, firm chiselling of the Rock was set off finely by its
clear light. While we were looking at this lovely sight,
and expressing a little fear about our smuggler friends
having overstayed their time, we heard a distant report
of firearms, that came booming across the waters. We
did not associate the sound with them, but fancied it was
a signal from a vessel in the distance; and I remember,
just as the shot came echoing around the hills, Janet
answered our fears about their safety in her ready, healthy
tone, that will not admit trouble of any kind in advance:
"O, do not feel uneasy about them; they rowed back to
Gibraltar; they did not attempt their perilous trade tonight."
But this morning the captain brought us the sad news.
We feel very mournful about it. They were so merry
and full of life, poor fellows! And now all is over with
them for this world!
30th.- Last night, our captain looked for a suitable wind
to make the passage of the Straits, and we sat up until
after midnight, not wishing to lose the fine sight of leaving
the harbor; but it proved a hopeless affair, and we went
to our state-rooms. At four o'clock this morning we were
awakened by the noise on deck. We hurried up, and
found all the ship's crew and captain making preparations
to beat through the Straits against the head-winds and
contrary currents.
All day the good little vessel has labored industriously
against wind and waves. It was very exciting; for the




THE GADITANIAN GATES.              419
ship had to tack to and fro, first approaching the coast of
Africa, then the Spanish shore, so close at times that we
could distinguish the fields covered with grain, the various
trees, and even people and houses. Africa showed some
curiously shaped hills, bluffs, and rugged peaks.  The
Spanish hills were rolling, and tufted as if covered
with purplish-green velvet. Some one has said prettily
of this passage through the Straits, that Europe and
Africa look at themselves in the same Mediterranean
mirror, and seem'to struggle for the palm of beauty.
A schooner from Valencia to Boston was trying also
to make the passage through. Several times, when tacking; we crossed each other's paths; once we were alarmingly near. Every one on both vessels expected a collision,
and the fierce thrill that passed through us was like a
magnetic current. The danger over, we drew a long
breath; it was almost a luxurious feeling: the excitement had been so keen, so sudden, as to be free from
pain,- Saladin's scymitar cutting the velvet without ravel.
It has been a glorious day. The little slender ship, as
she tacked about, careened first on one side, then on the
other.  The waves danced madly; and they were as
fiercely obstinate in their opposition to our purpose as if
they bad been living things. The wind was fresh, and
we inhaled fine draughts of the invigorating  breeze.
There was no reading or writing, or indeed much talking,
done, for the motion of the ship was too great; and the
noise and dash of the opposing waves, united to the beating of the wind, sounded like roaring thunder.  This
motion of the vessel we all compared to the sensation felt
on a fast-galloping horse, — the bounding, free feeling
which fills the rider with enthusiasm, making, as that fine
line says,' All the queen in one's nature put on her crown."




420            ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
After all the toil, at nightfall the vessel had made but
four miles in the whole day's sailing; so the captain
wisely determined to give up the present attempt, and in
one short half-hour we were back at Gibraltar, in front of
this old Rock, which towered up, gray and grim, against
the mellow sky.
As we neared the point, the Rock gun fired, an eagle
swept grandly around the cliff, and soared off into midair. Janet and I quoted impulsively, and in one breath
almost, as if we had been thinking with one mind,
"Thou winged and cloud-cleaving minister,
Whole happy flight is highest into heaven."
Since our return, we have each withdrawn into ourselves, as it were. I am filling up journal; Janet is lying
in her hammock, gazing silently up at the starry sky and
the Rock, which looks as unflinching as she sometimes
does. Once in a while she stretches out her hand and
rests it tenderly on my shoulder, for she never likes me
to be far off from her; I turn to give back the caress, and
see her dear, true eyes looking at me with an expression
full of firm, unchanging, mother, sister, and friend love.
Venitia is in the cabin, improvising. Most mysterious
is this power to me, this capability of expressing passing
thoughts and feelings by quick-succeeding and blending
harmonies. I have spoken before of Venitia's remarkable
possession of this gift; but since her separation from Luigi
her improvisations have taken a deeper tone; they are
very often now what the Germans call subjective, and are
a true tone-language; not a fiction of art, but a lovely,
mystical, cipher-tongue, telling her heart and soul history.
She never names them, never writes them off, never
talks of them, and only plays them'when she is alone.




THE GADITANIAN GATES.              421
Sometimes they are so masterly, I cannot resist calling
out to her; but though I veil my admiration or interpretation of her musical thoughts under technicalities, my remarks check her on the instant, and she breaks off into
vague chords, simple pursuits of harmonies and dry reasonings.
But if, like to-night, they are objective and descriptive,
then my comprehensions and remarks stimulate her, and
make her develop her musical thoughts more brilliantly.
Now, as the music rises up from the cabin, I notice its
spirituality; image after image is summoned, and yet only
a gentle hovering over each, for the fancy -roused by the
scene of to-day is so rich in such descriptive wealth as to
silence thought. Curious inharmonious dissonances are
wedded so skilfully as to make perfect concord; indeed,
the chords proceed rapidly, without reflection; they fall
instantaneously from each hand, dissimilar as possible,
and yet their union is divinely complete. This is not the
result of mere " grammar rules."  The study and knowledge of theory may, does, help the improvising artist; but
the power or gift which Venitia possesses to so high a
degree arises from some subtle, spiritual influence, which
is exercised over the mind, and the best name to give it
is inspiration.
It resembles the divine harmony of nature, where each
sound in itself, like these chords, if taken separately, may
be unmusical; such as the hot, grating chirrup of the
grasshopper, so fretful and petulant; the crackling of
dried leaves; the rustle and tumult of the winds among
the branches of the trees; the regular rise and fall of an
oar, the drip of the water from its blade, with the complaining creak of the thole-pin; and sweeping along, upon
the surrounding air, from the distance, a hum and throb




422             ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
like a sad minor undertone, telling the sorrowful tale of
human labor, toil, and pain.  But Nature never errs;
these sounds are all blended harmoniously, and lull to
rest, with vague,- delicious fancies, the happy dreamer,
who, resting under the trees by the shore of "sweet running waters, with a soft south-wind blowing over them,"
listens with gentle rapture to the divine symphonique
whole.
And the improvising artist, to produce a similar effect,
must possess that power which has been happily called
"prophetic action of the mind," which bestows this marvellous and inexplicable ability to seize on the instant,
without taking time for reflection, upon the best out of a
throng of fast-crowding fancies, and create, from this little
pallet of twenty-four gamuts, things of beauty.




TEMPTING FATE.
ULY 31. - We are again trying to beat out.
The captain proposed we should have the vessel towed through by a steamer, but we refused
simultaneously: it shocked all our poetical
fancies.
"Just like an omnibus to cross the Desert," cried Venitia, half indignant.
Even the practical Janet said, " O no, that would never
answer "; and then, as we walked the deck together, she
quoted Humboldt about these "Pillars of Hercules at
the west margin of the earth, on the road to Elysium
and the Hesperides, beyond which were first seen the primeval waters of the circling Oceanus, in which the source
of all rivers was then sought."
" And here was the fabled margin of the earth," she
continued. " Now, according to these wise men of old,
we should be sailing towards, not from, Elysium. We
are striving to enter these' primeval waters of the circling Oceanus,' and probably, my dear," she added, putting her arm tenderly around my waist, "we are approaching a true elysium, not the sorrow you dread so
much. Your troubles at this very moment may be graciously righting themselves, - some happy influences
working, like sweet Ellie's Knight, to' Make straight distorted wills.




424            ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
When we reach home, darling friend, we may all find
peace and pleasure instead of trouble and trial."
"Home!" I replied, sadly; "it has been some time,
Janet, since I have regarded that word as representing a
reality for me. My home, henceforth, will only be a
country, -a wide space, a land, not a fireside with sweet
possessions."
We paced the deck silently for some time with quick,
elastic tread, as if our wills intended to control the feelings through the physical motions, and Janet's only answer was a firmer grasp around my waist.
Evening, off Al-Kazar Point. —The sun has just set
beautifully, but now a dull, heavy cloud hangs around the
horizon, like a curtain partly drawn up. Cape Trafalgar
stretches out in the distance golden and glorious as a
" heavenly hill," and Cape Espartel, the northwest point
of Africa, also catches a gleam of the radiant light.
Behind us lies Gibraltar, just faintly seen, for a misty.
cloud hangs over it; but the last rays of sunlight give us
a sight of its stone walls and houses clambering up against
the rugged old Rock. Opposite to us is a beautiful bit of
landscape; Al-Kazar Point, a rugged, sharp, gray bluff
runs out into the sea, forming a bay; behind it are several hills, each covered with a different shade of green,
and the atmosphere which hangs over them is deliciously
soft. One catches the sunlight, which throws a silvery
sheen over its verdure; another has a clear, open hue,
like Shakespeare's " lush and lusty grass, with an eye of
green in it"; and beyond there is yet another, wrapped in
a semi-opaque greenish haze. Meadows stretch out, and
there are clumps of trees, which tell of sweet shady woods
that must now, at this hour of nightfall, be full of all
manner of solemn sounds, and where




TEMPTING FATE.                 425
" the silent air
Lays her soft ear close to the green earth."
To-day the Spanish coast presented a curious sight;
trees stood in closer and more regular groups than nature
arranges them; then there were rows forming belts or
boundary lines around large tracts of land, which land
was yellow as if covered with grain stubble, and some
looked like pasture which had been cropped off by cattle.
The western horizon is glorious just at this instant.
Cape Trafalgar and its surrounding hills are covered with
a dissolving green haze, which has "an eye of fire in it"
like the opal. Tarifa light-house gleams out fitfully on
the Spanish shore, and the opposing currents of the
Straits beat noisily through. We have been talking of
those early voyages of the ancients, their earnest attempts
to advance beyond the Mediterranean shores; of the old
tale of the Argonauts, which is enveloped as thickly in
poetical myths as these beautiful mountains are with the
glowing haze.
No wonder those early voyagers clothed their adventures with legends, for when they reached these pillarlike mountains and saw such a dark unknown expanse of
waters stretching out beyond, they must have felt startled
and awed; then the aerial perspective of time gathered
gradually around their expeditions, and naturally gave
them poetic, mystic forms. Like us, these early adventurers must have had fitful, capricious winds, and listened
with terror to this thundering roar of the contending currents in these Straits, forbidding them to advance — as
they seem to do us - towards Elysium.
How curious these water currents are to the unlearned,
such as I am. I traced to-day upon the globe the course
of that mysterious Gulf Stream, which sweeps river-like




426            ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
across the ocean, flowing past the opposing and circling
waves as if they were simple earth-banks; retaining, it is
said, forever unchanged its own high temperature through
all its intercourse with other waters.
The captain, who is an intelligent man in his business,
told me that the ocean current propelled by this gulf current, which flows from the Azores towards the Straits of
Gibraltar and the Canary Isles, drives round the waters
of the Atlantic Ocean in a continual circular course of
three thousand eight hundred miles!
The night thickens, the wind changes, and the sea is
treacherous. The captain and men look anxious, but we
three women, who carry such heavy loads chained fast to
our hearts, - one a grave, the other a hopeless love, and
the third a living death, - are not appalled by the presence of mere physical danger; indeed, presenting itself in
this sublime form, it possesses a strange attraction, to me
at least.
"I should feel loath to risk the lives of these men," said
Janet just now, " but there are boats enough to save them,
and despite all the fine stories told of disinterestedness
and generous self-sacrifice at such fearful times, I know,
in such an event, these sailors would take good care of
themselves, no matter what became of us and our poor
maids. But we shall get through safely "; and she added
in an undertone, as if to herself, turning away from me,
"I fancy death is too great a blessing to come to us just
yet."
A perfect fleet of vessels set out with us this morning,over two hundred; it was a fine sight to see them stretch
out their huge wings against the morning sky, looking
like so many gigantic birds. Some of them have sailed
steadily on like us, contending bravely with wind and




TEMPTING FATE.                427
current, but most of them have fallen back.  We have
concluded to stay in our hammocks all night on deck, to
see the termination of this attempt.
Midnight. - We have drifted back in spite of all our
trouble to Gibraltar again, just outside the grim  old
Rock! Janet, who is swaying to and fro in her hammock,
quoted gayly just now, -
"' Ever striving to pass onwards, Phocenicians, Greeks,
Arabs, Catalans, Majorcans, Frenchmen from Dieppe and
La Rochelle, Genoese, Venetians, Portuguese, and Spaniards, in turns attempted to advance across this ocean, this
dark and misty sea, - mare tenebrosum, - until proceeding from station to station as it were, they finally came to
the New Continent,'- and so shall we, notwithstanding
all this contradiction."
We have been talking of the fabled Continent of Atlantis.
" It must have been here," said Janet, "just in front
of these Gibraltar Straits, that it lay. I have heard famous hydrographers speculate beautifully on the mysterious tradition. Homer and Hesiod mention it; and
Plato, in his Timaeus and Critias, designates this very
spot. He says in the Timaeus,'There was in front of
the Straits which you call Columns of Hercules an
island greater than Libya and Asia.'
" On this great island reigned famous kings, and brave
warriors lived. In one fatal night and day there came a
fearful earthquake and heavy flood, when this wondrous
island with its mighty men disappeared. Ever since, the
solemn, voiceless ocean has swept over its face, obliterating its great cities, fertile countries, innumerable animals,
and all its marvellous beauty of landscape, -vast plains
and high mountains, which in extent and beauty surpassed all we possess.




428            ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
"I have heard very learned men say that they did not
regard this legend as a poetic fiction or allegory; that the
configuration of the ocean just here accords strangely with
the ancient tradition, and that the accidental elevations
which occur on the bosom of the Atlantic, which have
made hydrographers despair, can thus be cleared up, for
the Archipelagos of the Azores, Madeira, the Canaries,
and Cape Verd, can be regarded as the high table-lands
and mountain-summits of this lost continent."
We are still working out, notwithstanding our rebuff.
It is now two o'clock in the morning, and the whole vessel is alive. The good, energetic captain and his brave
men seem to have caught our adventurous spirit; a pride
has taken possession of them, and they have determined
to make this passage unaided.  I do not believe they
would now consent to employ a steamer, even if we should
urge it.
Sunday Morning, August 1.- Safely through the Straits
at last, and fairly out on the broad ocean. At four o'clock
this morning we had worked out to Tarifa again. The
rising of the sun was very, very curious; coming up above
the horizon without any dazzling rays, round and red as
a full moon, it seemed to sway to and fro like a ball of
liquid flame.
At ten o'clock we were once more in front of Capes
Trafalgar and Espartel; when we were lunching at two
o'clock, we had reached the open sea.  We have just
enough wind against us to make fine work with the
waves. Venitia and Janet seem fatigued and sleepy.
They are lying in their hammocks, enjoying the swift
sweep of the graceful little ship, the mad dash of the
waves as they come rolling by, carrying proudly their
white-crested crowns, and the far-off dome of the sky.




TEMPTING FATE.                429
A fine salt-bath has refreshed us after our days' and
nights' watch, but we all feel too weary even to talk,
and I think I shall find it pleasant to doze, awaken and
enjoy with dreamy pleasure this "fine fluent motion," as
Janet called it just now.
" Ottilie, stop writing, and come to your hammock.
Do you remember De Quincey's speaking somewhere
of'the fine fluent motion of a mail-coach'?. The expression is very descriptive; and the dash and sweep of
this clipper over the fast-rushing waves may readily return to the memory some time when we are rolling along
a superb road in a swift-going, well-balanced coach."




MARE TENEBROSUM.
UGUST 9.- The sea is very rough, and the
ship rolls tremendously. If I did not know
how to write in any position I should not be
able to manage my pen. The waves dash up
feathery spray, which catches the sunbeams, making rainbows play and dance over every crested billow.
The grand ocean swallows all our little chagrins and
complaints.  Its superb symphony sweeps up and on,
drowning all human moans and griefs, and the sorrows
of humanity seem as the veriest trifles in the, presence of
its sublime terrors and divine beauty.
Humboldt says, whoever builds his own world within
himself must be excited by the view of the free, open sea,
the majestic picture of boundlessness it presents; but he
speaks of " a shade of melancholy longing " mingling with
the enjoyment. And this is so. Not that we are sad
outwardly, -indeed, the captain says we are "a cheery
set of passengers "; I know, too, that we are happier here
than we should be on shore, or probably ever shall be
again, — but there is at bottom an intense melancholy,
and it is soothed by finding itself in perfect unison with
the ocean diapason.
The simple-minded captain doubtless thinks us a gay,
happy trio; he knows of no other merriment than that




MARE TENEBROSUM.               431
proceeding from animal spirits. Ours, which results from
mental excitement, deceives him, as it does nine out of
ten in the world, who take it for real mirth and true
humor, and do not see that it is simply a pleasant garment with which we clothe ourselves to hide even from
our own eyes the unseemly rags and rents made by
sorrow.
15th. - Our sunsets continue to be glorious. The clouds
this evening formed veritable landscapes, in which there
were mountains of silver, and lakes, rivers, and waterfalls
of gold. Then followed a brilliant, sparkling night, when
the starry vault of the heavens rested the edges of its superb dome on the profound ocean base.
We enjoy very much the various changes of the ocean
and sky. In the heavens the pale green modulates by
ascending full harmonies into brilliant carmine and gold,
just as some glorious music; then in the finest weather,
when the sky is clear and a steady blue, the sea will vacillate and waver from one shade to another, - from dark
indigo to deep green, and sometimes a dull, solemn gray.
22d. -We are having fine weather, fair winds, and
smooth seas.  These "primeval waters of the circling
Oceanus," after battling against us, have generously extended their huge arms and laid us on the broad, palpitating bosom of the sea. Not a storm, or anything that
could throw the faintest shadow of danger over us, has occurred. Just three weeks to-day since we left Gibraltar.
The ocean is enchantingly beautiful this morning. A
fine fresh north wind is blowing, and the sea is with us.
WVe ride gracefully over the waters, and the waves rise
and fall with gracious dignity and beauty. Now a slight
breath trembles above the sea, breaking it into delicate
ripples, which spread along in silvery radiance under the




432            ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
sun sheen; but soon a fresh swell or white-crested wave
comes sweeping along, and the surface is again calm and
smooth. As I lean against the bulwarks, looking at these
changes, all manner of pretty poetical conceits are suggested to me.
Venitia's comparison which she made just now, when
observing with me this ripple and wave break, pleases
me. She says it is like some music, in which the melody
goes trembling along with a half-trilling sound, then
comes a grand chord, or brilliant modulation, or noisy
resolution, which dissolves and annihilates the whole
pretty trilling motivo.  Janet says we remind her of
good old Jeremy Taylor in our disposition for making
comparisons, therefore I shall not write mine.
Venitia has gone down to the music. We are in good
luck about this piano. At Gibraltar we discovered that
one of the crew, a Sicilian, who had admired Venitia's
music very much, knew something about tuning.  She
made the piano-tuner at Gibraltar give him some counsel,
and go over the instrument several times; now he keeps
her piano in capital order, examining it every morning.
She provided fresh strings in hermetic cases before leaving Naples; and no' one could imagine, from its pure and
beautiful sounds, that the instrument was in so trying an
atmosphere as the ocean. The chords and harmonies
blend most mysteriously, too, with the ocean's roar: no
matter what key Venitia opens in, the wave tone-pitch
seems always to adapt itself, and we never have enjoyed
music so much.
Venitia has just been playing her favorite Sonate of
Beethoven, —the one in D (Re). (Opus 31, No. 2.)
The glasses of the cabin skylight are raised, and I am
resting against the casement, listening.




MARE TENEBROSUM.                433
"A charming and accomplished friend of mine," said
Janet, as Venitia concluded it, "used to compare this
Sonate to trackless paths in a wild primeval forest."
"Yes," murmured Venitia, in a low tone, as if to herself, " but a forest of one's own passions, in which one follows the trackless paths of bewildering, hopeless desires."
Dear girl! this love-sorrow has ripened rapidly her
heart-fruit. I once said she was as brilliant as a diamond,
and almost as hard; now she is as tender as an " awakened Psyche." She turned over the leaves of her Beethoven volume, and said, looking up at me, "Listen to the
Adagio of this Third Sonate, dedicated to Haydn."
She played it over several times, then added: "This
Adagio contains the very essence of unbelief, it is so
rebellious.  A little light beams out toward the close,
reminding me of the last scene of Manfred with the
Abbot, for a reconciliation with lost faiths and hopes is
almost reached; but this F double sharp destroys the
promise, and the C which follows confirms the sad truth.
I tell you, Ottilie, there is in this Adagio the positive
expression of a confirmed, almost maddening despair; it
does not even contain so much hope as MIanfred's last
words,' Old man!'t is not so difficult to die.'"
I did not answer her, and she continued playing; but I
thought of the marvellous and weird power contained in
this vague, beautiful Tone-tongue, the suggestions it makes
to us of life experiences; as Spohr said, "It is the sole
expression of some complicated feelings and struggles in
the human breast." Janet was lying in her hammock,
reading, and did not hear Venitia's remark; but the music
had its effect on her, for she looked towards me and said,
"While I was listening to that Adagio, Ottilie, a tender
19                          BB




434           ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
and touching remark of Mrs. Jameson came to my memory, -' In this life there is always something to be done
or suffered, when there is no longer anything to be desired or attained.'"
25th. — We are still on the beautiful wide ocean, and it is
very calm and tranquil, so unlike the sullen repulse it gave
us when we entered its inhospitable gates. We shall be
very sorry when this voyage is ended. It is quite late in
the evening. Janet is pacing the quarter-deck, and only
the man at the wheel and the first mate are on watch. A
little while ago, Venitia and I were'Walking the maindeck together, talking of the pleasant voyage we had had
thus far, and she exclaimed: "0, to go on always thus!
To live forever, Ottilie, in this way, would it not be
Elysium?"
" Like the Phantom Vessel," I replied.
We were near the cabin door; she left me and went
down to the piano, and soon rose up on our ears the
strange harmonies of that curious composition, Wagner's
"Flying Dutchman."




FUGUE IN E MINOR.
UGUST 28.-I do not write very regularly
now in my journal, my life is so vague and
dreamy. I read a little, talk a little, but most
of all lie in my hammock and listen to Venitia's music; or give up my whole being to the delicious influence of the sea, when I forget all " the before and after,"
and am so still and happy in this state of simply existing
without the torture of thought or memory, that I feel
" Like an unbodied joy, whose race is just begun."
We are six hundred miles from America yet, and tonight will make it seven weeks since.we left Palermo.
We are sailing at a fine speed,-ten miles an hour. There
is a superb sky, brilliant sun, fine fresh wind, and sublime ocean. The rolling, dashing waves ring out grand
harmonies in full, open diapason, and the white-crested
billows dance madly on in a wild, gay leap, and throw
aloft their snowy foam as if they felt the same glorious
exultation their sweep and dash create in me. 
I have been sitting in the forward part of the vessel
alone. I clambered up to the very end of the ship, that
I might be able to watch the various changes of the waves.
The prow cut through the waters sharply, throwing
myriads of sparkling gems up and around. Whole clusters of wave-diamonds would be flung out on the sea, and




436            ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
mingle so quickly with it as to produce the effect of being
caught back by invisible hands. The waves dashed along
madly, smoking like ice; and, as the sun arose towards
the zenith, and the short perpendicular spar under the
bowsprit end, called the martingale, dipped into the rising
waves, numberless segments of rainbows flitted over the
racing waters. I thought of the Harpy Podargy in the
Iliad, the white-footed nymph who slid before the tempests and made the crests of the waves foam as she tore
them up while passing over them.
A troop of porpoises came rolling along,- a mournful
sight to superstitious sailors, for they betoken a storm;
but our voyage has a fair white star on its front, and its
end shall be peace. Some dolphins bounded over the
martingale-chains, and little flying-fish, about a hand in
length, flitted in and out of the sea, as white as the wavecrests on which they sported.
31st.-A bright and sunny day, with a gentle wind. The
sea seems full of floating amethysts and emeralds, the
mollusca are so plentiful; at night, huge floats of them
pass near us, glittering like lightning half hidden by clouds.
Beautiful nautili sail by the ship, nearly as large as my
hand. Janet had a boat lowered to catch some, and we
have dried them very successfully; their sails look like
large flower-leaves, — lilac rayed with black and tipped
with a rich rose-pink, thin as gauze and frail-looking as a
convolvulus-petal.
Midnight. -My journal seems very fragmentary to me,
and yet Janet likes it. She has been reading it the past
few days, and said yesterday, on returning the volume
to me: "Why, Ottilie,' it reads like a story.  Suppose you give it a name, write a preface, and publish it.
I wonder if persons would take it for a fiction, and not




FUGUE IN E MINOR.               437'an ower-true tale'?  Alas! if there was not so much
heart-aching truth in your journal, my friend, it would
not be amiss to publish it."
Then we talked playfully about working it up into
book form, and speculated on its title. This led us to
thinking of the difficulty some great authors have had in
finding suitable names for their literary offspring. We
recalled the story of Ariosto, who, after seeking a long
while in his brain for a title to his famous poem, arose one
midnight, awakened his retainers, and had the great bell
of the fortress, of which he was governor, rung in grand
rejoicing. His poem was named!
The stately, grave poet must have felt very proud
while he listened to the loud pealings of his castle bell,
as it rung out in the dark night over the Apennine solitudes, telling Nature that a great poem had been born
from the invisible world of romance into the visible one
of language.
To-day I have amused myself by giving headings to
the various divisions of my journal, hunting up a title, and
writing a preface, all of which work Janet has superintended with an approving pleasure almost as grave as
Ariosto's. "Some day," she said, "Venitia, poor child!
will also enjoy reading this book. You must give it to
me, my friend, when we reach America. There this
volume shall end, and a new journal, and a new life indeed, begin for us all."
The new life has commenced for Venitia. But, alas!
this new existence, the mysterious emotional life from
which spring Art's most luscious fruits of tone and wordpoesy, is, like all mortal things, born of pain, Novalis's
"disease of the spirit," or that human-like gem, the pearl,
created by a wound! And yet it is happiness and glad



438            ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
ness, not pain and sorrow, that make the blessed birds
break out into song.
This strange emotion, love, too, in what different forms
it presents itself: to Philip it has always been a joy and
a blessing, while to others it is a tragedy; and to Venitia,
what is it to be? It must be her inspiration, the keynote of a higher life. Now she suffers and struggles, but
the pure pearl of peace must come; for both she and
Luigi are loyal and true in their natures, not fitful and
wavering, like some poor feeble hearts.  The perfect
faith which will be established between them shall sustain
her yet; though she may never see him again, this one
thing will not fade away from her mind, —the memory
of his firm, quiet repose of heart. It will be to her
"An ever-fixed mark,
That looks on tempests and is never shaken."
But I would fain have her a word-poet instead of a
tone Sappho.  Music, alas! is only "known through
gradations of joy and sorrow," listened to and uttered
with an emotion that is sharp as pain; and leaves behind
it a regret. The ivresse of the executante, too, is as exhausting as the intoxication of the earthly grape; and
the wildering sounds so full of beauty, which are poured
forth "from the voice and the instrument," are restless
waves of the great heart-ocean, speeding along under the
fierce storm of sorrow, and breaking against the sharp
reefs and desolate shores of longing and memory.
I remember saying once that Venitia could not play
fugues, and also that one must be far out on the deep
waters of trial to comprehend fully the real meaning of a
great fugue. Now she has attained this sorrowful comprehension. To-night she played the fine Handel fugue
in E minor, and I listened with surprise to her different




FUGUE IN E MINOR.                439
rendering of it: it throbbed with a life-pulse. After she
had finished it, she said: "I am so glad that at last I
really love fugues. I used to play them as a duty; but
now they are a pleasure, and they sound like solemn,
inspired poems to my ears. This fugue of Handel, I
never tire of reading it. Bach's fugues are more severe,
but this is full of melodic sublimity.  Listen to these
three warning notes in this passage."
And she played over the three following measures,
which are the fourth, fifth, and sixth ones of the fugue:A    A    A:1          -   ___________l'.       ____-__..__ _',_I  I   I    L   I 
"These three notes," she continued, "must be martele,
that is, struck persistently, in order to usher in fitly the
melodic ripple which follows. One hand teaches the other
the strange story in many keys; it comes and goes; it
sways and surges like a river widening in its course.
You used to compare it to the roll of mid-ocean, Ottilie,
and now I feel the truth of your comparison. Yes, it
leads to a wide, boundless ocean of thought; but through
all its changes you still hear these three mysterious warning notes.




440             ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.'Weird sisters hand in hand,
Posters of the sea and land,
Thus do go about, about.'
Sometimes they carry me, indeed, to Hecate's Cave, and
I hear the solemn, thrice-reiterated' Show!''Show his eyes and grieve his heart,
Come like shadows, so depart.'"
"Venitia, a dear friend once said to me, with all the eloquence of sadness, that' Belief plays at hide-and-seek with
disappointment in life, like the first voice in a fugue.' "
" That is beautiful!" she exclaimed, and-she repeated
it over.  "And so true! But, Ottilie, it is very long before we see the truth. We believe and hope so blindly,
then comes the solemn resolution of the minor chord, and
that is the end of the believing life."
" The end?" repeated Janet, stepping up quietly behind us and putting her hands on our shoulders.  "The
end?  O no, my friends; not the end while life lasts.
We women never lose hope; we always'attend' the
coming of our vision in some form, as the Jews forever
expect the Messiah."
"Attend a delusion," I replied, with some little bitterness.
" So be it," answered Janet, calmly; " but let us respect
this'delusion,' as you call it, - I call it the ideal, and so
do you, Ottilie, in your better moods. Come; both of
you must walk with me on the quarter-deck; the moon
is glorious, and the waves are trembling like a young
Endymion, -' A symbol of immensity,
A firmament reflected in a sea,
An element filling the space between
An unknown -
and mysterious spirit of beauty, which your marvellous




FUGUE IN E MINOR.              441
Tone-tongue describes better than the word-poems do.
Let us go breathe and feel it, for its influences will be
healthful for us all."
We walked, with Janet between us, up and down the
quarter-deck till near midnight, and her good, wise words
at last brought a calm, trustful feeling into our hearts.
We talked indirectly of the past, present, and future, and
Venitia and I were at first not a little stiff-necked.
"Janet," said Venitia, with an attempt at playfulness,
" when I was a child you should have given me elementary thinking-lessons."
" It takes the whole experience of life to give us the
power of thought, Venitia.  We are only learning to
think here. First we feel, then we suffer, then we know;
and with this beginning of knowledge comes the dawning of true thought, - then for hereafter the wisdom."
"' But after all, Janet," I said, " how few of us really
wish this knowledge; it is almost always forced on us.
We enjoy the delicious sense of feeling, and are even
willing to take the suffering which follows if it will only
come blind and deaf, and not leave with us thie fearful
responsibility gained from experience, whose painful fruit
is thought and knowledge."
" Ah, but it is like Ruskin's hawthorn, my dear Ottilie,
which must grow with the spirit of the triangle in it.
When we have a stern necessity put upon us, - whether
of duty, performance, or self-abnegation, -awful as it may
be, we grow stronger and better for facing and accepting
it. We may transgress, - we may reach forth longingly
to some other more delightful end which we see sweeping
swiftly and temptingly by us, - we may even feel other
needs pressing in on us and demanding food; it is all
useless, - the' triangular necessity' is on us, and towards




442            ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.
that form must be our souls' growth, if we have any
power of growth in us."
"A soul-growth is it, my dear?" I replied, obstinately;
"I can tell you that one of the severest purgatories which
can be inflicted on a proud spirit is the acceptance of this'triangular necessity,' as you call it. You are right, however; my own experience has proved it, for I have often
seen myself doing quietly, and sometimes even with a
strange sense of willingness, the very things I had fought
furiously against in the beginning; but I have never
yielded without a keen sense of mortification."
They laughed, and Janet said she fancied, if the truth
were known, this confession I had just made had been one
of these purgatories to me. Gradually we shifted our talk
to other and gayer subjects, and before parting for the
night had some very merry laughs. They are both asleep
now, and I am sitting on the quarter-deck alone. It is
nearly three o'clock in the morning. The weather has
changed and grown chilly.  Dark clouds hang around
the horizon, and a fitful, angry wind is beginning to agitate the sea.
The man on watch shivers, walks up and down the
deck, and looks inquiringly around on the sky. He has
gone down now to the captain, and I hear them talking
earnestly in low voices.  The captain is preparing to
come up on deck. I will close my bdok, and look out
hopefully toward the west as I go once more to sleep
upon the treacherous sea.
Cambridge: Stereotyped and Printed by Welch, Bigelow, & Co.