MASTER NEC A TIVE NO. Q 1-80 105 MICROFILMED 1991 COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY LIBRARIES/NEW YORK * % .A, W' «***-A A ''> as part of the dations of Western Civilization Preservation Project Funded bv the NATIONAL ENDO^ f i % J R THE HUMANITIES Reproductions may not be made without permission from Columbia Universitv Library COPYRIGHT STATEMENT The copyright law of the United States - Title 17, United States Code - concerns the making of photocopies or other reproduciioiis of copyrighted material... Columbia University Library reserves the right to refuse to accept a copy order if, in its judgement. fulfHlment of the order would involve violation of the copyright law. AUTHOR: SAUNDERS. EMILY SUSAN GOULDING 77 7 /. / J I ITALY AND "VV '.^.' C-:^'^'-"^-'. CAPITAL PLALI : LONDON DA TE : 1868 Restrictions on Use: COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY LIBRARIES PRESERVATION DEPARTMENT Master Negative # lilliLlOGRAl'HlC MK ItCKOKM iAP.C T^' Jf 3k.„ ^ Original Material as Filmed - Existing Bibliographic Record I i iJl^J|IJ i piHiJi||i 945.01 Sai;^ A w-w '•»•• ^ • ^- \- aiomL \^ iji/iN , ■ . iJWiiww.i...Mi ' w^- ^ -^ -^i /». * r ..^^ . .V. '•^■•la ^.^-i._;.' TECHNICAL MICROFORM DATA REDUCTION RATIO: |_| FILM SIZE: ZS tV) /y\ IMAGE PLACEMENT: lA ^IlA^ IB UB DATE FILMED:__4._-2.:J-_5!:i INITIALSjM^.g.^ HLMEDBY: R > SEARCH PUBLICATIONS. INC WOODBRIDGE. cf c Association for information and image iManagement 1 1 00 Wayne Avenue, Suite 1 1 00 Silver Spring, Maryland 20910 301/587-8202 Centimeter 12 3 4 5 I II iliiiiliiiiliiiiliiiiliiiiliiiiliiiiliiiilmiliiiiiiiiiiiiii TTT Inches I M I 7 8 9 iiiliiiiliiiiliiiiliiiili ^M 1.0 LI 1.25 10 11 12 13 14 iiiiliiiiliiiiliiiiliiiiliiiiliiiiliiiiliiiiliii TTT l^ 2.8 2.5 15^ ■ 6.3 If U£ 2.2 2.0 emu. 1.8 1.4 1.6 TTT 15 mm M MRNUFflCTURED TO flllM STRNDfiRDS BY PPPLIED IMAGE, INC. »*».•.• .•>^ «.«--«•••- . .~ ••^-.^*.'. --■'■«:---■:.►_: V»«LltJP^i-5:S,l ^^V/. , ■*••«*»;.. »v_^- rlw,>^..T^-.».-.«.l.-*X.''.'^'lii»J>.'- .■:.«• ^.>^-i»_ '- '-jr*. - jprr-,-; aif,^-' Class (]4-S.0\ Book ggl^ Columbia College Library Madison Av. and 49th St. New York. /tfshf^' thf main tof'irihis hnnk n/nofft'iila of 9 ir? ITALY ! J ' i ■* AND HER CAPITAL. ^BY K. S. G, S. 'AUTHOR OF " THISTLE-DOWN," A POEM, ETC J LONDON : WILLIAM FREEMAN, 102, FLEET STREET, MDCCCLXVm. I.ONDOX : KELLY & CO., PRINTERS, fiATE STREET. LINCOLN'S INN FIELDS, W.C. I \ s CO :^ X) TO DANTE IN THE DISTANT BUT EVER-LIVING PAST ; TO FILIPPO PISTRUCCI IMPROVVISATORE AND EXILE, THE FRIEND OF MY YOUTH, WHO NOW AWAITS ME IN A COUNTRY FAIRER THAN HIS OWN TO GUISEPPE MAZZINI AND GUISEPPE GARIBALDI, THE FATHERS OF ITALIAN LIBERTY, THESE PAGES ARE INSCRIBED. 6928 i J ii PREFACE. On her return from a visit to Italy, to undertake which vivid sympathy with the destinies of that land at this critical juncture had been the chief inducement, the writer was urged to give an account of her experience. Con- scious that by so doing she would not be burdening the world with another ordinary book of travels, or even with a mere recital of feminine adventure, she yielded to the wish, believing that she might bo able to move the sympathies of some towards that country, in whose cause England has ever manifested a generous and steadfast interest. CONTENTS. •l Preface Italian Hymn, No. 1. Translation Italian Hymn, No, 2. Translation CHAPTER I. The Journey to Italy CHAPTER II. Milan CHAPTER III. From Brescia to Verona and Padua CHAPTER IV. VENEZIA la BELLA CHAPTER V. Giotto — Padova la dotta CHAPTER VI. Genova la superba and the Riviera PAGE V xi xii xiv XV 11 17 29 Vlll CONTENTS. CHAPTER VII. FiRENZE LA GENTILE . CHAPTER VIII. Elizabeth Barrett Browning PAGE 44 67 CHAPTER IX. The Palazzo Vecxhio and the Tombs of the Medici 62 CHAPTER X. Religion in Florence .... CHAPTER XI. From Florence to Livorno, and from Livorno to Caprera • • CHAPTER XII. (Iaprera CHxVPTER XIIL From Caprera back to Florence Ravenna Rimini CHAPTER XIV. CHxVPTER XV. CHAPTER XVI. 67 71 77 87 91 Do Rome ^ • 100 I I « contents. CHAPTER XVII. Art in Rome • • CHAPTER XVIII. The Protestant Cemetery CHAPTER XIX. The Ruins of Rome . CHAPTER XX. The City of Rome CHAPTER XXI. The Catacombs and the Campagna '^ CHAPTER XXII. Rome seen from St. Peter's CHAPTER XXIII. The Sistine Chapel . CHAPTER XXIV. La Sacra Scala CHAPTER XXV. A Sunday in Rome CHAPTER XXVI. The Romans IX PAGS 105 . 112 . 115 . 122 . 129 . 133 . 138 . 142 . 146 152 X CONTENTS. CHAPTER XXVII. From Terni to Arona CHAPTER XXVIII. The Simplon CHAPTER XXIX. Neufchatel CHAPTER XXX. Conclusion — The Perfect Law of Liberty PAGE 156 161 16; 169 ^ ITALIAN HYMN. ONE OF the CANTICI IN THE COLLECTION USED BY ITALIAN PROTESTANTS. Signer ! pietoso scendano Le sante Tiie ruggiade ! La prisca Fe rippiiUuli Neiritalc contrade. Clie risplendca si splendida Nella remota eta. Quando il bcato Apostolo Dicea con santo orgoglio Che era modcUo al popolo In vctta al Campidoglio, La pura f e magnanima L'ardcnte carita. Or la citta del Cesari Come cangio cambianza ! Dov'6 clic canti e celebri Signor ! la Tna possanza ! Ed in Gcsii glorifichi L'immenso, eterno Amor ? Sul campo in cui la fertile Messa del ver crescea Funesta e ria zizzania Nemica man spargea ; Degli avi eletti i posteri Vaneggian nell' error. Ed ahi ! pin fiero turbine Or suir Italia mugge — Scienza fatale, effimera II Vangel Tuo distrugge— Ed osa infamia e scandalo La Croce Tua chiamar. XI XI I ITALIAN HYMN. Signer ! Deh ! Sorgi e dissipi L'antico e il novo errore ! Discenda suU' Italia Fecondo il Divo Amore ! S'alza al Tuo Cristo un cantico Dair uno all' altro mar. (translation.) O Lord ! send down in mercy Thy gracious dews once more ! The primal faith re-kindle On Italy's fair shore — Which shone so brightly with Thy light In the far days of yore. With holy pride Thy servant Could gladly testify That Rome was brightly famous Through distant realms and nigh ; Where men were speaking of her faith And ardent charity. But now the Caesar's city Well may our pity move ; \Vlio there declares the power Of the One God above ? And who in Jesus magnifies The riches of His love ? WTiere thickly for the harvest Grew precious wheat alone, False tares and useless darnel The Enemy hath sown. The children of the flock of God In error wander on. TRANSLATION. XIU And muttering sounds a fiercer Approaching storm proclaim ; A vain and fleeting science Blasphemes the Saviour's Name, And dares to call His glorious Cross A scandal and a shame. O Lord ! arise and scatter The new and ancient lie ! Come in Thy love resistless, Descend on Italy ! That to Thy Son from sea to sea One song may rise on high. E. S. G. S. XIV ITALIAN HYMN. TRANSLATION. XV ANOTHER OF THE ITALIAN CANTICI, Se alia terra, O He clei cieli ! Lar2;a sea la Tua bonta — Air Italia Tu rivcli L'infinita maesta. Chiaro il Sol sovr' essa splende, Bella immagine di Te — Puro il ciel su lei si stende, Doppio mar le bagna il pie. Ubertosa la Natura Le largbeggia e frutti e fior — Pur si bell a, o rca sventura ! Giace inimersa in error. Sol di grazia ! A lei diffondi li Tuo raggio redentor ! Che i fnitti in lei fccondi Delia fede e dell' amor. ft (TRANSLATION.) If on earth, 0, Heavenly King ! Everywhere Thy grace we see, Italy Thou makest sing Of Thy boundless majesty. Her clear sun that shines on high, Symbol, Lord ! of Thee, we own- Pure above her spreads her sky, Two bright oceans lave her throne. Nature here, with liberal hand. Fruit and flower doth e'er bestow ; Yet, alas ! this beauteous land Sunk in error lieth low. Sun of Righteousness, appear ! On her let Thy glory shine ! Richer fruits she then shall bear, — Precious Faith, and Love Divine. £1. S. G. S. m ITALY AND HEE CAPITAL. LONDON : KELLY & CO., PRINTERS, GATE STREET, LINCOLN'S INN FIELDS, "W.C. / t CHAPTER I. THE JOURNEY TO ITALY. ♦• On change de cieL" From Newhaven to Dieppe, and from brilliant Paris, under tLe dark Jura mountains, lay my route to the land of Dante. Dawn was breaking as our train arrived at Macon. Thence to Geneva, the scenery resembles that of parts of Ireland, and, as it becomes darker and closer, of Wales. Geneva, which was reached in the early morning of September 18th, 1866, seemed stately and somewhat cold. The other side of the lake is much more beautiful. A singular purity characterizes the landscape from Lausanne. Ifote. — The writer travelled as far as Venice by one of Cook's excursion tickets, available for two months, so that she was able to take up the ticket at Arona for the homeward journey. She found this arrangement both convenient and agreeable, and wishes to render her testimony in favour of the adoption of such a plan by all (especially ladies) who may be contemplating an excursion. Having objects of her own to accomplish along the route, she only actually travelled with the party from Paris to Geneva, and from Bellinzona to Milan, perfect independence of action being thus compatible with the other advantages of the ticket, B 2 ITALY AND HER CAPITAL. At Montreux (anciently Montrieux *), just beyond Clarens and Vevay, the air is milder than at Geneva, and the vine-clad hills give a warmth and brightness to the colouring on one side, while on the other, the Alps of Savoy stand in dark masses, the spiritual presence of the ghostly Dent du Midi being visible to the left. The Castle of Chilloii, which I, of course, visited, is one of the chief attractions of the neighbourhood, and the sweet Protestant cemetery of Clarens, with its memorials of the just, lies a little further to the west. To this cemetery I walked with some friends, whom I found at Montreux, one fair evening in September, our road lying along the shores of the lake beneath the bordering trees (chiefly graceful Spanish chestnuts), and through the Bosquet do Julie, rendered famous by poor Rousseau ; and there we conned the inscriptions testifying to the power of Christian faith to strengthen on life's journey, and to brighten the Valley of the Shadow of Death. " L'Eternel a 6t6 mon Berger." •' L'exile a retrouve la veritable patrie." The next morning I left for Lucerne, passing Fribourg, Berne, and Ulm on my way thither. The Lake of Lucerne, * Petrarch's brother, Gherardo, was at a Carthusian monastery at Montrieux, the name of which seems to have been Gallicized from the original Italian or Latin Monte Rio (the hill of the brook) ; an appellation to the present day strikingly appropriate, one of th« purest and clearest of streams descending from the vine-covered hill to Lake Leman (as the eastern side of the lake is called), adding tho sweet sound of falling waters to the other charms of the spot. Per- haps, however, Montreux or Montrieux means simply mountainous. I THE JOURNEY TO ITALY. ^ otherwise called the Lake of the Four Cantons, is lesi lovely than that of Geneva, but grander, with its shadow- ing mountains, the Righi on one side, and Mons Pilatus on the other, the legend respecting which is at least credible.* Dark lake, by shadows blackened, and by thoughts From that high mountain whence they say he fell, Rushing to death, — who, when he feared the Jews, Decreed the Just to die. 'Twas natural That he who dreaded man, and scoffed at Truth, Should dread his God, when left alone with Hun, With that low slavish fear which casts out hope ; And so he could not bear that mountain -top. But maddened, fled from God into His sight. Of legends to believe I hold this one. His was the grand mistake, seeing his sin, But seeing not salvation,— his own crime, But not His Love Who, dying by his word. Yet died /or him. Is not this Satan's sin. The sin of sins, discredit of God's Love P This bolt bars Hell. The universe were healed Would even Satan seek to be forgiven. E. S. G. S. The Monument erected at Lucerne, after the design of Thorwaldsen, to the memory of the Swiss guards who fell at Paris while defending Louis XVI. and Marie Antoinette, is both grand and appropriate. Reflected in a small artificial lake, the wounded lion reposes amid the shadows of maple boughs, whose leaves, when I saw them, » It is said that Pontius Pilate ended his life by suicide from this mountain. It is only analogous with oft-repeated experience, if, indeed, he who so feared the wrath of man, fell by the yet greater madness of despair of the mercy of God, believing he had sinned b2 ptr^"^-"^-'"'''"'''iaTlliitfi"l1lirWfii[iiiM^ 4 ITALY AND HER CAPITAL. were rosy with their autumnal tints. The names of the guards who fell are inscribed on the rock, out of which the lion is carved. If the unreasoning fortitude of the noble brute be a suggestive illustration of a fidelity ex- hibited for any cause, it yet does truly typify the faithful- ness of the Swiss, a quality too precious to be despised, and which has seldom failed to answer to the demands of danger. The sky was gloomy and louring as the boat crossed the dark waters to Fluellen, a point a little beyond Tell's chapel, which is erected on the spot where the Swiss patriot sprang on shore from the tyrant Gessler. At Fluellen the boat was exchanged for the diligence. This was my first experience of that species of conveyance, and I wished to make acquaintance with it in good earnest, so mounted by the side of the driver. It was then five o'clock, September 21st. About seven, we passed through the pic- turesque village of Altdorf, with its statues of Tell and of Gessler. By the time the pass of St. Gothard was bevond forgiveness. Milton implies (and with probable truth) that this is the radical sin of Satan himself. " Never can true reconcilement grow Where wounds of deadly hate have pierced so deep ; Which would but lead me to a worse relapse And heavier fall : — so should I purchase dear Short intermission gained with double smart. So farewell Hope ! '* May it not indeed be this which bars his prison-house? Be the legend true or false, it mingles with and deepens the shadows cast by Mons Pilatus. THE JOURNEY TO ITALY. 5 I really entered, evening was closing in. We stopped at Andermatt about eleven, p.m., with appetites to appreciate the roughest fare, and senses quickened to enjoy all the picturesque and primitive appliances of the hostelry. Further on, another halt of short duration was made at Amweg, and then the crossing of the actual mountain began. The horses with their loose traces, seemingly as wild as the steeds of Phseton, dashed up the winding path, appearing at each turn of the road to be about to plunge over the precipice which yawned thousands of feet beneath. As many feet overhead rose the Alps, and in the distance gleamed the peaks of an eminence to which the driver gave the name of the Ghost's or the Ghostly Mountain. The moon, which had been long obscured, came out in full glory as we reached the Devil's Bridge, a name that, amid such trophies of His might, at Whose word the hills arose, was, to my mind, a peculiar misnomer. Speech was rendered inaudible by the torrent which came thundering down, hoary with the rush of ages, and gleaming in the moon- light. The mountains shone and gloomed above and below, and I felt that I had a memory for all time, aye, and for eternity, for His voice is as — " The sound of many waters" — •' Who in His strength setteth fast the mountains, being girded with power." That torrent is the commencement of the Reuss, the Swiss river which falls into the Lake of Lucerne. From a similar cataract, on the Italian side, flows the Italian Ticino, which has its mouth in the Lake of Como. \ -t»i»ac--^-— -> -t --MrJifiUM^wii.iiiiaiMMiaM'friillliTiiiiii MiSif'iaiiitMfwdlriftfeaa 6 ITALY AND HER CAPITAL. Soon after the Devil's Bridge, we gained the highest point of the St. Gothard, and began to descend. The alabaster gates of Italy unclosing, the path gradually widened, the horses carrying us along at breathless speed. Sleep fell upon me (I never so fully realised the force of the expression), and I was obliged to take shelter in the diligence as we traversed the pass of Dazio and Fadio, with which Ruskin's " Modern Painters " and Turner's glorious picture " The Gates of the Hills," had rendered nie familiar. At length, at seven in the morning, the diligence stopped at Bellinzona, on the Lake of Como. All this part is included in Italian Switzerland ; but these names with their sweet sounds, and the soft air, with the warmer and more luxurious colouring of the surrounding objects, told us that, at least, we were nearing Italy. From Bellinzona the road lay through an avenue of chestnuts to a point where, just skirting tha Lake of Como, it wound round that of Lugano to Camerlata. The Lake of Lugano, l)lue as a sapphire, lay amid the hills, its banks affording scenery in harmony with the delicious atmosphere. At Camerlata we could call our- selves in Italy indeed, and we proceeded thence by train to Milan, reaching the brilliant capital of Lombardy about six in the evening of September 22nd, in the glow of an Italian sunset. MILAN. I CHAPTER II. MILAN. •' Italia ! Italia ! Tu cui fece la sorte Dono infelice di bellezza." Filicaja. *♦ Italia ! O, Italia ! thou that hast The fatal gift of beauty." Byron's translation. Why ** infelice ? " Why " fatal ? " Certain it is that the beauty of Italy overflows into all her scenes, and mingles with every aspect of even her ordinary life. The commonest wayside inn, spite of all deficiencies of com- fort, and sometimes, it must be confessed, of cleanliness, has its clambering vine trailing in graceful festoons over its walls. The peasants, with all the neglected attire that the " dolce far niente " has produced, look at you with eyes of such touching sadness that you can think but of their message, which appeals to your very heart. Truly Italy is the land of beauty. It was, however, to no common wayside inn that I accompanied the tourists' party on arriving at Milan. Our hotel was that de la Ville in the Corso Vittorio Emmanuele, and the digression with which this chapter commences is caused by the remembrance of the half- length statues in plaster that adorned the dining-hall in that building, which was quite enough of a palace to 8 ITALY AND HER CAPITAL. remind one of the days of the Visconti and the Sforza. Some of these figures represented Sibylline female faces, partially concealed by drapery; one was the face of a young man, type of " La Giovane Italia," and some were those of aged men, who might have belonged to the prophets of old. But what struck me was that here was no mere French ornamentation, but exuberant imagination and feeUng finding their way even into the decoration of a dining-room. Milan is a bright, lively city. The costume of the ladies is well known as a black lace veil falling in graceful folds. It is not unlike the Spanish mantilla, and the forms and faces of the wearers, rather elegant than strikingly beautiful, also somewhat resemble those of the daughters of Spain. The full moon, bathed in whose radiance I saw the Cathedral on the evening of my arrival, imparted to the marble an even additional purity. Fairy-like as this Cathe- dral undoubtedly is, elegant is the word most appropriate to it also, and it penetrated me with no satisfying sense of beauty, as its fretted workmanship gleamed in the moon's cold rays. Very different was it with the Duomo of Flo- rence. An earnest English clergyman and his wife were then stationed at Milan, and, after the English service on Sunday evening, he (the Rev. — Williams) took me round to the Italian Protestant congregation— intelligent and sincere, so far as could be judged. Perfect religious liberty seems to be allowed in this city. Its great artistic attraction, as is well known, is the faded fresco of the / ii I' < \ MILAN. » " Last Supper," by Leonardo da Vinci, in the refectory of a convent in connection with the church of Santa Maria delle Grazie. It is said that the French soldiers, in the time of the first Napoleon, used this refectory as a stable.* I believe Napoleon, when himself aware of this, ordered the room to be cleared, and the fresco cleaned. But then the work of mischief was nearly done. How- ever, the forms and countenances are still perceptible, and the painting is far more beautiful in its expiring glory than any of its copies. Amid all the "changes and chances of this mortal life " a wonderful preservative law seems to watch over the productions of true art. Not but that, doubtless, many perish in the waves of Time. Still, it is marvellous how those waters often cleanse and crystallize when it might have been thought they would destroy. Ascending the Cathedral, I had my first view of an Italian city spread beneath. The large use of brick tiles instead of the cold slate of the shattered-looking roofs of France, imparts an English warmth of colouring to the buildings, as seen from above. There lay before me the city, illustrious for the days of 1848, bathed in sunlight, in the centre of a verdant plain, o'er which the Alps kept distant guard. There was something English about the * I have found that Ruskin, in '* The Stones of Venice," tells us that it was the Austrians who quartered their soldieis here. He is far more likely to be right than my Milanese guide ; and yet, possibly, the crime may have been committed both by Austrians and French. i s aS5 10 ITALY AND HER CAPITAL. FROM BRESCIA TO VERONA AND PADUA. 11 whole. Of course the sunlight was brighter, and the smoke was absent, while there were present the square tower, that distinctive feature of all Italian towns, and the mountain peaks far away. Also, in England there would have been fewer domes and more spires. But still there was a home-look about it. In truth, England and Northern Italy are, in many respects, much nearer, though geographically more distant, than England and France. Near the railway station is a fine statue to Cavour, whom we may, perhaps, call the Peel of Italy, a great, because an honest, statesman, although not a hero. A moat surrounds the city, the waters of a small stream, a branch of the Adda, I think, filling its channel. Early in the morning of September 25th I left Milan for the road to Venice, stopping a few hours at Brescia, a wild, outlandish place, where the people talk an almost unintelligible patois. They are a noble, though a half Bavage race ; hence the name, " Brescia la generosa." I had a card of introduction to Garibaldi, and the hope of seeing him for a few minutes was the reason of my leaving the train at Brescia. But the army was dis- banding, and when I reached the villa where the general had been, just outside the town, the presence had de- parted. There was no other train that day, so I was forced to remain the night " Al Gambaro," one of those wayside inns referred to above, where a certain wild picturesqueness compensates for a most primitive simplicity of appointment. 1 I CHAPTER III. FROM BRESCIA TO VERONA AND PADUA. " Fair Verona." — Romeo and Juliet. The road between these cities lay through the rich plain of Lombardy, where on many a field the tobacco plant waved luxuriantly, alternating with the maize, or Indian corn. The most frequent trees are acacias, of which they make pollards, like our willows. The feathery lightness and freshness of the foliage struck me particularly. Here were no rich masses of varied green, no glowing autumnal tints. It was like the budding verdure of our spring ; and the approach of winter had only mingled some leaves of brilliant yellow among the green. In England, Nature seems to speak in more humanly sympathetic tones than elsewhere ; and our Turners have some scenes of touching loveliness to depict, which it may be no other land can furnish. The train waited some little while at Brescia previous to starting, on account of the many volunteers who were dispersing to their homes. As I sat in the carriage I had entered, I saw a group of these Garibaldians sepa- rating with signs of the close and brotherly affection evidently subsisting between the members of that band, which most surely possesses one chief element of strength —unity of spirit. Seeing my interest and my garb. 12 ITALY AND HER CAPITAL. one of them intimated a wish that I should join them. * Is there room ? ' I asked, in Italian. " si ! " was the reply. So I obeyed the summons, thus adding another Garibaldian to their number. The warm grasp of these dear fellows' hands was heartily returned, for a common cause made us one. My costume and unconcealed sym- pathies made my journey through the North of Italy a sort of triumphal march. Of course, " the multitude was divided," and from Austrian officials I had plenty of those contemptuous glances, which it would have been an honour to receive, but for the fact that their rule was waning. This state of things afforded me many an op- portunity of speaking a word to one and another of the enthusiastic and knightly volunteers, of the Saviour from the yoke of sin and death. I believe those words re- ceived His blessing Who often makes use of such feeble utterances. The '^ morale" of the Garibaldians was evi- dently excellent. They were not dispirited by the weari- some, and, as to overt results, the unsuccessful late campaign in the Tyrol ; and, though glad to be now " homeward bound," because loving hearts were there awaiting them, they expressed their readiness and their desire to find themselves once again in the field. At Peschiera, just at the southern extremity of the Lago di Garda, one of the cities of the Quadrilateral, where Austrian rule still lingered, though under '' notice to quit," the ceremony of the examination of baggage had to be gone through. It did not, however, prove very formidable. My green case, containing my excursion •■■■€ I FROM BRESCIA TO VERONA AND PADUA. 1 c» ticket, was taken from me by some official, so that, for the moment, I could not show it to the collector. This circumstance caused a little respectful pleasantry and pretended consternation on his part. I was ushered into an inner room, where sat two officials, one of them evi- dently Austrian, or belonging to one of the mongrel races nominally incorporated with Austria, the other as evidently Italian, sitting at the head and foot of a long table, with one of the well-known bull -dogs between them. I was requested to write down my name, age, and condition, also whence I came and whither I was going, with all of which requests I complied, except the third. ' My condition,' I said, ' I don't know. Stanchissima. Very tired.' I was then furnished with a paper to show to the English consul at Venice, and my precious green case was returned to me, so that I was now able to show my ticket to the guard. The Italian, of the two officials at the table, said, " Siete Patriotta;" (I was wearing a Garibaldian costume, partly for convenience of travelling, and partly as the true expression of my sentiments). On my leaving the inner room he rose, and laid one hand kindly on my shoulder. It was a small circumstance, but I was then a stranger in a strange land, and at such times we are sensitive. I realised vividly in that pressure the mean- ing of the words, " the good hand of my God upon me." In the afternoon, Verona was reached. The untiring rain of Italy was falling, but as rain is never any impedi- ment to my enjoyment, it did not in the least interfere with my appreciation of tke grand old city. I sat down . I 14 ITALY AND HER CAPITAL. FROM BRESCIA TO VERONA AND PADUA. 15 in a dark little shop, opposite the house of Juliet, and wrote to a friend at home. Yes, it is still *' Fair Verona," but fair now with a grave, sad beauty. Here Dante found his first resting place on his long journey of exile. The statue to him in the Piazza, in which stood the Scala Palace, which statue I saw first under heavy rain, and afterwards on my homeward route, under the raining blue of a cloudless Italian sky, is very fine ; I think the sculptor's name is Zanzoni. The typical of every race ought to be taken as representative ; and those who judge of the sons of Italy by the multitude now testifying to the exhausting effect of centuries of slavery, would do well to recollect that Dante was an Italian. The amphitheatre at Verona is a miniature Colosseum, only that the former ruin is of dark warm-tinted brick, while the other is of stone, still white and fresh gleaming. Amid both up-spring the antiquarian weeds, and both, works of the old Romans, seem mightier in their massive decay than the slighter structures of more modern times in their entirety. Ruskin admires the churches of Verona as pure specimens of Lombardic- Gothic. I did not enter any, but remember the exterior of one (San Zeno, I think) very distinctly. There is always, to my eye, some- thing awkward when the tower rises immediately from a long flat roof (as in our St. Pancras, Euston-road), giving to the building the appearance of a couchant sphinx. This was the impression I received from these churches. Yet they have solidity and quiet strength, combined with warm colouring. I visited the cemetery. How different from that sweet cemetery of Clarens, on the shore of 'Lake Leman, with its messages of peace, like smiles upon the face of the dead ! Here the well-worn simile " the harvest of death " was distinctly realized. Small stones, either originally black or blackened by the moisture of decay, stood in long even rows, without an inscription, like the ears of some dark grain, in unvarying furrows. No individuality, no distinction. Nothing to speak of human tenderness, or of heavenly hope. Only an Austrian soldier keeping guard, who seemed uneasy at my prolonged gaze of wonderment. The only sound was the plash of the dismal, but yet (to the *' pathetic fallacy,") the pitying rain. I slept that night at Padua, a much livelier town. Its art-treasures (those at least contained in the small chapel of the Arena), I visited on my return from Venice, and will refer to presently. It was late when I arrived on this occasion; every inn was full, but I, happily, found shelter in a private house, where my hostess was a young lady-like person, with a delicate English-looking face. It was a warm night, and I was surprised at her haste to close the windows. I stopped her, to my cost, as the candle was burning. Thus and then began my acquaint- ance with the tormenting mosquitoes, which at Venice ripened (alas for me!) into a most distressing intimacy. Padua was already free from the yoke of the stranger, and beneath my window was stationed a soldier, whose sentry- box was attired not in the detested black and yellow, but in the loved and cheering tricolour of Italy. 16 ITALY AND HER CAPITAL. **VENEZIA LA BELLA." 17 It was five o'clock on a briglit morning when I passed, by rows of acacias, with their sparse, but vivid foliage, and a somewhat desolate field, to the railway station, en route for Venice. The railway was at that time complete only as far as Murano, the late war having interrupted the communication thence by that means. At Murano, there- fore, the train had to be quitted for post carriages. I soon found one, which I shared with a peasant woman going to Venice on some matter of daily business, and we scudded along to Mestre along the bright plain " del Veneto," our road being bordered with willows which loved the moist soil of the neighbourhood of the City of the Sea. Almost every house on the way bore an inscription of patriotic rejoicing ; for the whole district, except Venice itself and the Quadrilateral, was entirely free from the yoke of Austria. At Mestre, where the river Brenta meets the sea, my companion and I exchanged the carriage for a gondola. It was now about seven, a.m., for our transit from Padua had been speedily accomplished. The harbour of Mestre (if such it can be called), was one scene of confusion and vociferation. One of the far-famed beggars of Italy, a very monster of dwarfish deformity, sat on the steps lead- ing to the water, loudly appealing for alms. Another passenger, a man with a large bag of flour, joined ns, as, at length, we entered the open boat or barchetta (such being its legitimate name, as wanting the coffin-like cell of the orthodox gondola), which was soon softly floating towards Venice. CHAPTER IV. ** VENEZIA LA BELLA." " A dying glory smiles O'er the far time." — Byron, •• Only a tear for Venice ! "— ^. B. Browning. Venice ! Through pathways of dark green, silent water, the boat glided in. Past the Giudecca, the old Jewish quarter; by faded palaces, looking like garments once gorgeous, now moth-eaten with age. Stakes, painted with wreathed stripes of some bright colour, stand here and there along the canals, warning the gondoliers of danger- ous places. Upon such stakes, I believe, the foundations of the houses themselves are laid. The hotel, at which I again joined the tourist party, was the Barbesi, on the Grand Canal, not far from the Piazza San Marco. Drawing near the city, I saw, through the misty light, goblin-like figures standing on a bridge, the end of which was lost in space, who, with their un- earthly genuflexions, seemed engaged in some idolatrous rite. These proved to be workmen repairing the railway bridge from the efi'ects of the war. After a short time of rest, and a slight refreshment (while partaking of which I was entertained by the monotonous chant outside the window of some men who were at work on a higher story of the hotel, and who kept themselves in time at their % 18 ITALY AND HER CAPITAL. labour by chanting simultaneously in a rich musical voice), I set out for a ramble. For you can walk about Venice, a discovery which somewhat surprised me, as I had supposed the fluid highway to be the only one. Innumer- able bridges connect the islands which constitute the city. The heat was oppressive ; not a breath of air seemed stirring. I had expected to hear the moan of the waves, but silence reigned. A low plashing, following the strokes of the Gondoliers' oars, might be heard by an attentive ear, but that was all. I have read that during the winter and spring after my visit, the wind was so high on some days that it raised the waters into billows, and flooded the Piazza San Marco. Then the scene must have been glorious. Venice is, indeed, sui generis-, itself anomalous, and full of the most startling contrasts. Its narrow calli or passages, its busy mercerie, open into wide, desolate squares, whose very air is silence. There is the Rialto, as crowded as its representative in the days of Shake- speare, still principally, though not entirely, filled with jewellers' shops. There is the dazzling Piazza San Marco, and close behind are quiet nooks which never see the sun, and where you might hear a pin drop. The numbers of the houses are reckoned by thousands, and it was strange to come upon No. 4000 marked on a bright blue plate on some dwelling whose back door is in one of the calli, and whose front entrance is approached by water, the gondola lying by this latter approach, like the owner's private carriage. '' VENEZIA LA BELLA." 19 Those gondolas, too, with their funereal coverings, looking like the barks of Charon, and yet gliding swiftly along water clearly reflecting a sky of cloudless blue. All these things produced on me an impression of the deepest sadness, especially as on most of the faces of the people you saw the heavy weariness of a hope so long ^'deferred," that it had made the heart *' sick " well nigh to despair. At that time, trade being at the lowest ebb, the people were starving ; and they had waited for freedom so long and so patiently that they had almost ceased to believe its arrival possible, although now, indeed, it was at hand. The typical Venetian face (for there, as elsewhere, the masses are ordinary-looking, and it is but the few who must be regarded as representative) I found very beautiful. Black hair and clearly cut features ; a complexion of wondrous, almost transparent, paleness ; large dark eyes, shining with a latent fire, though in their depths lay the story of centuries of patient waiting. The history of Venice is written in the faces of her sons. Testolini, a dealer in the fine arts, in the Piazza San Marco, was one of these specimens. (It is unlikely he will ever see these pages ; but, should he do so, it will gratify him to know that I reached Caprera safely, and delivered the book into Garibaldi's hand. He was most kind in giving me all the information possible as to the General's movements ; though to obtain any certain news at that time in Venice was a difficulty, the Austrians clutching captiously at an authority which they knew was theirs no longer). There hung in bis shop a picture c2 20 ITALY AND HER CAPITAL. which I shall never forget — although it did not deserve admiration for its beauty—" The Saviour," by Giuseppini. The face, as has been said, was not beautiful. It would have been ugly but for that expression of sad tenderness. The painter was no genius, but you hoped he was a Christian. At the Hotel Barbesi there was then an Englishman, named Captain Bcott, who, in the Italian war of 1848, himself raised an English corps expressly for the libera- tion of Venice.* Venice was his dream, his idol, his mistress, he would say. So that now that by other means her freedom was at hand, he had come to her to witness her rejoicing. Poor man ! His health had been devoted to, and lost in her cause. One leg was lamed and nearly useless from a wound in battle, and he had evidently received internal injuries. I saw that he was dying. For this reason, as well as from my conviction that in the knowledge of Jesus consists all true life here as well as hereafter, I spoke to him of a Greater than Garibaldi, of a love more wonderful than his, of a de- liverance greater than any he had effected or could effect. 1 trust his heart responded. The heart speaks words audible to One Ear alone. The first time I went out in a gondola (of course the orthodox mode of transit in Venice), was on an evening * Once, on parting from Garibaldi, the latter had asked him what he could do for him to testify his sense of his services. •• A letter in your own handwriting is enough for me," was the reply ; " but don't forget my Venice." "Tu mi commovi coUa tua Venezia," rejoined Garibaldi. " VENEZIA LA BELLA." 21 f after I had been some days in the city. " You cannot see much at this hour," said Captain Scott. " But you are a poet," he added, as though in that title (which the writer thanked God she could accept in a limited sense), lay the explanation of every out-of-the-way taste and unusual method of proceeding. Whether, indeed, here was the secret, I know not, but certain it is that never could Venice have looked so fair and so wonderful, to me at least. The lower parts of the houses being hidden, they seemed indeed to rise " from out the waves. " The stars, reflected in the dark water, half illuminated the palaces wdth that spiritual light which gives their true character to uncommon and imaginative scenes. I stepped out at the Piazetta, and having passed a few moments in the busy and brilliant Piazza San Marco, returned in the gondola to the hotel, fully satisfied that I had seen Venice in her unconscious and magic loveliness. I saw her more than once afterwards from the gondola, in " the light of common day." She was still fair, truly ; but the spell was broken. The enchanter had dropped his wand. The Ducal Palace has been so often described, that the reader will not thank me for adding to the list of descrip- tions. However, I find it impossible to " speak not, but pass on." The outside is, of course, familiar to all, from the paintings of Canaletto and of Turner. But enter, I j)ray you, fellow-traveller mine, whoever you be, and for a few minutes follow me — first along the now silent, de- serted halls above, still terrible in their magnificence — their marble stairs a labour to the feet, and their gigantic 22 ITALY AND HER CAPITAL. and gorgeous paintings a weariness to the eye; — and then, down, down to those fearful " pozzi," into which no breath of God's air, no ray of God's sun can penetrate. Ah ! you shudder ! but scarcely with surprise. You felt that there was cruelty, unrelenting and Satanic, hidden behind that hard splendour up above. You felt that there had stepped men whose hearts were cold and stony as the marble on which they trod — men belonging to the Council of Ten. Men like that Doge Loredano who, when his enemy died of woe, inscribed in his ledger, " He has paid me ! " There is an air of self-satisfied material- ism in those glowing pictures of Titian, and even in those here of Tintoretto, elsewhere known by better things, which speaks of those who were "not in trouble like other men," and whose hearts were, therefore *' holden with pride, and overwhelmed with cruelty." Unmixed physical well-being has not done for man out of Paradise. Sad as has been the story of Venice during her centuries of sorrow, it has been grander — aye — and less mournful (to me at least), than her story during her prosperous but cruel years. God grant her a brighter history now ; and at the same time give her that knowledge of Himself, which shall prevent a repetition of the crime-stained pages of the past ! This Palace was, to my mind, an allegory in stone of man himself. A " King's Palace " originally — and on whose walls still linger the paintings of the Divine Artist. Yes, ye who contend for the dignity of human nature — we deny it not. But in that very fact lies the sadness — that " VENEZIA LA BELLA.' 23 such pictured halls as the human intellect and the human heart should be now so tenanted ! And if ye say " we are righteous still" — we reply, are you very sure ? May not your eyes be unopened to see " your bosom's black inhabi- tants ? " And have you gone all over the building ? Have you ever been down into the pozzi ? Some men live only in their upper rooms. And this might be a wise plan were it not that man must be his own habitation for ever, and that he will have to explore the whole some day ; and were it not also for the folly of being led by ignorance to refuse when the Divine Architect Himself offers to re-build the structure. One day, if the refusal continue, will — " At home a stranger, Thought wander up and down, surprised, aghast, And wondering at her own.*' And this Palace may also typify that Apostate Church, 80 attractive to many, who look only upon her outside, " decked with gold and precious stones and pearls," — so terrible to those who know her as she is — A Palace and a Prison, such is Rome. Hers are apparent splendour, hidden gloom : Like to that fearful structure, where from halls Oppressive in their grandeur, you descend To cells where of the day no memory falls ; But silence reigns, and darkness without end. * * E. S. G. S. * * It should, perhaps, be mentioned that the lines in this volume marked thus, have appeared previously in a small publication, The Protestant Vindicator, to be obtained at the Protestant Electoral Union, 3, Craven Street, Strand. 24 ITALY AND HER CAPITAL. " VENEZIA LA BELLA." 25 The *'piombi," or leads, sacred to the memory of Silvio Pellico, are no longer used. I read somewhere a few weeks ago the remarks of some traveller who said that the pozzi were not so bad as he had expected, and not so very dreadful after all, because, forsooth, they are not below the sea-level. Perhaps they are not ; but I know not what that writer's ideal of the terrible must be— if entire deprivation of light and air (the food of the prisoners having been thrown in through a round hole in the solid wall), and the only communication with the outer world being by a massive door at the end of a long stone passage — does not reach it. The proverb '' Save me from my friends " (the word '' false " being, of course, understood), came from one of these pozzi. Byron, whom the world, while it remembers his vices, forgets often to thank for many a solid service, spent hours in these fearful dungeons, deciphering the inscriptions on the walls. But is there any symptom of a dawn of spiritual life in Venice ? This is certain, there are many ready to receive the truth. On the Sunday I spent there the English clergyman was absent, and there was no service. I wan- dered forth to see if I could either hear or speak of Him Whose Name is above every name. The then state of Venice afforded a suggestive text. All on the royal side had been prepared; the decision as to their freedom (ostensibly at least) remained with the people; so, on reaching a small market-place, I spoke to a man selling fruit, of Him Who beseeches men to be reconciled unto Him, having Himself, and at so great a cost, secured their salvation if they will but accept it, and thus set their own seal to the treaty of peace. I had with me one of the Epistles to the Romans in Italian, from the Bible-stand in the Crystal Palace, and read a few words aloud. Much interest was excited, and a small crowd gathered, some of the number assenting heartily. I said, ' the life is the test of true faith.' '* Yes," said one man, "life and death and eternity." At length an arm was laid on my shoulder, and I was told to desist. Having delivered the message, I obeyed at once. Surely among those people were some '•^waiting'' to receive Him, Whom in some other places men were "beseeching to depart out of their coasts." Venice has palaces of art-treasures, wherein lie hid "things new and old" in mingled confusion, like the tangled growths of some primeval wood, where the blossom of to-day gleams among the half-withered boughs of a century's duration. Salviati's mosaic works face an anti- quarian museum on the other side of the canal. There strange old capitals of columns lay on the floors of many chambers, and outside the house in the garden, amid luxuriant vegetation, where the vine twined itself in endless wreaths of wild caprice around Italy's typical cypress, that rose dark and mournful, casting its long shadow into the blue waters of the canal beneath. The Accademia delle belle Arti contains several works of Titian and Tintoretto, and other painters of the gorgeous Venetian school. I turned from the mundane luxurious- 26 ITALY AND HER CAPITAL. '* VENEZIA LA BELLA." 27 ness of Titian to Tintoretto's dark *' Cain and Abel," a terrible reflection of the first on earth's long list of crimes. Titian is, '' par eminence," a portrait-painter, the portrait- painter, with Giovanni Bellini, of all time. In the faces pourtrayed bj these artists, with their expression yivid, as thongh that of still breathing men, and yet stamped as if for eternity, the story of old Venice lives for ever. From the Campanile, in the Piazzetta, you see beyond the still waters of the canal to the Adriatic. On the summit of that tower a fresh breeze was blowing, a great refreshment after the sluggish oppressiveness of the motionless air below. Turning to the north, the whole of Venice was seen stretching out, somewhat sombre and quiet in colour, as far as the eye could reach, gradually diminishing in brightness from the Piazzetta, facing the centre of the Grand Canal, where Venice smiles on the sea, to the neighbourhood of Mestre and Murano. Below the Ducal Palace, and beyond it to the east, is the Riva degli Schiavoni, which would appear to derive its name from the Slaves or Sclavons, who, in the prosperous days of Venice, seem to have been as Helots among the more fortunate Venetians. The Austrian military band came one evening and played in the court-yard of the hotel. The music was certainly very fine, and the then position of the Austrians, just lingering out the last days of their Venetian rule, broke into the painful feelings which would otherwise have prevented all enjoyment. From an upper window I looked down on the white coats, other specimens of W which one met continually, looking ragged and sullen, seeming to tell the Italians they were not leaving in deference to them. The mode of the acquisition of liberty for Venice was anything but pleasing to Italian patriots, and to those of other lands who had the cause of Italy at heart. Yet the dark eyes at the shop-doors brightened, and the tasteful tiny bouquets of the odorous Italian jasmine, combined with some blossom of deep red, and the unfailing green of Ilope^ the appropriate colour for earth's foliage, spoke the feelings of Venetians. Venice has wept almost long enough to fill her numberless gulfs, were they emptied of their natural waters, with waves briny with another salt. And she has fought bravely, as well as suffered patiently. May the future be rich in the fruits of these long years of sorrow ! Above all, may hearts so long wearied with earthly bondage welcome Him Who delivereth from chains more ponderous, albeit invisible, than man can weave. So may there be " great joy" in that city whereof tears have been the emblem.* About the day previous to myself, a young married couple left the Hotel Barbesi, to wend their way back to old England, after which their hearts were yearning, by some quiet route. The gentleman had recently returned from New Zealand. He had also been in India, where he had served under Havelock, and where he had married his bright young Irish wife. I never knew their names ; * A ring of waved silver, to imitate tears, was worn by Venetian and other Italian ladies (the patriotic at least) during the years of her servitude, and broken on her emancipation. 28 ITALY AND HER CAPITAL. but should they happen to read these pages, they will be glad to know that I reached home safely, after accom- plishing the objects of my journey. I hope it was equally well with them. I shall ever remember our pleasant intercourse, the most sympathetic I enjoyed at the Hotel Barbesi. In the early morning of the 3rd of October, the very day, as it afterwards proved, of the final ratifi- cation of peace between Italy and Austria, and, conse- quently, the first day of the freedom of Venice, I left in the steamboat for Mestre. The early mists yet shaded the sky ; the palaces, stamped with those now faded but Btill rich decorations, of which Ruskin tells us in the " Stones of Venice," and of which the circle of the Casa Dario is specially impressed upon my memory, shone faintly against the pale blue of the heavens and of the sea. The Ducal Palace was gradually lost from sight. At length the Campanile, warden of that piazza where the old Winged Lion and St. George (or St. Theodore) over- look the Adriatic, as they have done for centuries, became thin as a finger, and at last disappeared. Then came the long reeds of the Lido, and Venice was a picture in my memory, a picture to which the paintings of Turner alone bear worthy resemblance. If GIOTTO. 29 CHAPTER V. GIOTTO and •• Padova la Dotta." A BRISK ride from Mestre to Murano, along the willow- bordered road, and past the houses brightened with their rejoicing inscriptions, and a swift passage in the train from Murano, brought me back on my road as far as Padua. My two great objects were Caprera and Rome, and at this time (although afterwards I found it necessary to go on to Florence, and thence to Livorno,) I thought that from Genoa I could easily accomplish my first aim. To Genoa, therefore, via Milan, I was now bound. But reaching Padua about 1 p.m., I could not proceed without devoting a few hours to the contemplation of some of its paintings, for this was the city of my favourite Giotto. There was one great counteraction to my pleasure throughout Italy, viz., that the chief paintings were in the churches ; and my entire conviction of the evil and sinfulness of such representations there, interfered with any enjoyment the paintings themselves might afibrd. At Florence, in the galleries of the Uffizi, and the Pitti, and at Rome, in the galleries of the Vatican and the Capitol, there was no drawback of the kind. One chapel, however, which seemed left in quietude, except for the I ,« 30 ITALY AND HER CAPITAL. GIOTTO. 31 speech which the brush had written upon its walls long, long ago — I felt I must visit, that of the Arena at Padua. Entering, through high doors, one of those tangled gardens wherein all the natural growths of Italy live and die in unchecked luxuriance, and which I found to belong to one of those villas wherein most usually foreigners, and also, most probably, English foreigners, pass a retired and delicious life, I discovered that a side path led to a door similar to that through which I had come into the garden. Pomegranate trees stood on each side, bearing their ripe fruit, " pleasant" enough " to the eyes " to be considered the Old Fruit of fatal memory. This vestibule seemed to announce something wonderful at hand, and I entered, prepared in spirit, a treasure- house indeed. On the walls were the utterances of the poet of painters, now like whispers in their paleness, but how mighty still in the enduring might of earnest- ness and truth ! Giotto must have seen by faith these scenes which he has here pictured, although with the deficiencies of infant art, yet with all the power of inward vision. In his weakness he is, to me, far beyond Titian in his strength. ICspecially the closing days of that Life lived for us, and that Death whereby we live, are pour- trayed with a simple pathos which makes you exclaim — Even thus it must have been ! and which merges all criticism of the merits or demerits of the representation considered artistically, in thoughts of the events them- selves. Yes — such was '' His meritorious cross and passion, whereby alone we obtain remission of our sins, I V. 9 \ and are made partakers of the kingdom of Heaven." Although it is probably a legendary error which has caused Mary Magdalene to be considered identical with the woman who washed the feet of Jesus with her tears yet the prevalence of the idea imparts a touching mean- ing to what I found to be a feature in almost all Italian paintings of the Crucifixion, but which I believe to be derived from Giotto, or at least from him and his con- temporaries, viz., Mary Magdalene's position,^standing below the cross, and, in paintings of the entombment, by the figure thence removed, embracing those dear Feet now for her so sorely wounded, and bathing them with tears expressive of the love of her who had been much for- given. I cannot describe the details of these wonderful pictures, for I did not observe them. These paintings made me feel that T, too, was there. From the scene in the garden I heard a voice " Sleepest thou ?" *^ Wilt thou also go away ?" And from Him Who hung sus- pended on the tree, in more than human agony, came the words, in tones of more than human tenderness, " No man taketh my life from me, but I lay it down of m'yself." '^ am the Good Shepherd. The Good Shepherd giveth his life for the sheep." This is the poetry of painting, just as it is the height of poetry itself, when the painter and the singer are, at the time, forgotten, and their message alone is regarded. Afterwards, in fiillest gratitude, the verdict is given ; this is true painting— this is poetry indeed. I visited the University, where, in the cloisters ear- 32 ITALY AND HER CAPITAL. GIOTTO. 33 rounding the court-yard, was a monument to a young lady who did everything, was everything, knew everything, and, of course, died early. I remember, also, sitting for a while to rest from weariness, and from the suffering caused by the mosquito-bites, which had now become intolerable, on the steps of an old stone fountain in a similar court-yard, belonging, in this case, I believe, to a deserted convent. What we should call in England the Town Hall of Padua — where, if I mistake not, a sort of parliament still assembles — is a remarkable building : the large hall being very lofty and unsupported by pillars, and the walls being covered with strange allegorical devices and quaint arabesques. I ascended the Observatory, otherwise called the Tower of Eccelino, having belonged to the palace of that tyrannical Duke of Padua. Beneath this tower were the prisons, an essential part of the regal mansions of those days. From such a tower at Arcetri, not far from Florence, Galileo contemplated the heavens. Milton, perhaps, had stood here. This tower commands a fine view of the surrounding country. To the north-east are the Eugancan hills, among which lies Arqua, where Petrarch died. To the north-west is Monte Berici. On the south-east stretches the plain ending in Venice, while the old city itself lies around the base. Close beneath, the Brcnta flows sluggishly, and the Botanical Gardens are seen near by. On my way to the terminus, when proceeding to my .'^? "Sl* next halting-place on the way to Milan for Genoa, viz., Vicenza, I stopped for a moment at a house, once the dwelling of the Carrara family, with one of whom Dante stayed for some time, and where (as the inscription on the exterior testifies) through the friendship of its possessor and the companionship of Giotto, '' ebbe men duro esiglio." Small as is Vicenza, it was, perhaps, the liveliest city I saw in Italy, except Milan and Florence, and parts of Venice and of Genoa. The population seemed large for the place, — a rare thing in that country. Sweet faces, with brilliant eyes and colour, walked unbonnetted, beaming with the vivacity which admits every expression from arch merriment to the deepest pathos. This town had been free from Austria for some weeks, and was a~stir with life and joy. Many inns at which I applied were full. At length, somewhat attracted by the name of one, '' Alia Luna," I thought I would try what accommodation that locality afforded. I was ushered into a fair-sized room, which appeared at first sight tidy, but where I found I was ex- posed to the assaults of my old enemies the mosquitoes, assisted by nameless allies. And no wonder ; for the next room seemed the habitation of various species of the animal creation, especially of the much-valued and ever- present " polami." The dialect of the peasants in this part is atrocious. The old woman who waited on me (old in Italy, at least, where the women of the lower classes are old after thirty) would come and stand before me, and to any request which I made in the Italian tongue, would u ITALY AND HER CAPITAL. respond in an incomprehensible jargon, and then bustle away with '' Niente, niente, signora," to re-appear after a short interval, when the same pantomime was gone through with slight variations. About mid-day on the 4th October, I heard voices, the reverse of sweet, singing something with the chorus '' Viva Italia, Italia bella; " and to judge from other sounds which penetrated into the inn, the whole town was in commotion. On inquiring the reason, I learned that the news of the signing of the treaty between Austria and Venice, which had taken place the day previous, had just reached the public ear. This joy was, therefore, sympathetic with Venice and the cities of the Quadrilateral, Vicenza herself, as before stated, having been free for some time. In the evening I witnessed the rejoicings in the piazza, which is the Piazza San Marco at Venice in miniature, and without San Marco. Two slender columns of red granite represent those of the greater city. I visited the picture gallery, containing a small, but interesting collection. The finest, as well as the largest painting, was one of Dante in exile, by a modern artist named Peterlino. It is hopeful as to the revival of art in Italy, as is also the statue of Dante, by Zanzoni, at Verona. The rough-hewn countenance of Cromwell appears here, as well as in a gallery at Florence, showing the close intercourse of England with foreign parts during the Protectorate. There are also specimens of the handiwork of the mystic Albert Durer, so powerful in the fantastic suggestiveness of the north. Being obliged to remain another night at Vicenza, I resolved not to pass it " Alia Luna." (It is to be hoped that our attendant GIOTTO. 35 planet affords better quarters to her traditional inhabitant.) I found a much more desirable resting-place in the house of a Donna Petrasca. Late in the afternoon of October 5th I reached Verona, whose antique grace and grave grandeur again struck me forcibly. The Hotel Torre di Londra provided me with comfortable accommodation, and the courtesy of the attendants was remarkable. A *' Pilgrim's Progress," in Italian, which I presented to the hotel, was gratefully received, and I left the city the next morning with very favourable recollections. The sky was dazzling in its cloudless blue, and I asked the vetturino to diverge for a few moments from the road to the station, that I might once more gaze on the face of Dante, so tender even in its sternness, which now overlooks, at all seasons, his first resting-place in his exile. Again the train bore me to Peschiera, where it halted as before, and where the guard, who had waited so long for the sight of my ticket on my first passage through the place, recognised and greeted me with, " Bene ! Ha fatto buon viaggio ? Ha il biglietto." Then, long keeping in sight the blue waters of the Lago di Garda, we sped on to Milan. This city was reached shortly after 5 p.m., and as the train for Genoa left a little past six, I had only time to go into the town to obtain something whereof I was in need, and to see the Cathedral illuminated by the sunset. The road to Genoa runs direct south, through the western plain of Lombardy, passing many of the scenes of the wars of the first Napoleon. The fresh young green of the trees and D 2 36 ITALY AND HER CAPITAL. of the grass again struck me as remarkable at that season. Nature in Italy seems literally to fade in autumn ; while in our latitude she puts on her richest robes ere lying down for her winter sleep. At 11 p.m., Saturday, Oct. 6, I reached Genoa, and a courteous fellow-traveller, an Italian, recommended me to go to the Hotel Nazionale, near the station. Seeing I was alone, and lest I should have any difficulty in securing reception on that account, he kindly conducted me himself across the piazza, where the fine statue of Christopher Columbus looks grandly and sadly down, and saw me safely and comfortably ensconced in the hotel. GENOA AND THE RIVIERA. 37 CHAPTER VI. GENOA AND THE RIVIERA. •• Geneva la Superba." It is somewhat doubtful in what sense those who first gave that designation to Genoa, intended the word to be understood, as it means both grand and proud. Pro- bably, as in many such cases, we are right in receiving both ideas ; certainly the city, as seen from the port, and in parts of the interior, is grand, and as to the -pride of the Genoese of old, history renders that unquestionable. They are now a hard, money-loving people, uncourteous for Italians, and altogether unprepossessing, somewhat resembling our Yorkshiremen, if these latter be not slan- dered. But here, again, I think that the flowers of the plant should be considered as at least proving its capacity, and as, therefore, representing its real character. So I remember that Genoa has given to the world Columbus, and to Italy Mazzini. Along the Strada Nuova, where the latter was accosted, in his boyhood, by that suppliant for contributions for the political exiles by whom his thoughts were first turned towards Italian freedom, I walked the next morning to the English Church, in the Via Azzarotti. Our service is held, as is so frequent in Italy, in two large rooms in one of the old palaces. The 38 ITALY AND HER CAriTAL. house is literally founded on a rock, which rises abruptly behind, adorned with wild flowers and thorny bushes. The Rev. Mr. Strettel preached a beautiful and touching sermon on Blind Bartimeus, and I vividly felt the inca- pacity of the obstructions of space to intercept the " com- munion of saints." They were singing when I entered. How sweetly sounded those English hymns ! Other nations, it may be, are more scientifically musical than we, yet in spite of all that is said in pur blame, there is a blending of joy and pathos, an ethereal character in our English hymns, when heartily sung, which seems to belong to them peculiarly. In the afternoon I went to the place of meeting of the Italian Protestants, in the Via Garibaldi, and attended their service in the evening. I wish more had been present, but unfortunately the Italian Reformer, Corrado, attempts to show the points of contact between Romanism and the truth, instead of urging all who receive the Gospel to '' come out" of the mystical Babylon, according to God's command, without dubitancy and without delay. Thus he is, or was at that time, obnoxious to both parties, and fully trusted by neither. Our own Reformers (all honour to them !) if they erred at all, erred on the side of reforming too little. Refor- mation means re-fonnation — i.e., the edification of a new building in place of the old, the substitution of truth for error. Indeed, only thus can error ever be successfully opposed, for the mind, even more than nature, abhors a vacuum, and men will never heartily cast away their idols till thev learn to know the livinc: God. It is to be GENOA AND THE RIVIERA. 39 earnestly desired that the Holy Spirit may expound to this sincere, but (then at least) semi-enlightened man (many of whose vagaries are attributable to the fact that he is a convert from Irvingism, through God's blessing, as he told me, on the instrumentality of that large- hearted Christian, Mr. W. Hawke, of the Bible stand. Crystal Palace), " the way of God more perfectly," and, in the meantime, that the truth he preaches, albeit mixed with much " wood, hay, and stubble," may be blessed to souls ; for, in spite of all, he faithfully declares salvation by Christ alone. May he, and many others, soon be taught that God is going to destroy Romanism, not correct! The singing* at this service surpassed in dis- cord anything I ever heard before or since. The voices of the Genoese, harsh as their countenances (which, unfortunately, do little justice to their picturesque cos- tume, — a white veil, thrown back from the face), — produced a result to which the croaking of frogs would have been melody. Before the service (which was the service of our English church translated into Italian, w^herein it fully retains its simple beauty and grandness), they sang an " atto di fe, di speranza, e di carita," in the last of which each declared, rather vain-gloriously, " Amo a me prossimo come a me stesso;" "I love my neighbour as myself." For surely we need to respond to the com- mand so to do with a prayer. I felt disposed to request one poor woman, especially, to prove the fact by silence. The witches of "Macbeth" must have resembled these * A most cruel misnomer. 40 ITALY AND HER CAPITAL. women, both in voice and features, and the " horrent sodnds" they uttered haunted me for many days. I was anxious to start the next day for Caprera, and all necessary inquiries were made for me by a young fellow-countryman then at Genoa, studying for the ministry in the English Church, and who, as he may prefer it, shall be nameless, but for whose kind courtesy I shall ever be sincerely grateful. He found that it would be impossible for me to go as I had proposed, as the boats were not then plying between Genoa and Caprera, and that I must go from Livorno, via Florence. To put myself " en route" for the latter city, for which my kind young friend gave me some most useful intro- ductions, was, consequently, the most expeditious way of proceeding, and with that intent I mounted to the impe- riale of a diligence which loft Genoa for Spezzia at 5 p.m., having previously had a fine view of the city, lying tran- quilly on the curved shore of her silent sea, from the other side of the gardens crowning the Via Acqua Sola. For my fellow-travellers in that eminent position I had, besides the conduttore, a Milanese and his wife. The former had the almost feminine features so common in the Milanese ; and when he exchanged his hat for a *' fazzoletto," so tied as to correspond exactly to the ancient beretta, his face might have passed, had it not wanted the indescribable something of genius, for a por- trait of Memmi or of Giotto. As the diligence passed the long lines of former palaces, I noticed in the outskirts of the city several houses with frescoes on the exterior, GENOA AND THE RIVIERA. 41 t after the manner of Verona and Padua, only that there the subjects were serious and chiefly sacred, and here they were of a comic character. The shores of the Mediterranean from Nice to Spezzia (called the Cornice Road) are proverbial for their beauty. And, verily, that part which I traversed on that evening and night and through the following dawn, surpassed in loveliness anything I had ever seen in reality or picture. I will not attempt to describe the indescribable ; and yet a few touches are but due to the reader. Imagine, then (for imagination alone can serve you here), bays (those of Nervi and Sori are such) enclosing small gulfs of the deep tender blue of that tideless sea, to which sloped cliffs whereon were solemn pines growing straight from their roots, and yet at every possible angle to the rock, and twisted olives with their contrasted foliage of greyish green. And, over all, a sky — sapphire above, but banded round the horizon with all rainbow hues, palpitating as though with some living though hidden consciousness — the evening star gazing from the midst as with human love and meaning. I had written that that star was Venus. But I like not to mingle with such scenes the names which bear sorrowful witness to the impotency of these '' things that are made" to draw to Him Who made them the hearts of those who did not, and, alas ! still do not *'like to retain Him in their knowledge." Rather will we, who know Him in the Son, remember that He of Whom the heavens thus " declare the glory " is more mindful of man than of all these lower works of His I 42 ITALY AND HER CAPITAL. hands, and that while telling the number of the stars and calling them all by their names (having another name than Venus for that soft planet), He also " Healeth the broken in heart, and bindeth up their wounds." At Chiavari, near to which I remember reading that there is a burial ground where lie the remains of some of Garibaldi's ancestors, I was forced to dismount, being impelled thereto by hunger, which acted as a reminder, amid the surrounding scenes of almost unearthly loveliness, that I was yet " in the body." The Villa Spinola, where Garibaldi passed some time after leaving 8pezzia, while still disabled from the Aspromonte wound, is near to Chiavari, and thus the whole coast is full of associations with him and with liis family. A most excellent portrait of him ornamented the primitive inn, where a cup of chocolate proved most acceptable. I then re-mounted, and the diligence rolled on through the night, which rendered spectral the scenes appearing through the intervals of sleep, and left little distinction between waking and sleeping dreams. Morning was breaking as we approached Spezzia, with its exquisite gulf filled with memories of poor Shelley, and, since, with those of the wounded hero, who lay here for weeks, in sufferings which the love and devotion of his people could not remove, though doubtless they did much to solace — as the sun first illuminated and then dispersed the rosy mists which clung around sea and shore. I entered the rooms at the Hotel de Ville, where Garibaldi rested at the time alluded to, and where he GENOA AND THE RIVIERA. 43 was waited on with an affectionate solicitude, for which he " requests " travellers to favour the Hotel de Ville ; and I sat in one of the chairs used by him at that time, but whether that sent by Alderman, of Soho Square, as a present from England, I could not exactly learn. I think not, however, for I believe I saw it afterwards at Caprera. The hotel commands, of course, a beautiful prospect, and it would have been pleasant to remain a little and explore the neighbourhood, but time, tide, and trains wait not, and at 8 o'clock a.m., the train started, which I entered for Florence. u ITALY AND HER CAPITAL. CHAPTER VII. " FIRENZE LA GENTILE. From Pisa the train ran inland in a straight line to Florence. I did not stop at Pisa, which was clearly visible from the railway-station a little after the train started. It is the most desolate of the Italian cities I saw — grey and quiet. The Leaning Tower seemed an old acquaintance, and the Duomo stood afar off, coldly grand, not forming the central object, as at Florence. This position, like that of St. Peter's, at Rome, to my mind, detracts from the grandeur of the building. You pass on the road from thence to Florence many of those towns situated on hills, which are so picturesque and so charac- teristic of Italian scenery ; for instance, Empoli, and Capraja, and Monte Lupo, which two latter now face each other in the amicable rivalry of contending claims for admiration. In the fields between Pisa and Florence, I remember observing some bushes of my favourite of all flowers (favourite for more than one reason), viz., the furze, otherwise called gorse, or whin, in bright bloom. I should scarcely have supposed it would have been found 60 far south as Italy. At length Florence was reached about 2 o'clock p.m., on the 9th of October. Her title of "la bella," or, *• *' FIRENZE LA GENTILE." 45 according to others, ''la gentile," was well supported by the general view as we approached, the cathedral at once securing the attention which was to ripen into admiring wonder. I drove to the Hotel or Pension Anglaise, in the Via del Sole, to which my friend at Genoa had recom- mended me. The title is also inscribed on the exterior in English. The house is, nevertheless, conducted by Italians, and I found it as pleasant, and, in all ways, as desirable a place of sojourn as I had been led to expect. Florence is the Athens of Italy. The centre of interest, the metropolis of the country, she is not, nor ever can be. But a gallery of the fine arts, combining, like all such large towns, the refinements of civilised life with the seclusion of privacy, if such is desired — this is what she is. The birth-place of Dante — the death-place (if such a word is allowable) of Elizabeth B. Browning — the treasure-house of the paintings of Giotto and Era Angelico — the town of which it may be said, without much fear of a dissentient voice, " Of all the fairest cities of the earth, None is so fair as Florence."— Sogers. (that is to say, in her own peculiar beauty, a blending of modern elegance with the dark grandeur of the structures of the past, standing, not in ruins, as at Rome, but whole in their massive sternness) — ^this is enough for her, without the attempt, which can never succeed, of trans- fering to her the intransferable associations of centuries. The **new capital of Italy?" No — that she is not. I 4G ITALY AND HER CAPITAL. believe to make a new capital in an old country is as impossible as to make a new language. There is a curious mixture of the ancient and the modern in Florence. Many of the narrow streets, paved with the freestone of Boboli, terminate in the square of the Signoria, whence diverge the omnibuses of the present to all parts of the city. The Duomo of Florence was, to my eye and mind, the grandest building, exclusive of the power of association, that I saw in Italy. The saying of Michael Angelo respecting the cupola, " Come te non voglio, meglio di te non posso,"* is well known. The walls of black and white marble, crowned with that stupendous dome, form an edifice which at noon, beneath the sapphire sky, and at night, beneath the starry or moonlit heavens, impresses the senses and the thoughts almost overpoweringly. Well might Dante love to sit on a chair at the point marked on the pavement as his " Sasso," and to contemplate that mighty mass. There is a mixture of the sublime and the tender in such monuments, the dark sadness of this Duomo representing in stone the spirit of the years during which she has watched over the destinies of the city. Close by rises the Campanile of Giotto, surely more beautiful as it is than if crowned with the spire he had proposed. Many such hindrances to the completion of works of art, accord- ing to the idea of the artist, which at the time are thought unfortunate, prove quite otherwise. I ascended that Campanile, and had a glorious view of the city and the * " Like thee I will not ; better I cannot." "firenze la gentile." 47 country round. There went the Arno, its yellow waters slowly winding, the hills of San Miniato and Fiesole, crowned with cypresses, rising beyond. To the left, past the Duomo, the Badia pointed upward, its low red spire marking the street rendered sacred by the birth of Dante. Close by this last was the tower of the Bargello, often used in ancient times as well as in modern as a state prison, now as a musaeum, and one of the most interesting Florentine monuments, to be described afterwards. In the centre of the city, beyond the Duomo, was the Palazzo Vecchio, with its high embattled tower, which, like the Duomo, is a most striking object in a distant view of Florence. The gallery of the Uffizi stretches from the Palazzo Vecchio to that of the Pitti, a covered way passing beneath the Arno, connecting them w^ith each other. In another direction you saw the tower of Santa Maria Novella, a church very much admired for its architecture, so much so, that it was called La Sposa, or the Bride. Externally, however, it was not, to my eye, attractive though blending well, — as in all general views, individual features, even though themselves uninviting, do blend beauty being so much stronger than ugliness that it always overcomes in the mass, — with the rest of the structures forming the picture, among which structures, in the opposite quarter, was Santa Croce, in its ghostly whiteness. The art galleries of the Uffizi and the Pitti seem endless, and do indeed extend for miles. Anything like a full examination of them was, of course, impossible • and therefore, while there were objects which it was 48 ITALY AND HER CAPITAL. absolutely essential to see, such as the Venus dei Medici, it was best to allow the paintings and statues to give their own message, and to follow the guidance of the feelings they inspired. To me, Giotto still spake as did none other. Passages by him from the life of Jesus, especially from its closing scenes on earth, chained my steps and riveted my eye. Farther on was a picture of the Virgin and Child, by Fra Angelico (the Virgin being uncrowned, the Christian's heart is not distressed by the blasphemous adoration of the creature), in which the colouring, at once bright and delicate, the ethereal loveliness of the angels in the predella, and the pure beauty of the mother and the child, form a whole which both attracts and affects profoundly. While gazing on this and on other marvels of Italian genius, the question would suggest itself whether this perfection in pictorial art had any necessary connec- tion with the deadening of spiritual life throughout the beautiful but unhappy country. My conclusion was not necessary^ though perhaps it has been very close. Of course I exempt from this argument all pictures in which error is spoken by the pencil, as in paintings representing the Virgin crowned, or any mere creature as worshipped.* But where the delineation is simply Scriptural, I do not believe that it can produce any harmful effect, but wholly the contrary, when not employed, even in symbol, either * It would seem that the earliest instances of this perversion bf painting were of the Byzantine school, and that thus the idolatry- of pictures, as well as other kinds of spiritual and material idolatry, had its rrigin in the East. "FIRENZE LA GENTILE." 49 as an object of or an incentive to worship, in which rela- tion we are forbidden to use ''pleasant pictures," where- fore their introduction into churches must be always and for ever unlawful. Some, for this reason, consider all representations, even of the humanity of our Lord, to be unallowable, because they believe that, except when mere daubs, which offend by irreverence, they must lead us instinctively to adoration, and God has told us not to "make to ourselves any image" to which we should " bow down " or which we should "worship." However, I think this objection is met by the remembrance that Jesus voluntarily, for our sakes, put off His divine glory when, for us, "A Man of Sorrows;" and that His disciples when they worshipped Him during the days of His humiliation, did so in consequence of some evidence He had given in His acts of divine power, and in conse- quence of what they had read in the prophets, and believed concerning him. In a word, they worshipped Him from what they Tcnew and believed, not from what they SAW. For although we are very sure that to those who loved Him, that " tender plant " had a beauty altogether Its own, and that to them that " visage marred more than any man's," was fair beyond all others, yet it is expressly mentioned after the Eesurrection, that " when they saw Him they worshipped Him." If, there- fore, any delineations of the Son of Man are unlawful, they are those that attempt to depict Him when His essential deity was no longer veiled as it was when He for us " made himself of no reputation." This unlaw- 50 ITALY AND HER CAPITAL. fulness would, therefore, include such subjects as the Resurrection, the Supper at Emmaus, as well as the other scenes of those forty days, the Ascension, and perhaps, for the above reason, the Transfiguration. This whole question was suggested to my mind, some months after my return from Italy, by the earnest and noble homily of our church on the peril of idolatry. But while my iconoclastic zeal would go the length of willing- ness that the paintings even of Giotto and Angelico should perish from the earth ere such should be intro- duced into our sanctuaries, I yet honestly believe that it is perfectly allowable to attempt to depict, as imperfectly as needs must be, even in its humiliation, the human form of Him Who is also " equal with the Father as touching his Godhead," the two natures being whole and distinct, although "joined together in One Person, never to be divided." This question apart, it does appear but too certain that the very exquisite beauty of such representations in Italy, has, too often, while satisfying the eye and the sense of the Italian, caused him to forget the necessity of fixing the eye of his soul upon Jesus Himself, who, though invisible to the outward sight, is present to the inward eye by faith, that " evidence of things not seen" Nothing will stand in stead of that " look of the soul." But man is ever and everywhere seeking to put something in its place. One day Jesus will appear again, so coming " as He was seen to go." Wliich of us will He not startle when He calls us, as He called Mary, by name ? " FIRENZE LA GENTILE." 51 Which of us will at once greet Him with mingled adora- tion and love as *' Rabboni? " Only those who see Him now by faith. By that inner eye alone can we learn to know Him. No looking on the first among paintings will teach us that. They who so know Him notv, will recognize Him then, and when they see Him will " worship Him " indeed. It is because He truly lives " that same Jesus," that we are forbidden to anticipate that worship of Him- self, except by worshipping Ilhn now as invisible^ Who will one day be adored in His revealed glory. To those, how- ever, who do " know Him now by faith," and who think not to put an illusory feeling in the place of that one source of true communion with Him here, I believe that representations of Him they love, in His humiliation, will be beneficial as well as precious. I cannot think that God has set a ban upon any channel of pure emotion, and I feel sure that nothing but Christian faith in its spiritual reality could have guided the pencil of such as Giotto. And while, alas, it is but too true that the rich artistic gifts of the sons of Italy seem in too many instances to have blinded the eyes of many amongst them, and to have been " as a very lovely song," lulling into the slumber of insensibility instead of guiding into the rest of faith, yet we must remember that the very abuse of such gifts proves the greatness of their power, and how noble is their use when held and employed as He would have them to be Who gave them. The Painter of the sky loves painting ; and, doubtless. He made this His glorious gift a means of teaching simple hearts many a valuable truth in days E 2 52 ITALY AND HER CAPITAL. when the " Word of the Lord was precious," or scarce, and there was little " open vision." Komanism has always hated and songht to hide the fact that '' Jesus Christ is come in the flesh," i.e., the essential humanity of the Saviour. This she virtually denies when she declares that His heart needs to be moved by the intercessions of His mother, as well as when she pretends to sacrifice afresh His precious body now raised, and glorified in Heaven. These touching stories on canvas spoke to many an eye that could not decipher or reach the pages of the Inspired Volume, and, without doubt, many a heart responded, " Lord, I believe." Some of these paintings are but hymns written with the brush ; only another way of expressing — " When I survey the wondrous Cross On which the Prince of Glory died, My richest gain I count but loss, And pour contempt on all my pride." Of the paintings in the Accademia delle belle Arti, at Florence, two especially engaged my admiration—" The Adoration of the Magi," by Gentile da Fabriano, and '' The Deposition from the Cross," by Fra Angelico. The former sparkles with brilliant colour, and yet so great and so true is the expression, that the scene itself occupies the thoughts. One of the kings has already taken off his crown, literally resplendent with gems, and is kneeling before the Infant ; another is removing his ; while the third stands awaiting his turn to approach. The Child is the centre of all attraction, the entire picture being sub- " FIRENZE LA GENTILE. i» 53 dued to that principal object. The animals depicted in the predella, i.e., the ox and the ass, overlooking the birth- place of the Infant, are marvellously given ; the wonder almost reaching to inquiry with which they regard the scene, yet does not transcend the bounds of their lower faculties, so that there is nothing in it affected or un- natural. But this painting, beautiful as it is, yet sank into insignificance beside " The Deposition," the picture of pictures in Italy to me, with the exception of the works of Giotto. ♦* Friend of sinners ! Spotless Lamb ! Thy blood was shed for me." So says the painting. From that pale form, lying in the arms of sinners whom He has ransomed, every drop of that red stream, which is the life of our flesh, seems to have departed. But the majesty of Peace, the ineffable tenderness of Love, which breathe from the forsaken face and form, tell of the Holy One, Who triumphed by yield- ing Himself as a victim, through death destroying death. Hushed silence fills the picture as an atmosphere ; deep grief, indeed, is on the faces of all around, but the whole scene speaks of a work fulfilled. He Who has thus " over- come the sharpness of death has, verily, opened the kingdom of heaven to all believers." Gems of art are scattered all over Florence, herself, as we have said, a picture of such marvellous beauty. In my room at the hotel was one of the innumerable copies of the Virgin of Sassoferrato. In this, also, there is nothing to offend or to distress. It is simply the mother, 54 ITALY AND HER CAPITAL. the woman, the Christian ; the mother, through whom went so sharp a sword ; the woman, who " hid all those things and pondered them in her heart," merging her own sorrow in the sympathy which, thongh it might not hinder the work of agony, yet, doubtless, soothed the true humanity of Him by Whose cross she stood ; the Chris- tian, who trusted in " God her Saviour." The tenderness and love of nature, and the faith and love of grace. The wonderful head of the " Medusa," by Leonardo da Vinci, is in the gallery of the Uffizi. In a dark, narrow street, leading from the Badia (Ab- badia or Abbey), is a small house, seemingly just now uninhabited, bearing the inscription, " Qui nacque il divino Poeta." * Dante, then, entered earth by this small door. Not much beyond is the Bargello, in whose dungeons, cold and damp, though far superior to the "Pozzi" of Venice, lay Francesco and Rosa Madiai, those two among the many sufferers from Eomanism in modern times. The upper rooms of the Bargello are used as a museum, and at the end of one is the fresco of " Paradise," by Giotto, one of the greatest treasures of Florence, wherein stands the youthful Dante, holding the mystic fruit. The figure is dim and shadowy, like one of those he met in his ghostly wanderings. Close by is Beatrice, equally ethereal in form ; she is rather nearer to the central glory, and turns with a smile, as though both to * " Here was born the divine poet." '' FIRENZE LA GENTILE." 55 welcome and encourage. Yes, they are near; there in symbol, but nearer now in reality. The friendship of Giotto and Dante must have been one of those fellowships in which God provides for the lone- liness of genius. They were kindred spirits, and must have been mutual comforters as well as artistic fellow- helpers. The poet-painter, earnest and tender (though no tenderer than Dante), very probably gained in power from the vivid utterances of his friend ; while the painter-poet was, doubtless, often soothed in the fierce sufferings caused by the intensity and objectiveness of his genius by the calming sympathy of the more subjective Giotto. Dante was subjective* in character, from the self-consciousness of suffering ; and, consequently, as is so often the case with such, was eminently objective in his works. John Bunyan was another similar instance. Giotto evidently drew his power in the objective art of painting from the strength of his subjective emotions. The expression of the works of Giotto and of Dante is very similar, although those of Giotto are gentler, and altogether less in degree ; but every poem of Dante is a painting, and every painting of Giotto is a poem. There are some frescoes on the walls of the large hall of the Bargello, fine in design, though poor as paintings. With few exceptions they are copies of the frescoes of ♦Although the terms objective and subjective are sometimes characterized as affected, the charge is groundless, since, as there are no other words which express the same meaning, they must be used. 56 ITALY AND HER CAPITAL. Andrea del Castagno. One of the exceptions is the " Calumny " and " Innocence " of Michael Angelo, the former being represented by one of his figures of the Three Fates, forcible as a specimen of his tragic power, while the figure of '* Innocence " is light and graceful, with a delicacy rarely seen in the works of that Master of the Sublime. *' The Cum^an Sibyl," and the alarming form of " Farinata degli Uberti " (whose one vote prevented the destruction of Florence when the removal of the capital of Tuscany to Empoli was proposed) in his grotesque costume, are noticeable among the frescoes of Andrea del Castagno. ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 57 CHAPTER VIII. ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. * '• Qui scrisse e mori Elizabeth Barrett Browning Che a scienza di dotta conciliava cuore di donna e genio di poeta, e fece coi sui versi aureo anello fra Italia ed Inghilterra. Pone questa memoria Firenze grata. 1861." These words are inscribed over the door of Casa Guidi, the house where died the greatest English poetess, if she were not also the greatest poet of modern times. Casa Guidi stands on the south side of the river, the Southwark of Florence, and is reached by crossing the Ponte delle Grazie. It is not far from the Pitti Palace, and the room where Elizabeth Browning died faces the Church of San Felice, at the back of the Lungarno. The bleak air of Florence, full of the chill of the Apennines (for the bright sun of the Etruscan city does not effectually temper the keenness of these winds in the winter and spring) was not * Here wrote and died Elizabeth Barrett Browning, who to a student's learning united a woman's heart and a poet's genius, and by her verses made a golden link between Italy and England. This memorial was erected by grateful Florence, 1861. 58 ITALY AND HER CAPITAL. ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 59 the most suitable atmosphere for a delicate chest. We will not say that it shortened the poet's life, for to do that is in the power of no outward influence. She went because God called her ; but, perchance, His messenger was some sharp blast from the neighbouring mountains. She is described by those who knew her as a slight, fragile creature ; seemingly, to eyes that look on things after the outward appearance, too frail for the wear and tear of life. Perhaps, with almost the single exception of Shake- speare (and for this exception the reason is evident in the very character and width of his genius), all the greatest minds have tenanted such frail bodies : bodies frail, at least, to the eye, but proving, in most instances, better and more faithful servants than the stronger forms of robust health. Bodily, we say not weakness, but fragility, is in relation to genius both effect and aid. The mind, in such cases, while in some measure it " o'er informs its tenement of clay," yet keeps the material machinery going with an activity which often serves as an effectual defence against some of the worst " ills that flesh is heir to," while the susceptibility of the nerves, those wonderful links between mind and body, that is necessarily associated with a fragile organization, opens many an avenue of inward perception that had else remained closed, so that whole regions of thought and feeling are the heritage of such persons almost exclusively. Tliey live by their minds (by which insuffi- cient word we mean the whole inner nature, emotional as well as intellectual — for intellectual vigour alone has no necessary connection with genius), and, at the appointed moment, die by them. What an intense inner life throbbed within these walls, until at last the doors of the flesh were opened, and the spirit fled ! The thrilling phases of Italy's story, which, alas ! have so often proved but bright figures in the kaleidoscope of change, had each a place in her heart's care as well as in her eye's vision, as " Casa Guidi windows" abundantly show. '* Aurora Leigh," that typical poem of this nineteenth century, though true to the heart's history in all ages, was, I believe, written in England. However vivid and deep were her Italian sympathies, E. B. B. was an Englishwoman at heart, being, for that very reason, no mere nominal friend to the cause of Italy. Here, on the 21st July, 1861, she died. This house was, therefore, to me the most sacred spot in Florence, more sacred even than the small house in the dark street by the Badia. There Dante was born ; here Elizabeth Browning died. The one was the entrance-door to earth ; the other to heaven. For, thank God ! we have no doubt whither has fled the spirit of the humble Christian. New occupants are now in Casa Guidi, and the rooms she had tenanted were locked. Careless faces and heedless voices passed me as I sat for a few moments on the stair outside those rooms which had been so filled with *' the mysteries of life and death." Poetry, faith, hope, love are immortal. It matters little that bodies perish and houses decay. " Soon all vision- waxes dull, Men whisper, he is dying ; We cry no more ' Be pitiful ! ' We have no strength for crying. 60 ITALY AND HER CAPITAL. No strength ? No need. Then, soul of mine, Look up and triumph rather ; Lo ! in the depths of God's Divine The Son adjures the Father, Be pitiful, God ! "— E. B. B. I visited her grave in the English cemetery, just out- side one of the city gates, I think the Porta San Sebas- tiano. The tomb is of white marble, marked with the lily of Florence, and a medallion portrait of her whose ashes lie within, also carved in the marble. The only inscription is E. B. B., and the date of her death. The lines which close this chapter may well serve as her epitaph. From the cemetery the eye wanders over the lovely environs of Florence, resting on the Vallambrosa of Milton, whose dark trees are visible not far beyond, lying, at the time I stood there, bathed in the blue of evening and of distance. While her soul " goes marching on" upon earth in the undying life of a poet's song and influence, we who love her best can " thank God for her departure in His faith and fear." Her poet's course was well run ; and had it been otherwise — had it seemed that death had met her half way, before her whole message had been delivered — what had even that regret been in comparison of the joy which can say as she asked — " The fondest of us all ; Not a tear on her must fall : He giveth His Beloved sleep." ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 61 «< 0, Death ! 0, crowned Death ! Pale-steeded Death ! Whose name doth make our respiratioa brief. Thou of the Shrouded Face, whom to have seen Is to be very awful like thyself. Thou whom all Flesh shall see ! Thou whose dread touch Changes all Beauty into what we fear — Changes all Glory into what we tread — Genius to Silence— Strength to Nothingness — And Love — not Love — thou hast no change for Love. My heart is armed not in panoply Of Roman iron — nor assumes The Stoic's valour. 'Tis a human heart, And so confesses with a human fear, That only for the Hope the Cross inspires. That only for the Man Who Died and Lives, 'Twould crouch beneath thy sceptre's royalty With faintness of the pulse, and backward cling To life. But knowing what I soothly know, High -seeming Death ! I dare thee. . And have hope, In God's good time, to show before thy face An unsuccumbing spirit, which sublime Shall put away the low anxieties That wait upon the Flesh, And enter that Eternity to come, Where live the dead, and only Death can die."— E. B. B. 62 ITALY AND HER CAPITAL. THE PALAZZO VECCHIO AND TOMBS OF THE MEDICI. 63 CHAPTER IX. THE PALAZZO VECCHIO, AND THE TOMBS OF THE MEDICI. The Italian Parliament now meets in the old Ducal Palace of Florence. You enter by a vestibule, in the centre of which is a circle of round pillars richly covered with ara- besques, then mount a broad staircase to the rooms in which the Parliament is held, which are of vast size. The walls are adorned with frescoes by Vasari, representing various scenes of Florentine history. If outward gran- deur were the secret of national greatness, these halls would secure it ; but it is earnestly to be desired that the real may take the place of the apparent in Italy, and that what so often proves empty declamation may be exchanged for calm thought and resolute achievement. But, alas ! she has so many grave questions yet unsettled. There is Rome, still the centre of darkness and oppression, and there are the masses of the people still lost in indifference and infidelity. Can there be progress before the right way is entered ? If there be, it must be synonymous with decadence, not with elevation. The truth, God's truth, is what Italy needs, even to give form and substance to her glowing dreams. Over the council-chambers are the rooms formerly tenanted by the Medici, with their luxurious appointments i and glittering ornaments, gaudy though unoccupied, the Senator who resides in the Palazzo seeming to make use of few of these rooms. There hangs the portrait of Leo X., with his satisfied and indolent intellectualism. In a cor- ridor leading to the Uffizi galleries are the portraits of all the dukes of the house. With more intellectual vigour and force of character, the Medici somewhat resembled our Stuarts ; though, perhaps, less of physical beauty fell to their share. Yet there are faces among those of the earlier members of the family which, in their refined voluptuousness and haughty self-complacency, recall the pictures at Holyrood. Some fine statues by Michael Angelo, amongst others his "Victory," adorn some of these apartments; and, returning to the Parliament- chamber, we observe at one end a remarkable group, by a sculptor whose name has escaped me, representing " The Fall." Eve stands holding out to Adam the fruit which she has already tasted, and which she received from the woman-faced serpent, whose head appears round the trunk of the tree, and who is watching the scene with an ex- pression of triumphant malignity. That was a strange conceit of the writers of the middle ages which is here em- bodied in sculpture, i.e., the giving of a female head to the Tempter. One scarcely knows what they intended to convey by it, nor has it any analogy in truth, for however easily deceived a woman may be, she is rarely so by another woman. It is remarkable, though the deliberators are hardly likely to think of it, that the sin whence sprang earth's after curse and sadness should be represented in the T A / 64 ITALY AND HER CAPITAL. hall where the concerns of the nation are debated. Would that men always and everywhere kept the Fall in remem- brance ! It would lead them joyfully to accept the offered restoration. " Although our crown of bliss is gone, Jesus died. We may be cleansed from every stain, We may be crowned with bliss again, And in the land of pleasure reign. Jesus died." The abuses of a country will never be corrected so long as they are unacknowledged, and the labours for the im- provement of a people, which are the work of every efficient Parliament, may well suggest to the labourers the question whether they themselves are still captives of the Tyrant of tyrants, or whether they have returned to their allegiance to Him " Whose service is perfect freedom." The entrance to the Uffizi gallery is by a large door at the side of the building, near to which is the statue of David, by Michael Angelo. The stripling is setting out to confront the Philistine, and seems to be uttering the reproachful rejoinder to his haughty brother, " What have I now done ? Is there not a cause ? " The dark loggia of Orcagna fronts the entrance to the Uffizi. This loggia is filled with master-pieces of sculpture, ancient and modem ; but, as the arrangement is not yet completed, you are at present only allowed to see what you can from a respectful distance. A covered gallery, which must be subterranean as the Amo intervenes, unites the Uffizi with the Pitti Palace, where is an equally larg« i ♦ i THE PALAZZO VECCHIO AND TOMBS OF THE MEDICI. 65 collection of painting and art treasures, so that the door of the Palazzo Vecchio of Florence admits to a gathered store of wonders, perhaps unparalleled in extent in the world — for Versailles does not, probably, equal in this respect the united galleries of the Uffizi and the Pitti ; while, of course, their artistic merits cannot be for a moment compared. The Luxembourg at Paris was built on the model of the Pitti. Statues of Medicean dukes await you on the staircase leading to the Uffizi, and seem to bow you in with gracious dignity to inspect the treasures of which they still consider themselves the proprietors. All Florence speaks of the Medici. Cosmo, the founder of the house, sits in quiet ease in the Piazza della Signoria, and from the palazzo, which we have just visited, a short walk conducts us to the Church of San Lorenzo, contain- ing the tombs of that family, and among them the celebrated monuments, by Michael Angelo, to Cosmo, the nephew of Lorenzo the Magnificent, and Lorenzo the son of Cosmo and the father of Catherine dei Medici. Dawn and Twilight are at the feet of Cosmo ; Night and Day at the feet of Lorenzo. Dawn and Night are female figures. Twilight is an elderly man, and Day a youth, going forth in his strength. Night lies calmly, as if lapped in happy dreams ; but the sad face of Dawn, with its look of weary enquiry, is strikingly pathetic, Rogers gives well the impression made by the Dnke Lorenzo — " Nor yet forget that chamber of the dead, Where the gigantic shapes of Night and Day, ' II r 66 ITALY AND HER CAPITAL. RELIGION IN FLORENCE. 67 Turned into stone, rest everlastingly, Yet still are breathing, and shed round at noon A twofold influence, only to be felt : A light, a darkness, blending each with each, Both, and yet neither. There, from age to age. Two ghosts are sitting on their sepulchres. Ihat is the Duke Lorenzo. Mark him well. He meditates, his head upon his hand. What from beneath his helm -like bonnet scowls ? Is it a face, or but an eyeless skull ? 'Tis lost in shade, yet, like the basilisk, It fascinates, and is intolerable." ^» CHAPTER X. RELIGION IN FLORENCE. ** The cause for which I lay down my life shall gloriously triumph."— /(>^n Bedford. The city of Savonarola hears the glorious gospel of the grace of God, and is not altogether indifferent to it. Italy has never had a Luther. Savonarola was too simply a negative reformer ; a " protester " against error, but scarcely a '' witness " to the truth. The influence of such men is necessarily transitory. Negations neither satisfy the heart nor convert the soul. They have their indis- pensable work of opposing and condemning sin and error, but unless God's remedy for both is proclaimed and received the house is only emptied in preparation for the return of evil in sevenfold force. Our Lord's charge to every reformer and missionary is this — " Preach the Gospel to every creature." The Gospel is preached in Florence. Li the Via Vittorio Emmanuele, a long, white, desolate-looking street, I found a pretty numerous assemblage of Italian Protestants and enquirers, who were addressed by Magrini from the words, " This is life eternal, that they might know Thee, the only true God, and Jesus Christ whom Thou hast sent." Tlie hymns f2 68 RELIGION IN FLORENCE. ITALY AND HER CAPITAL. 69 sung by tins and the other native congregations are very- sweet, and full of the mingled pathos and exultation which belong to evangelical truth. When I was in Florence, De Sanctis was preaching to a large congregation in a hall situated in a long street leading from the Lungiirno. I heard him there one Sunday- evening, and was delighted with the depth of loving thought which he manifested, while he showed the falsity of that too common mistake, that the sacrifice of Jesus propitiated the Father's heart towards us. A propitiatory sacrifice was necessary, and God's love provided it in the willing Victim of the cross. " He beheld the world undone, — Loved the world, and gave His Son." Such is the teaching of Scripture, and it is to be deplored that so many noble hearts should be repelled from the precious doctrine of the atonement by the misplacing of different though connected truths, as though it had been said that God gave His Son for the world, and therefore loved it — a self-evident absurdity. The great fact for the attention of the sinner is just tlds^ that God loves him. The English clergymen at Florence were both faithful proclaimers of the good news of salvation. The Church of the Embassy was in a palazzo in the Lungarno. The vestibule contained some most interesting tablets, seemingly from the catacombs at Rome. The other English church is at the opposite extremity of far-stretching Florence, from the quarter where the Italian Protestants assemble, ( 1 being in the Via del Maglio, not far from the San Marco of Savonarola. The services of this sanctuary were spiritual and deeply earnest, and the sweet English hymns rose with a true home-like melody. The beloved and esteemed pastor (the Eev. F. S. H. Pendleton) and his wife, with whom I enjoyed short but most delightful intercourse, are evidently faithful witnesses to the truth amidst surrounding error and consequent ungodliness. An English lady near by concerns herself much with the spiritual interests of the Italians. It was most cheering to find these country- men and countrywomen of ours thus centres of blessing to all around. While England is so mournfully silencing her witness at home, her testimony has not ceased abroad. Verily this is a " token for good." I regretted much that the indisposition of the Presby- terian minister. Rev. Mac Dougal, prevented my seeing him. I had been furnished with an introduction, which was unavailing on that account. Florence, it will be seen, is well off as concerns the proclamation of the Heavenly message. The sufferings of the Madiai, by the attention they drew, and the efforts which followed to counteract the tyranny of Romanism, doubtless went far towards securing the liberty now enjoyed. The great enemy of the Italians, at the present time, is their own indifference. They have been so long '•'' wearied with lies," that too often, with Pilate, they ask '' What is truth ? " and go away despairing of an answer. God grant that more and more, like that Italian to whom Peter proclaimed the great facts about Jesus of 70 FLORENCE TO LIVORNO AND CAPRERA, 71 ITALY AND HER CAPITAL. Nazareth, whereby he and his house might be saved, may joyfully receive the message ! The keys of the kingdom of heaven, the truths of the everlasting gospel, are the only keys which can unlock the still thrice-barred gates of Italy's political and spiritual servitude. i f; CHAPTER XL FROM FLORENCE TO LIVORNO, AND FROM LIVORNO TO CAPRERA. " Thou canst guard Thy creatures sleeping, Heal the heart long broke with weeping. God of stillness and of motion, Of the desert and the ocean — Of the mountain, rock, and river — Blessed be Thy Name for ever ! ''—James Hogg. At length I was able to set out for Caprera, and for that purpose was obliged to return to Pisa to take the train from thence to Livorno. Having a message from a friend in England to deliver to a lady residing in the former city, I was unable to visit the Duomo and the Campo Santo. These were great omissions ; nevertheless, I have carried away a very clear remembrance of Pisa in her deserted grandeur. She is grand because of her past power, and because of the very sadness of her present gloomy quietude. But no scene in Italy conveyed to me so melancholy an impression. I do not except Rome, because the colouring of that ever-chief of Italian cities is more vivid, and the sensations she arouses in every way more definite. Pisa is silent, grey, desolate, and ghostly. Somewhere between Pisa and Florence is, or was, the Torre di Fame of Ugolino. The road between Pisa and Livorno consists, as it 2 ITALV AND HER CAPITAL. FLORENCE tO LIVORNO AND CAPRERA. 73 approaches the latter, of wide level fields of tobacco and maize, allowing nninterrupted views of the golden sunset in which they were bathed as I reached Livorno, Octo.ber 20th. In the central square are statues to two dukes of Savoy, one of whom is so hideously ugly, that it is to be hoped his face was not a faithful mirror to his mind. This, however, it most probably was ; and as the ugliness lies not only in the rough, coarse features, one does not envy his subjects. My most vivid remembrance of Livorno is connected with its courteous station-master, Suatori, who told me, I believe, that he had been some years in France, and who certainly resembled a Frenchman of the old school rather than an Italian, in spite of his name, and of the honourable fact that he had been some years in prison for his devotion to the Italian cause. No want of recognition of Italian chivalry is implied here, for of that no one can be more sensible than myself; but Suatori's was something not greater, but different. Filled, I suppose, with the thought of the expedition on which I was at lepgth starting, and hurried along by the decidedly uncourteous officials of Pisa, I had omitted to take up at that station the silver coins given me in change, a not very serious loss, but one which at the time was likely to cause me some inconvenience. Suatori interested himself most vividly in the matter, telegraphed to Pisa, and expressed the sincerest regret when his message, in con- sequence of the absence of the guard in question, met with no favourable reply. I shall always retain a grateful recollection of his kindness, as probably he would quickly m 1 recognize, were we to meet again, the adventurous English lady to whom he showed such courteous attention. It was now full moon, and the cold clear light illumi- nated the long road from the railway terminus to the harbour. I had with me a few tracts, and one little book containing a portion of Scripture in Italian. The boy who rowed me to the steamer begged so hard for this last, that I gave it to him. The name of the vessel was the " Umbria." Sardinian soldiers were the most numerous of the passengers. I remained all night on deck, and my memory preserves some ineffaceable pictures of the seamen walking the ship, wearing the caj^es of their cloaks over their heads, as stiff-peaked hoods, reminding one of the cowls of the inquisitors, or of Dante's hypocrites pacing on beneath their gold-covered mantles of lead ; pictures, also, of the half-savage Sardinian soldiers (the Croats of Italy), lying as shapeless masses wrapped in their grey coats. To these visual objects the vocal accompaniment would be occasionally — as some Sardinian leaned lazily over the vessel's side — the wild chant of that race, called the "durrah durrah," — hummed drowsily in a monotonous, never-ending whirr, somewhat resembling the drone of a bag-pipe. To this '^ durrah durrah," they are accustomed to dance their national dance, standing in a circle of men and women alternately, beginning slowly, and in a low tone, and gradually increasing in pitch and in velocity, until at length they have worked themselves into a state of frenzy, and are ready for anything. Suatori, to whom I was mentioning this barbaric chant, when again passing I'll 74 ITALY AND HER CAPITAL. through Livomo on my way back to Florence, assured me that he had witnessed Fetish dances in Africa (to which the dance of the Sardinians is closely akin), at the close of which he had actually seen a man begin to devour a live animal, a sheep, I believe,* so beyond all ordinary human instincts and sensations had he been brought by the unnatural excitement. May not the first stage of such a physical effect be found in the at last involuntary rapidity of motion in table-turning? I believe it may. But the animal natures of these rough soldiers did not despise sleep ; so very soon the snatches of wild and certainly not melodious song were over, and all was still beneath the moon, whose light is itself visible silence. It shone full on the sea, making a broad bright river through the night- dyed waters. " Thou AMio slumberest not nor sleepest, Blest are they Thou kindly keepest ! God of evening's parting ray, Of midnight gloom, and dawning day, That riseth from the azure sea, Like breathings of eternity." — Hogg. So rose the morning of the Sabbath on the Mediter- ranean. Had there been any choice, I would not have taken that day for journeying. There was none, however, and my mission to Garibaldi must have remained unac- complished had I refused to make this single exception to my general law. But how best to spend it as God's day ? Seeking His blessing, I determined to try if I could * Without the wool, / suppose. i| I FLORENCE TO LIVORNO AND CAPRERA. 70 interest some of the Sardinian soldiers by reading to them some of the " Pilgrim's Progress," in Italian. I suc- ceeded, to my own astonishment. The remarks of one of the more intelligent surprised me, till he told me that he had a Bible, and studied it. I learned afterwards that a most interesting and encouraging mission is carried on in Sardinia. At the end of the reading, I presented a " Pil- grim's Progress" (having more than one with me) to the before-mentioned soldier, and a comrade of his, for their joint use, and was amused at their perplexity as to how they should manage, as mountains divided their homes, and they did not see each other very often. To the best of my recollection, I settled the matter by suggesting that they each should keep the book for half a year alternately, and that they should pay each other, if possible, more frequent visits, in order to read it together. The island of Elba was visible for some hours during the early part of this day. The " Umbria " touched at Bastia (in Corsica) to deposit some of the inhabitants who were returning from Livorno, and till evening approached we skirted the mountainous coast of that island. At length, after the moon had again risen, we passed one and another of the small islands standing as heralds to Caprera, and beneath her fullest rays stopped at La ^Maddalena. Here I landed at the same time with a Garibaldian volunteer, who kindly introduced me to Signor Ricciotti Garibaldi, who vras standing on the shore. The Locanda at La Maddalena was full, so I passed the night at a neighbour- ing cottage, in a lofty room, hung round with quaint prints. 76 ITALY AND HER CAI'ITAL. The dialect spoken in this isLand is very rough, and I found some difficulty in understanding and in being under- stood. I was to have crossed to Caprera the next morning in a boat with Signor Kicciotti and Signor Canzio and his wife, Garibaldi's daughter Teresa; but owing to some mistake I did not know the exact time of their departure, and therefore took a small boat, and was rowed over by the son of the mistress of the Locanda. He pointed out to me the yacht " Princess," lying off the side of Caprera. I thouglit of the great interest I, with numberless others, had felt in this small expression of affection which Gari- baldi kindly accepted as the gift principally of the working people of England. At length the boat was brought alongside of a huge stone, lying by several others of equal size. My conductor assisted me to leap on to it, to gain, as I supposed, some particular view, for I had no idea at the moment that the port was attained. But so it was. I had landed at Caprera. CAPRERA. a CHAPTER Xn. CAPRERA. As his Rock amid the ocean Stands in its strength sublime, 'Mid the age's wild commotion Stands the hero of the time. Now back in his island-dwelling, He hears in his soul once more How the mighty waves are swelling Round the lone and solemn shore. Lonely and sad as he left it, Swept by the wild winds still. — E. S. G. S. When I now write, Garibaldi has been arrested by order of the Italian Government under Rattazzi, and, after a short imprisonment, has returned to his own typical island- home. He was arrested at Asinalunga, near Siena, on his way to help the Romans to free themselves from the living death of oppression — the plea for the arrest of this Italian citizen and truest patriot being a convention which he had never recognised, but into which men unworthy of the name of Italians had entered with a foreigner, and that foreigner the representative of diplomatic selfishness — Napoleon III. of France. O Rome ! wert thou any other city but what thou art, Italy had had thee and been free and united long ago — wert thou any other but the seat of " the apostasy," the II Ml 78 CAPRERA. 79 ITALY AND HER CAPITAL. " mystery of iniquity." Happily it is but so. Thou art not the Woman herself, "drunken with the blood of the saints," who has made thy seven hills her throne. But that evil system must be dispossessed, and yet more, error must be replaced by truth ere thou wilt be free. I had seen Garibaldi at the time of his memorable visit to London in 18G4. At his entry, when The enthusiasm of England burst forth, As when from thousand subterranean caves God's hand drew back the bolts, and, lo ! at once The fountains of the deep were broken up. * At the Crystal Palace, when he met his countrymen, and on that day when he met the gathered crowds of the working men of England, and at Guildhall. On all these occasions, and especially on the last, we Read his history in that face, Calm with unearthly calm, and yet whereon The shadow of a mighty sadness lay, Through which the slow, sweet smile, like sunlight, breathed, Speaking of hopes deferred, yet undestroyed. *— E. S. G. S. Hopes now deferred again. But destroyed ? No; never that. I bore with me in this journey an introduction to the general from a friend in England. The boat with Signor Ricciotti and his sister had not arrived when that in which I came reached the shore. After stepping from one to another of the large stones which form the landing-ground, the boy who had rowed me directed me up a winding * These lines appeared in Pawsey's Ladies' Pocket-book for 1865, published by Haddock, late Pawsey, Ancient House. Ipswich. ' \ / ascent, amid large blocks of granite, intermixed with aro- matic shrubs, such as tamarisks and wild myrtle, to the long, low, white house, familiar to my eye as the face of an old friend, from its many faithful portraits, but which I had scarcely thought I should ever be privileged to visit. I entered the threshold, and gave my card of introduction to one of the soldier-like forms standing around variously occupied, which card he carried out. At length, walking slowly, still leaning on his stick (he was then suffering afresh from the Aspromonte wound, which had been re- opened during the campaign in the Tyrol, by the accidental tread of one of his own soldiers, whom he did not let know what he had done), Garibaldi came in from the garden. *' E il generate," said all voices — quite needlessly so far as I was concerned, for had I never seen him before, I should have required no information as to who stood before me. That fatherly kindness, that dignity, at once tender and martial, could belong to no other. I was too much moved to speak, for I knew this was a moment whose memory would brighten many an after hour of sorrow. With the considerate courtesy of the perfect gentleman, Garibaldi held out his hand and took mine with a manner calculated to banish all embarrassment. " Venga nella mia stanza," * he said, and I follow^ed him thither. My chief object in thus visiting Caprera, was to put into his hand " The Pilgrim's Progress " (that first book in the world after the Bible) in Italian. The translation into that tongue has been most ably made by an American, and the * '• Come into my room." 80 ITALY AND HER CAPITAL. CAPRERA. 81 Italian language, at once simple and sonorous, clothes grandly the true imaginings of the poet-dreamer. As might be expected, they do not well adapt themselves to French, nor French to them. I have never met Tvith a German translation, but that language ought to be a con- o^enial medium. Garibaldi received the book in his own kind, courteous way. " La ringrazio," he said, taking it, and examining the title. I ask all Christians, whose eyes may rest on these pages, to send up a prayer for a blessing on that clear enunciation of Scrii)ture-truth to the heart of Italv's hero. I then inquired the fate of another volume which I had forwarded to Caprera in 18G4. He rose, and searched among the companions of his solitude arranged on the shelf. But it could not be found. I shall refer to this presently. " I offer you," said Garibaldi, " una povera ospi- talita." These are his words, not inine. As though any- thing could be poor from him ! Would that those blinded by the "pride of life" remembered that it is from whom it comes which gives value or worthlessness to every offering ! The truly rich man is not he who has many ba^s in his treasurv, but he whose own character imparts value to a cup of cold water from his hand. I accepted the offer as freely as it was made, until the steam-boat returned from La INLaddalena to Livorno, which was on the following afternoon. I, however, declared that a chair would accommodate me sufficiently for the night; but Garibaldi smiled, and told me that his eldest son being away, his room was at my service. " Then," he \ said, " we shall dine." Noon is his ordinary dinner-hour. I was conducted by one of the afore-named soldiers out of harness to the door of the room above mentioned, where I found portraits of one or two of Garibaldi's fellow-com- batants, all of whom, I believe, had fallen in battle. War- like implements also adorned the walls. I had some difficulty in finding my way to the dining-room, since the house is rather peculiarly constructed, and I had to pass through the kitchen on my road. Probably this is caused by part of the house having been annexed as a somewhat recent addition. The dining-room is large and long, uncar- peted (at least, it was so at that time), and its walls without paint or paper. But they were ornamented with some fine photographic landscapes, and over the fire-place hung a beautiful water-coloured painting, representing, I fancy, some part of the neighbourhood of Garibaldi's native Nice. I found assembled Garibaldi himself, Signor Albanese, a surgeon, who bore some honourable part in relation to the extraction of the memorable bullet of Aspromonte, and his wife, who occupied the head of the table. Garibaldi himself being seated on her left hand, a place being left for me opposite him, on the signora's right. Signor Ricciotti was my neighbour, and opposite to him sat his sister Teresa, her husband, Signor Canzio, at her side. Garibaldi's beloved Teresa, or Teresita, is of middle height, robust and rounded in form, a Spartan in vigour, though with all womanly gentleness. Her hair and eyes are dark— the latter kind and true. She was dressed in the Italian colours, and is evidently in character and spirit 82 ITALY AND HER CAPITAL. a worthy daughter of her father. It may be remarked, en passant, that she is certainly not the original of Piero Magni's reading-girl. The repast was plain but plentiful, including Indian com and Indian figs, of which Garibaldi has now a good supply from the rugged soil of his island. I had never before tasted Indian figs, which are pleasant and refresh- ing, of a golden colour, with black seeds ; probably, however, too well known to need description. There were also scallops (they called them a sort of oyster, but they were evidently scallops), and some of a singular looking shell-fish, called in Italian ^' ricci," and in English, I think, sea urchins, of which Garibaldi seemed especially fond. He expressed his wonder that to any one "i frutti del mar" should be distasteful. 1 received one scallop from his own hand, and I can certainly say that, so received, nothing ever tasted to me so delicious. After dinner. Garibaldi retired immediately to his own room, and the rest of us dispersed. Teresa and her husband, Signor Ricciotti, and Signor and Signora Albanese, with their son, a boy of about eleven, com- menced a game of mimic war, not exactly of attack and defence, but of taking prisoners and avoiding capture. They kindly asked me to join them, to which I agreed, although it happened to be to me a penance of no ordinary kind, since, having needed new boots at Florence, I had been obliged to provide myself with a pair of Italian ones, which to English feet are anything but agreeable, no foreigners being equally addicted with ourselves to the CAPRERA. 83 peripatetic philosophy. The great misery consists in heels as of iron, without the least elasticity. The fact was (althougli I trust it then remained a hidden one) that I had been compelled to leave my hose with the owner of my apartment of the former night at La Maddalena, and was now wearing these unfortunate boots on my bare feet. The reader will, therefore, not wonder that I had often ignominiously to yield myself prisoner. But Teresita! She sped hither and thither like a young fawn, and I lieard the remark, " She captured ? No, never." I was amused, but not surprised, at the wondering way in which her kind gazelle-like eyes dwelt on me. Yes, dear child of Italy, we are in physique and, of course, in mental history, widely different. Yet have we common sympathies, '* touches of nature " which " make us kin." She has four children (now five, one having been born since that time, and named John Brown), whom I saw ; the three eldest, boys, of whom the third bears the honoured name of Lincoln— a permanent token of Garibaldi's recognition of the great American— while the baby girl has as her rich heritage the sacred name of Anita. It was, indeed, a privilege to kiss these little ones. Teresa is fond of music, and has a sweet, powerful voice. We all retired early. The round moon filled the chamber of Menotti with her light, and as I sat by the window in a wheeled chair, which had probably given rest from the wound of Aspromonte, my heart swelled with thankfulness to Him Who in a world of sorrow does yet permit such wonderful and pure enjoyment, *' as we are G 2 81 ITALY AND HER CAPITAL. able to bear it." I had, however, a desire yet unfulfilled. That book which I had sent in 18G4 was one of no ordinary importance, and bore on the events of the present time.* I felt it was one which Garibaldi ought to read, his perfect acquaintance with English as a written language preventing all difficulty on that score. I could not think it had missed its destination. But how to bring it to light, and into Garibaldi's possession? I found that Signor Ricciotti was the referee on all English questions, on account of his education in our country, and that all books in English sent to Garibaldi passed through his hands. The next morning I prayed to Him Who bids us make our requests known unto Him " in everything," and then made my request to Signor Ricciotti that he would kindly search for the book. And I now again thank him for his kindness in acceding to my wish. He left the room, and, after an absence of about twenty minutes, returned, bearing the desired volume. Truly then did I praise God " with my whole heart." I went out with the book to refresh my own memory with some of its contents while seated on one of the granite blocks of the island's stony wilderness, overlooking the sea. Garibaldi's favourite old hound. Bice, constituted herself my guard, accompanying me to my resting-place, and seating herself near to me, coming from time to time to receive a caress, and returning to her post when satisfied. * *' The Midnight Cry," by Rev. Samuel Garratt, M.A. The portion of this book relating to History and to Prophecy has since been enlarged and rc-published under the title of " A Commentary on the bwk of Revelation," by the same Author. Secley and Co. \ CAPRERA. 85 At dinner that day Garibaldi spoke of his wish to dispose of some of the valuable grey granite with which the island abounds. He alluded to the result of his attempt to sell, at Genoa, some of the odoriferous and resinous wood of which the aromatic shrubs growing amid the island stones are composed. The Genoese not only rejected this wood, which, from its resinous nature, would have been invaluable as firewood, but, because it was not cut evenly and made into bundles, cast it into the sea. The transit of granite from Caprera to England would be expensive, unless a devoted captain could be found to give it free passage. All granite is not Caprera granite, as surely some English hearts would feel. And in this world of graves there is a sure and constant demand for granite, if only for tombstones. I left the island that afternoon, being rowed, with Signor Ricciotti, to the steamer, in the boat in w^hich he went to fetch the postal packet from " La Maddalena." Before leaving, I walked round to the ground at the side of the house where Gari- baldi stood, with the long-missing volume in my hand. *■ E trovato,' I said, ' lo leggera ? ' " Lo leggerb,"* answered the voice that never uttered a promise afterwards falsified. " Mettetelo nella mia stanza,"f he said to his attendants, and with kind smiles from them, and a " Faccia buon viaggio," and a shake of the hand from Garibaldi, I left him with warm expressions of gratitude for his kindness, probably never again to see him in this world, but to be cheered during my future path by the remembrance of * " It is found. You will read it ? " "I will read it." f " Put it in my room." / 86 ITALY AND HER CAPITAL. having been for one day the guest of the first gentleman of his age,— a knight, indeed, "without fear" and "without reproach" from man. If any one wishes to know in what true dignity consists, he may see it personified in Gari- baldi, and may at the same time learn the secret which makes him the perfect gentleman that he is— viz., that he "looks not on his own things" only, but rather " on the things of others." Being " pitiful," he is, of necessity, "courteous." The White House being on somewhat rising ground, there is a slight descent to the shore. I walked quickly down with Signor Ricciotti, gathering a few sprigs of wild myrtle, &c., as memorials of my visit. It began to rain heavily in the impetuous Italian style, and the shower had become a torrent when I left the boat for the steam-packet. Many mingled feelings made my own mind stormy, so the weather and I were in harmony, and the mists through which Caprera was visible, till lost in distance, suited well its grey, desolate sublimity. The dark, solemn mountains of Sardinia loomed grandly forth ; and the colouring of the scene made, as it were, a third compartment to its picture in my mind, as I had seen it before in the spiritual glory of moonlight, and then in the blue and gold of regal day. Now, the warring elements spoke of trouble and strife, and bitter tears ; while amid all stood the rocks ^ grave but unshaken, in the steadfast- ness of truth. I invoked upon Caprera and its habitant the special blessing of Him "Whose righteousness standeth like the strong mountains." 1/ vl FROM CAPRERA BACK TO FLORENCE. 87 CHAPTER XIII. FROM CAPRERA BACK TO FLORENCE. There was on the " Umbria," as she retraced her way to Livorno, a Corsican returning to Bastia, and thence to his home at Ajaccio. He was a kind and courteous fellow-passenger, and as I preferred remaining all night on deck, he very kindly brought me in the early morning some refreshment, which was not unacceptable in the chilly dawn, although I was enjoying the scene in its wildness and strangeness far too thoroughly to be preju- dicially affected by rain or by cold. This Corsican was a fine specimen of that proverbially fine race, presenting a marked contrast to the half-savage Sards who had been my companions in my outward passage. I gave a " Pilgrim's Progress," in Italian, to the captain of the " Umbria," and my Corsican friend promised that, as he was in the habit of frequently passing and re-passing to and from La Maddalena, he would take the opportunity of reading it sometimes. I believe he will keep his word, for he was evidently '* an honourable man." He told me much that was interesting respecting the house at Ajaccio where the first Napoleon was born, and which has been lately restored, but, as far as possible, unchanged. It is singular that Napoleon played as a baby on a hearth-rug 88 ITALY AND HER CAPITAL. representing the god of war, so that the Champ de Mars was his first play-ground. The Corsican spoke of that '^ vendetta " which has rendered his island so darkly famous. He attributed it chiefly to the imperfect adminis- tration of justice. It is the lynch law of Corsica. The Corsicans are evidently a race resembling the High- binders of Scotland (in the finest type of the latter), the Basques of Spain, and other mountain tribes; bold, impetuous, firm as friends, and terrible as foes, like moun- taineers everywhere, but wanting in that introspection and patient thoughtfulness which contribute to the earnestness and the endurance of the men of the plains. Those who live amid the grandest outward scenes are always in some measure transient in emotion and sensuous in intellect ; always disposed to "look on things after the outward appearance;" while those who have fewer beauties of scenery to engage their vision, are brought to contemplate those wonders of the inward world which far exceed in grandeur and in loveliness the fairest scenes without ; to turn their eyes to the stars which seem to gaze down lovingly from their low-spreading heavens, and to yearn after the calm fields of light which bound their wide horizon. Having less around, they are led the rather to look above. The Celtic races, still chiefly haunting their ancestral hills, have their bards of war and of traditional romance. The Gothic races, still tenting on their plains, produce the poets of the heart, of life's history, and of spiritual joy. Shakespeare tells the tale of man amid the greenery of Warwickshire; Cowper sings his songs of FROM CAPRERA BACK TO FLORENCE. 89 i } *' sweet sorrow" by the slow-winding Ouse ; and Bunyan dreams of Heaven in the prison-cell, and in the quiet hedge-enclosed meadows of Bedfordshire. Bastia is a picturesque town, at the foot and on the slope of dark-coloured rocks, by the sea, the small white houses of modern days interspersed amid the older dwel- lings more nearly toned by time to the hue of the sur- rounding cliffs. There is a row of arches, said to be of Roman origin, called Les Terrasses, which my Corsican friend showed me through a telescope, and which seemed part of an interesting ruin. At length the boat stopped, and I took leave of my temporary companion, receiving fresh kind wishes for a pleasant voyage, and, at length, a safe return to my own distant island-home. Livorno was again reached at about five in the afternoon, and, as soon as I- could, after obtaining some letters from England at the post-office, and partaking of some neces- sary refreshment, at the same time enjoying some more interesting conversation with my friend Suatori, I took the train once more, via Pisa, to Florence, where I arrived at night, much satisfied with my expedition, and kindly greeted at the Pension in the Via del Sole. Rome was now the goal of my projects ; but thoughts of Dante and of the old Goths, making me desirous of seeing Ravenna on my way, I determined to go by Ancona, the longest, but yet as being, by uninterrupted railway, the swiftest and safest route, by which much annoyance, often experienced at Civita Vecchia, is avoided, and all fear of brigands prevented. 90 ITALY AND HER CAPITAL. I could not start before the Monday, so had four more days to linger in beautiful Florence, amid her numberless gems of art, and with her cathedral casting its mighty shadow on my steps. That cathedral, and the structures telling of the feudalism of the Middle Ages, impart a grave dignity to Florence, which blends in the features and in the character of her sons, with the vivacity of their social kindness and the keenness of their intellectual life. But, I repeat, Florence neither is nor can be the capital of Italy. No true Florentine would desire it. The very gravity and deptli of thought to which I have alluded makes these Tuscans cling more closely to the mother-city, owning as their parent and their queen that Rome, whose name is bound up with every memory of their country's glory. Italy's capital is not the city of the Medici, but the city of the Caesars. RAVENNA. 91 CHAPTER XIV. RAVENNA. " The dead rule the world." I LEFT Florence on the evening of Monday, October 29, bound for Rome. Although Ravenna is anything but in the direct route, yet, wishing to visit the old Gothic capital first, I took a northerly direction, passing the night at Bologna. About midnight the moon rose and filled my room in the quiet hotel, casting in pale jewels through the lattice-window. I started early the next morning ; the hotel omnibus taking the track marked out for it through the centre of the streets of the city, which with its endless cloister-like arcades, seems a vast uni- versity. At Castel-Bolognese, I had to change for Ravenna, which I reached, however, early in the day. I went to the Albergo della Stella d'Oro, which I found had given lodgment to some celebrities — to Garibaldi and some of his family in the present, and to others in the past, specially poor Byron. The intelligent guide of the hotel, Cristoforo Stanganelli, had known Byron well, and spoke of him as he accompanied me to the tombs of Dante and Theodoric. I visited first the former. It is a small chapel-like building, not architecturally handsome. The story of the discovery of the bones in one of the churches «! 92 ITALY AND HER CAPITAL. is well known. At the end of the interior is a statue of the poet, anything but flattering, as it seems to have suffered from sundry stones thrown at it, as though Dante's fate on earth, even in effigy, was not to be a peaceful one. Various votive offerings from Italian cities and from individuals adorn the walls. Here, then, were the mortal remains of Italy's greatest poet. That he died in this city is an honour which Florence may well envy. He entered earth from Florence and heaven from Ravenna. To think that some of his last footsteps were on the broken pebbles of these streets makes them all sacred ground. It has been often said that what is spoken in song has been learned in suffering ; but, as there is comfort in the thought, it will bear repetition. Where had been the " Divina Commedia" without Dante's woes ? Many envy a poet's powers. Few could stand his training. I spoke of broken pebbles. Hawthorne says that the round pebbles of Home make the ascent of her seven hills a perpetual penitential pilgrimage. This is true, as I afterwards proved. The streets of Ravenna are more level, but rougher still, the pebbles being broken and sharp. Very, very old Ravenna looks, but bowers of tranquil greenery surround her, of the freshest, youngest verdure. A grove of bright feathery acacias led to the sward on which stood the tomb of Theodoric the Goth. Surely the Goths and the Romans had much in common. The Gauls, or Celts were altogether different in character, and their incursions accordingly, though sharp, were short; the results for the most part ending with their departure. I RAVENNA. ^^ Not so with the persistent Goths. They stayed. It seemed a new Roman race overcoming the old. But there is one marked distinction between all the Latin and the Gothic families. The former are made for consolidation and for national greatness ; the latter for independence and individual greatness. Thus we see why, in the old prophetic vision, it was said that the Roman iron should be mixed with the Gothic clay. Statues are modelled in clay; clay therefore foreshows the Gothic individual greatness. Iron bands unite the limbs of ponderous machinery ; iron therefore typifies the Roman associative instinct. But in massiveness of character and achieve- ment the Goths and the Romans are alike. This tomb oi Theodoric is a round stone chamber, roofed with one single stone, so huge that we wonder what leverage could have raised it to its place. Giants alone could have been equal to the effort. All was solemn silence. A little bird flew in suggestively through a small opening on one side of the chamber and passed out through a like opening on the other. The acacias, in their light spring-like green, waved tremblingly without, all down their long arcades, which were Byron's favourite morning walk. Within all was still. The bones of the old Goth lay there alone. These tombs and these memories are the glory of Ravenna. But not these only. Not far from the pine-wood of Dante, filled yet with the whispers of " La Vita Nuova," some way further on among the trees, is another tomb. Along the acacia-bordered road, leading from the tomb of Theodoric, Garibaldi and a few of his faithful followers I 4 94 ITALY AND HER CAPITAL. RIMINI, AND FROM ANCONA TO ROME. 95 walked (so Stanganelli told me), in the autumn of 1849, bearing the body of Anita. There they left the remains of the loved and loving woman, in the wood haunted by the sighs of Dante, and visited by the murmurs of the sea. So, by strange coincidences, are the great of every age associated. The sternly simple monument of Theodoric witnessed the funeral procession of the Anita* of the verily Gothic Garibaldi, and the poet of the past, and the hero of the present, met in the pine-forest of Ravenna, and, invisibly, grasped hands. * That walk must have been to her tomb; for I have since learned, from a reliable source, that Afiita was buried by peasants in hurried secrecy. CHAPTER XV. RIMINI, AND FROM ANCONA TO ROME. I MADE one more halt, on my way to Ancona, at Rimini, a small seaport town on the Adriatic. The Rubicon is somewhere between Ravenna and this town, so I must have crossed it unconsciously. I walked along the main street of Rimini, again over pebbles, round, though not so sharp as those of Ravenna — past the old palace, where poor Francesca must have spent her girlhood, in part of which house, I think my guide told me, an Englishman now resides — to the Roman arch built by Augustus, which terminates the road in massive grandeur, darkened but undestroyed by time. The inhabitants of the sombre old town seemed a lively set, fond of gay costume, like a fishing population as they are, and having affairs of their own engaging, but not absorbing, their thoughts ; for, if 1 remember right, Rimini aided well in the struggle of 1849. Soon the train set forward once more, and bore me, often along the sea-shore, to Ancona, which I reached late at night, sleeping in an uncivilised inn outside the walls, and leaving in the morning, at length, for Rome. Through the Marches and Umbria lay the road across the Apennines, and, therefore, through frequent tracts of dark- ness ; chiefly a stony, dreary way, realising many a scene 90 ITALY AND HER CAPITAL. of desolation in Dante's journcyings. The sandstone of the Apennines gives a colouring of yellow ochre to the landscape, and sometimes of burnt umber, which latter word might be thought to have more than an accidental connection with the name of the district, but that that name was in all probability derived from some term alluding to the shade cast by the once numerous trees, of which these mountains have been so often and so ruth- lessly despoiled. This ferruginous hue is but little varied with occasional green; but ever and anon there are features of striking grandeur in those cities set on a hill, which are one of the characteristic glories of Italian scenery. Trevi, for instance, whence is brought to Rome, by one of those aqueducts which must emulate the aque- ducts of ancient days (if they are not the ancient aqueducts converted to new uses), the water of the fountain of the same name; and Terni, which boasts its celebrated water- fall. The fountain of Clitumnus, being close to Spoleto, between Trevi and Terni, it may be from that fountain that the waters of Trevi flow ; perhaps, also, it is this very fountain which excursionists from Terni visit, but I am not sure on these heads. My travelling companions were a sister of charity, who had an old man under her charge, and who was returning to her monastery at Rome (for so cloisters for ivomen are called in Italy), and a Roman family, consisting of a gentleman and his wife, and one or two sweet children. These latter were most courteous, and gave me some useful information. The nun, or sister of charity, was terribly frightened when we had to alight RIMINI, AND FROM ANCONA TO ROME. 97 (at Foligno) for the inspection of our baggage, and seemed to wish to hide behind me for protection. She must, I think, have been a nun, and had evidently been despatched on a special mission, under strict orders. She was of middle age, and looked sleek and comfortable, but cer- tainly unaccustomed to travelling. Evening fell, the gloom increasing gradually, till it was darkness, but for the stars. At last, not very far from midnight, the train stopped. We were at Rome, the Rome of Julius Caesar and of the Gracchi, and also in the present (as I felt the more vividly that I was even then reading the life of that patriot), the Rome of Mazzini, and of Garibaldi, and xVnita. Alas ! now the Rome where Popery drags on its serpent-like existence! I will not say the Rome of the Pope. No ; she is neither the city of the Pope nor of the Emperor. All sorrows endured cannot change the nature, nor give right to the inflictor of wrong. Only love can really possess ; and only truth can really reign. It was the 31st of October, Hallowe'en. Verily the Dead were abroad that night, and the Invisible filled the air, as I set foot in Rome. II OS ITALY AND HER CAPITAL. ROME. 99 ROME. ROME.** THE CITY. THE SYSTEM. Rome ! Rome ! Thou art no more As thou hast been ; On thy seven hills of yore Thou sat'st a Queen. Thou had'st thy triumphs then, Purpling the street ; Princes and sceptred men Bowed at thy feet. Rome ! Rome ! Thou art no more As thou hast been. Rome ! Thine imperial brow Never shall rise. What hast thou left thee now ? Thou hast thy skies ; Thou hast the sunset's glow, Rome, for thy dower. Flushing tall cypress bough. Temple and tower. Rome ! Rome ! Thou art no more As thou hast been. I' Rome ! Rome ! Thou art the same, And e'er wilt be ; Thou bearcst still the name Of mystery. Still wearing, as thy right. The triple crown, Life, liberty, and light Thou treadest down. Rome I Rome ! Thou art the same. And e'er wilt be. Rome ! Thou art still attired In pearls and gold ; By kings and realms admired Now as of old. Ready thou dost remain In force and wile To kindle yet again The martyr's pile. Rome ! Rome ! Thou art the same, And e'er wilt be. Mrs. Ilemans. E. S. G. S. H 2 100 ITALY AND HEIl CAPITAL. CHAPTER XVI. ROME. " Go thou to Rome, at once the paradise, The grave, the city, and the wilderness." — Shelley's Adonais. " The orphans of the heart do turn to thee, Lone mother of dead empires." — Byron. ♦' Roma I'Eterna." To wake for the first time in Rome ! Rogers speaks of the sensation which, to be understood, must be experienced. To know that that rich sunshine which bathes the room is from the sun of Rome the Eternal ! Shall we say the "eternally-dying"? Alas! this expression of a recent writer has been, up to the present, too sadly, strangely \rue ! I had driven, on my arrival, to the Piazza di Spagna, in the English quarter, and was there this first morning, in an English boarding-house — that of the Misses Smith, of well-known fame. Their house, a large and comfortable upper piano, commanded a fine view, St. Peter's being clearly visible in the distance. I left this boarding-house that day, wishing to experience Roman life in Rome. I therefore went next to the Yincolo dei Greci, a turning out of the Via del Babuino. The internal cold of this house, however, compelled me to conclude my week in »' ROME. 101 Rome at an hotel. The Roman houses are chiefly built with the view of providing against the extreme heat of summer, so that the sun's rays are almost excluded. This, combined with the often uncarpeted rooms, and the floors of marble, real or imitated, makes the change from the outer to the inner atmosphere considerable. To dream that I dwelt in marble halls, would, after such experience of the reality, be anything but pleasant. This morning, November Gth, 1867, the news has arrived of the arrest of Garibaldi at Terni, after his retreat from Monte Rotondo, and of his projected imprisonment in Fort Palmaria in the Gulf of Spezzia. Victor Emmanuel has not allowed the achievements of 1860 to be repeated at Rome, and this, because he is himself in terror of the French Emperor. What a position for the ruler of a nation ! A king ? Nay, a slave. The Romans are bound with chains none the less strong because invisible. Garibaldi could have freed them. Victor Emmanuel can and w ill but deliver them over afresh unto the w^ill of their enemies. That many of them are uncon- scious of their bondage only proves the more that they are in bonds, and that they must be set free ^ since they cannot free themselves. Alas for Rome ! Her sorrows are not over yet ! In the afternoon I wandered out to gain a general view of the city from the Pincian hill. Having ascended a broad flight of stone steps, I supposed I had reached it, but found afterwards that I had then been standing on the elevation called the Trinita dei Monti, which connects the jMijMWiwjif Ttww^yjgjW ''fi'tlffljStf JWSS 102 ITALY AND HER CAPITAL. Pincian with the Quirinal. From mj roint of observation I saw St. Peter's to the west, bached by the cypresses of Monte Mario. Ah ! those cypresses ! Present everywhere ! It seems as if fair Italy had sung— " Twine no wreath for me, Or weave it of the cypress-tree." The Pincian and the Janiculan, between which is St. Peter's, are not inchided in the seven hills. To the south lay the' chief part of the modern city, with, as I could afterwards discover with an habituated eye, the ruins of ancient Rome to the extreme south-west. My first im- pression was of wonder that Rome was so much like other cities. Her distinctiveness I learned to know and to per- ceive ; but at first, the marvel was that she was built of brick' and stone (albeit with marble intermingled), like other towns that men inhabit. So the first thought on seeing Caesar might have been of wonder to find him a man like others. Rome is a name— an idea— a dream ! Yes ; but she is also a solid reality, which reminds us, by the way, that the Romans are men and women, with hearts and soul's ; although, by long servitude, degraded, yet men of like necessities with ourselves. Rome is the grandest, saddest city in the world. The modern city being built, as is well known, thirty feet above the ancient, is to it as one vast tomb.* And this is so also in another sense. The Present here buries the Past, * But Jerusalem, as we learn from the excavations now being carried on by Lieut. Warren, has sunk 90 feet. " Under the whole heavens hath not been done as hath been done upon Jerusalem." * / I ROME. lor which lies hid beneath its weight, whence those dull earth- quake-sounds telling of the volcano below. Will the Past arise ? Assuredly ; for there is no death without a resur- rection. But whether that arising will be on the earth that now is, is a question. The seven hills are (taking them in alphabetical order), the Aventine, the Coelian, the Capitoline, the Esquiline, the Palatine, the Quirinal, and the Viminal. Taking them in the order in w^hich you reach them from the modern city— the Quirinal, the Capitoline, the Palatine, the Esqui- line, the Coelian, the Viminal, and the Aventine. The modern city chiefly occupies the ancient Campus Martins, leaving, however, as has been said, the relics of the Past thirty feet below. This is clearly seen in the Forum of Trajan, not far from the Barbcrini Palace and from the Fountain of Trevi. The column, representing spirally on its surface the victories of Trajan over the Dacians, stands at the end, the statue of the emperor having been re- placed by that of an apostle — St. Paul, I think— just as St. Peter supplants Marcus Antoninus in the Piazza Colonna. Napoleon I. had this forum excavated to its ancient level ; and the pillars remain, though few of them entire, amid the grass which always grows so luxuriantly among ruins, as if it knew they, too, were graves. You look down through a railed enclosure upon this space, as into a deep well, and thus realize what is in a measure everywhere true, but at Rome is evident, that the Present builds upon the Past ; and that our modern life is but a geological stratum, which causes, partly slowly cumulative, and partly < ■ 'I 104 ITALY AND HER CAPITAL. fiercely volcanic, have superposed on the preceding, which it crowns, not destroys. And the waves of time deal with the fossils of previous strata, turning many a plant of withered human hope into fuel to warm our hearts and aid us in our labours ; many a black, hard stone into a priceless gem ; but washing nothing into oblivion, sweep- ing nothing to destruction — hiding, burying, truly — but guarding well their stores till the day shall come for that sea also to give up its dead. And so I stood that afternoon, looking across St. Peter's to the sunset, on whose amber ocean rose the cypresses, like the dark masts of some ship of doom, and then, turn- ing, looked over the city spreading beneath, and lying there so tranquilly, as though she had never made a head to ache, nor sent her terrible mandates, first of war and then of persecution, over the trembling earth. Ah ! I prayed that when He Who cometh out of His place to punish the inhabitants of the world for their iniquity, visits guilty Rome, He may, while smiting the system which has cursed her people, spare the city, and save her children. Rome ! sorrowful, mighty, still glorious Rome ! Turn from the vanities which have maddened and blinded thee, from thy false gods that cannot save — and learn of Him "VYho has prepared His salvation " before the face of all people" — before thine! V. 'Si ART TN ROME. 105 CHAPTER XVII. ART IN ROME. " Farewell ! farewell ! the heart that lives alone, Housed in sweet dreams, at distance from the kind ; Such happiness, wherever it be known, Is to be pitied, for 'tis surely blind. But welcome fortitude and patient cheer. And frequent sights of what is to be borne." " If Thought and Love desert us, from that day Let us break off all commerce with the Muse ; With Thought and Love companions of our way, Whate'er the senses take or may refuse. The mind's internal heaven shall shed her dews Of inspiration on the humblest lay." — Wordsworth. Foreigners, chiefly English and American, and artists, also chiefly from America and England, have a Rome of their own all to themselves. And if they are sufficiently wealthy for their needs, and are strangers to those cares for others which disturb the heart, and thence the brain, they may here pretty easily delude themselves that earth is not so very much changed from old Eden after all. Always supposing, be it remembered, that they do live in a world of their own, and not in this world of God's making and the Devil's marring. Of God's ruling still, nevertheless : for vet " The earth is the Lord's and the fulness thereof, the world and they that dwell therein." 106 ITALY AND HER CAPITAL. ART IN ROME. 107 How, in such a case, however, artists could be artists, is certainly a question difficult of solution. And so we must conclude that these are sad sometimes, even in Rome. Although the air is full of balm, as if those skies of purple- blue rained sweetness down ; although the ignorant and degraded populace are yet so picturesque in the warm colouring wherewith the sun has painted them, and in their gesticulations so graceful and empathic, which un- fortunately mean nothing, that every group and every figure is a study, especially when from the large languid eyes come flashes of dark fire which remind of what once was, and show what yet might be. I visited the studios of Story, the American sculptor, and that where Gibson, the graceful artist and true-hearted man, laboured till his death, not long ago. Story is surely, in his own line, the first sculptor of the age, as his *' Cleopatra" and "Libyan Sibyl," exhibited in London in 18G2, prove — to me, at least. Hawthorne speaks of the first with his usual truthful criticism in that " Transforma- tion " of his, which is as valuable as a guide to Rome as it is fascinating as a romance. That book and " Corinne " reflect faithfully Rome in the spirit. No paltry conven- tionalisms shackle Story in his work, and he can well dispense with them, since the power of his genius enables him to speak to us clearly in his own language. In his '* Cleopatra" we have no turbaned, vulgar woman, utterly unable to move the hearts or sway the counsels of princes, but a woman self-contained and terrible; voluptuous, luxurious, but determined. A sort of female Napoleon I., ♦ equally powerful and equally unscrupulous. The " Libyan Sibyl " is another Cleopatra, only mightier and more evil still ; a she-devil. A dark, mysterious power is Story's. He is a master of the sublime, not of the tender or the beautiful. Gibson has left behind him some specimens of these. His force, in his line, is less than Story's ; but this may be because the fearful always tells more in represen- tation than the lovely, which rather evades expression in the works of man. In God's works it is otherwise ; and a loving smile on the commonest human face is mightier than the scowl of a tyrant. My favourites of the works of Gibson are, first, " Pandora;" and next, " Justice and Mercy," supporting the throne of our Queen, which is, as need not be said, in the robing-room at Westminster. Among the other casts of his sculptures, I saw his first work, "Mars and Cupid;" and his last, "Theseus Slaying the Robber," on which he was engaged at the time of his death. The studio, a quiet room in the Vincolo della Fontanella, a turning out of the Via del Babuino, opened into a small court-yard, where, beneath the dazzling blue of the sky, I noticed a plant, of which I had seen an insig- nificant specimen in England, without being able to dis- cover its appellation, rising here to a great height, and with clusters of blossoms of varied colour amid its dark rough leaves. I asked its name of Baini, the talented assistant of Gibson, who now replaces him, and was told it was " Lontana Camera, or the Distant Room," a name suggestive and poetical, it will be confessed. i I 108 ITALY AND HER CAPITAL. Lontana Camera ! Whence came The mystic pathos of thy name ? Did dead hands hold thee, that are g"one To wave the palm before the Throne ? Or didst thou hear Love's latest sigh, And keep it as thy legacy ? I saw thee 'neath the sky of Rome, And felt that blue must arch thy home. I thought how cold thy rest must be, Far from thy sunny Italy, Where English vapours sadly lour Chill welcome on the lonely flower. But ihere thou stoxlest at the door Where he had toiled who toils no more. There, 'mid thy dark leaves, richly grew Thy clustered blooms of varied hue — Orange, and gold, and rosy red. Guarding the sculptures of the dead, Lontana Camera! What heart Hath not for thee a place apart, Where she may turn her from annoy Not to the roses of her joy, But where the shades thy smile enhance Safe from all winds of circumstance ? When Memory plucks thee as she sings, She shows us unforgotten things — The room where lay our dead— the room Where we are greeted as we come By unchanged voices, that we hear Where'er we roam — no otherwhere. I do believe, that far away With Jesus in the realms of day — Since Love and holy Memory Immortal are, and cannot die — If never more on earth's low plain, I there shall see thee, flower, again. — E. S. G. S. ART IN ROME. 109 '\ f Baini was evidently much attached to Gibson, who, while he was a fine, if not a first-rate sculptor, was some- thing better — a noble man. Some surprise at my lonely wanderings having been expressed by Baini, I answered, ' Viaggio con Dio.'* '' Va bene ! Brava ! " was the reply. The paintings at the Vatican are not numerous. The most noticeable are, Raphael's " Transfiguration," and the '' Return of the Prodigal," by Murillo. Sculpture has there her palace. You enter those galleries, now con- nected with the cruellest, meanest despotism in the world, through a corridor lined with fragments from the Cata- combs, telling of days when the faith of Rome (as now, alas ! her blasphemy and mysteries of darkness) was " si)oken of throughout the whole world." Then there are the cele- brated loggie, adjoining a corner of the garden, and con- taining, each in its separate niche, some gem of sculpture, mostly, if not all, belonging to mythological times. There writhes the " Laocoon " in perpetual agony ; there stands the " Apollo Belvedere " in defiant beauty, albeit a beauty heathen in its completeness, and belonging wholly to the life that now is. The Capitol ! We must look now for a few moments at its art-treasures. The line of old emperors is still here in reigning dignity, cold, powerful representations of men who were, with very few exceptions, as their portraits too faithfully show, morally worthless. But here, too, are * " I travel with God." Rather, perhaps, from some inexplicable difference in the genius of languages, we should say, «* God travels with me." ;',::: ^-.^ "^7?; ■'^^^$y'0:i^^^^f&^%^^'^^^ 110 ITALY AND HER CAPITAL. some choice gems of sculpture. The ever-playful " Faun," the ever-mournful " Antinous," "Juno,*' and "Venus," the famed " Venus of the Capitol." While the completed beauty of these trophies of heathenism forms, as has been said, a marked contrast to the works of Christian art, which are always sketches rather than realizations, sha- dows of some mystery of glory, whereof the substance is beyond this earth ; yet these lieathen works, in their best examples, bear a strange weight of sorrow. Witness the " Antinous." Sorrow ? say, rather, despair. Among the paintings at the Capitol, those living in my memory are — the " Persian Sibyl," by Guercino (which shows that that painter had formed a wholly different theory respecting those mysterious women from that of Story, as embodied in the statue above-described) ; the " Holy Family," by Giorgione ; the " Scourging of Jesus," and the " Magda- lene," both by Tintoretto. Although, probably, it is a mistake to confound " Mary of Magdala," with the " Woman which was a Sinner," yet here we have the latter truly in her penitence. Tintoretto felt what he painted ; felt it terribly, and therefore saw it, if not always in every point as it was, yet always as it might have been. But the picture of " Rome," is that of which Hawthorne speaks, and which hangs in the Barberini Palace, — a portrait from life — Guido's '* Beatrice Cenci." Not far from Story's studio is this palace, containing the face of her whose life-tale he truly calls* "the saddest of all earth's * In his " Roba di Roma," a book full of the most graphic description of the outward life of Rome. ART IN ROME. Ill sorrowful histories." I felt that face alone was well worth crossing ocean and mountain to see ; and, to be seen, it must be looked on in the original painting. I stood gazing, lost in an inner communing, spirit to spirit, with her whose soul looked out upon me from those eyes. One of those thousand copyists who have done their poor best to give the world outside a knowledge of her countenance, said to me in Italian, " the face speaks deep sorrow." ' No,' I said, ' not sorrow, — stanchezza e pace— weariness and peace.' There are faces which are in themselves sermons ; there are faces which are themselves evidences of Christianity. Only for heaven could they have grown to this mould. Only in heaven can the message which they speak be fully uttered. The face of Beatrice is one of these. When we meet there, my sister, the wondering inquiry in thy be- seeching eyes will have found its answer. Their yearning tenderness will be in them still, by which, among the ran- somed, I shall know thee. For those eyes tell us that thou didst leave this strange, sad world, with love in thy heart to all — even thy father. I \ 112 ITALY AND HER CAriTAI-. CHAPTER XVIII. THE PROTESTANT CEMETERY. *' A slope of green access, WTiere, like an infant's smile, over the dead A light of laughing flowers along the grass is spread." Shelley's Adonais. The Protestant Cemetery is just outside the walls of Rome, not far from the Porta San Sebastiano. As is well known by those acquainted with descriptions of the city, the pyramid erected to the memory of the old Roman, Caius Cestius, guards the entrance. The grand tower-tomb of Cecilia Metella is not far distant, and the Catacombs, at once the home and grave of the early Christians, wind close beneatli. Thus the ancient city and the first time of Christianity, ere yet " the mystery of iniquity" had grown to strength, have both their memorials near this garden, whose " long homes" are tenanted chiefly by the English. Here, as every English heart knows, is the grave of Keats — the tomb raised by Severn, his artist-friend, still bright and fresh, even as the poetry of him whose ashes lie below. Poor boy ! Shelley's heart lies not fur off. It need not be told that, after Shelley's death, through that squall in the Gulf of Spczzia, his remains were burnt, with the exception of his heart, which was sent or brought by Byron to Rome, to lie in that spot of which he has writLen i THE PROTESTANT CEMETERY. 113 60 touchingly in " Adonais," near the dust of him to whom that poem is so sympathetic a tribute. The emotions raised by the graves 'of Keats and Shelley, and others like them, are, indeed, too deep for words, too deep even for thought. " The God that made them, He alone Decidedly can try them." This is very certain, that men acted unkindly and unjustly to both, as they always do to such. Less so as to Keats ; * although the world is readier to see and own its fault in his case. Had he not been ill, he could well have dealt with his reviewers ; and it is probable that he died of consump- tion, and not of criticism. As to Shelley, I believe he was driven not intellectually, but morally mad, very greatly through the treatment of those who ought to have been his teachers, " speaking" to him " the truth in love." I do not say the ivorld, for from it nothing better is to be expected, but I do say that Christians have much to answer for in similar cases. Amid all the labours of philanthropy — amid all the well-organized and industriously conducted schemes of benevolence, the grand Christian duty of indi- vidual, loving, heart-to-heart dealing with such souls as these, such precious trusts from God^ is almost, without exception, neglected and ignored. That which is *'lame" is " turned out of the way," when it ought to be " healed,'' and gently, lovingly led into the paths of peace. By what * With Keats, I feel the evil was less, because his was a smaller nature than Shelley's, though more perfect in its own line. He I)ad more talent ; Shelley truer genius. 114 ITALY AND HER CAPITAL. loss to mankind's best interests such neglect is followed, I believe the Great Day alone will declare. For souls like these, hearts so strong to love, minds so mighty to influ- ence, as those of poets must be, are worth many of common men. I mean not to be '' a respecter of persons," but, verily, these are of them who " take the world in tow," and if they go wrong, many lesser ones will follow. There is one living writer, who shall be nameless, whom society is doing her best to hound into dark scepticism, or if she fails in this, to make to glory in his shame. A son of Story the sculptor is buried here; and the tomb of Gibson was preparing when I was in Rome. When I last visited the cemetery, a Danish funeral was going on. A tall, grave man, in a small black cap, like a Genevan reformer, was speaking, doubtless of Him who is " the Resurrection and the Life," though in a tongue to me unknown. THE RUINS OF ROME. 115 CHAPTER XIX. THE RUINS OF ROME. " Strong with old strength of great things fallen and fled." Swinburne's Song of Italy. " While stands the Colosseum, Rome shall stand. When falls the Colosseum, Rome shall fall. And when Rome falls— the World." Anglo-Saxon proverb. Rome herself is a ruin, but a ruin majestic, mighty, impe- rial. She is as one not dead, but in a trance ; and the ques- tion unavoidably suggests itself, Why does she not arise and grasp again the fallen sceptre ? The answer would be a long one, and the secret undoubtedly is in the burden of that accursed system of lies, which weighs upon her like a night- mare, crushing her life, and in hers the life of Italy. That Anglo-Saxon proverb, quoted by Byron, will assuredly be verified. Still the Colosseum stands. You pass to it along the Via Sacra, from the Forum, under the Arch of Titus. This last is as fresh as if raised yesterday, and the alto- relievos, which, being on the inside of the Arch, are pre- served from the weather, tell the tale of Judah's captivity in tones as clear as ever. On the one side is Titus, in a triumphal chariot, heralded by Victory ; on the other is the procession of laurel-crowned Romans, bearing the sacred vessels of the Temple: the candlestick, the I 2 mtmn-mmmSiiiStAiaaiiiiib^sitsSiii^ £A^^i&£^fi^ I. 116 ITALY AND HER CAPITAL. table of she-^-bread, or the altar of incense, and tbe silver trumpets, the typical Jew walking beside, with his hands fastened behind him, and his head bowed in despair. I have heard that the captive Jews were the chief builders of the Colosseum, as they were of the Pyramids, 70,000 being employed in the construction, in this case, of an empire's tomb. The Jew is everywhere and always the secret of history. And there is something unspeakably suggestive and solemn in passing to that marvellous ruin, mightier, more massive in its decay than any structure of modern times, beneath that Arch which Time, in his flight, has been compelled to spare. " God hath not cast away his people," according to that word of His, *' I will sift the house of Israel among all nations, as corn is sifted in a sieve, yet shall not the least grain fall upon the earth." And amid the stones of the Colosseum, that very type of Rome, these words re-echo : — ♦' Because thou hast spoiled many nations" (and specially that nation) " all the remnant of the people shall spoil thee." Sitting on a projection of the Arch of Titus, was one of the well-known Roman beggars, who garrulously asked for alms. Speaking to her a word about Jesus, for she was blessing me in the name of the Virgin, I gave her a small coin. I could not refuse her. Sitting where she sat, she seemed to my eyes a type of Rome herself, once a queen, now a beggar, — once saying in her heart, " I shall see no sorrow" — now a mourner among the nations. In sympathy with the mind and the heart of God, I pray for the peace of Jerusalem, and I love her for His THE RUINS OF ROME. 117 sake and for her own, for her woes, her endurance, her faithful griefs, her lasting hopes. But the sorrows of Rome, Italy's discrowned queen, make me also cling to her with a yearning love, which pleads with God, that while He destroys Romanism, that evil one, " drunken with the blood of the saints," and the *' mother of the abominations of the earth," He may yet spare Rome, and not only spare, but bless ! For is not this she whose faith was once " spoken of throughout the world " ? Was it not a Roman at whom Jesus marvelled, saying that He had not " found so great faith, no, not in Israel " ? Passing up the Corso, the central seat of Rome, you reach the Capitol, which thus from this entrance domi- nates the modern city, and from the back, or rather from the side, overlooks the ancient. It is with the latter we have to do in this chapter. The Forum lies at the foot of the Capitol, intersected by the Via Sacra, the very stones of which you tread, when by a door, through which a porter near at hand admits you, you descend to the ancient level. There, on a sward of grass, of fresh, full green, stand the columns reared in long past years. A group, belonging to the temple of Jupiter Capitolinus ; and another group, the remains, according to some, of a temple to Concord, according to others, of a temple to Victory. To the left is the grand old arch of Septimius Severus, near to which, in the subterranean part of a ruined building, are the Mamertime prisons. A modern road, which joins the Via Sacra (raised, by time, some feet above the old level, but otherwise the same as in the 118 ITALY AND HER CAPITAL. days of Horace), divides the Forum into two parts, and then diverging at a right angle, passes under the Arch of Titus. In the lower division of the Forum are some columns, supposed to belong to a temple, raised to Julius Csesar; and Byron's "pillar, with a nameless base," but on which modem research has discovered an inscription, to the effect that it was reared to Fhocas. Does it mean that emperor of the East who, by conferring new privileges on the bishop of Rome, turned him into a pope, and Rome into the seat of the apostasy ? At any rate, it is remark- able that it should bear the name of him who loaded Italy with such a curse. In the division of the Forum, next to the Capitol, are the ruins of some building, close to which is believed to have been the ancient centre, and the spot where Curtius plunged into the open gulf. That legend has had many a verification in reality ; and as I stood on the point under the stars, on my last night in Rome (for at that rather un-Roman hour I visited it for farewell), I could but think how many had plunged in full young life and love into the gulf of gloom and misery, gaping at the feet of Rome, because of the moral fires whereon her tyranny is based, hoping that, on their self-sacrifice, the vawninjr mouth would close. And has it closed ? Alas ! no. Rome is still built on a volcano, and hark ! it rumbles still, and threateningly ! I spoke to the guide who had led me along the underground passage of the Via Sacra, connecting the two divisions of the Forum, — a man of much intelligence,— of another city, not in ruins, but " eternal in the heavens," and of another Via Sacra lead- THE RUINS OF ROME. 119 ing to it — even Jesus Christ. He listened, and replied with interest, not, I believe, merely with Italian courtesy, but with thoughtfulness, if not with ready acquiescence, a thoughtfulness which showed that if they who lead this people " cause them to err," many of them are ready to learn from a better teacher. Fragments of columns and loose stones, many of them of gleaming whiteness, strew the grass beneath these standing remains of the Past. The space once filled with the voice of Cicero, now echoes to the voice of Memory, and also (let us listen well and we shall hear it) to the voice of Hope. Weeds slender and feathery grow amid the crevices, and adorn the capitals with their natural mouldings of unrivalled grace. Verily, there is nothing earthly fairer than a ruin ; and were it not for the thraldom and living death of the city of the Present, one might lose oneself in endless dreams in this city of the Past. But Rome herself, as she is, recalls us to grief and prayer and effort for her breathing slaves. As we said, soon after quitting the Forum, you pass under the Arch of Titus, and leaving the richly-orna- mented Arch of Constantine to the right, to the Colosseum. I stood within its circle, beneath a sky of dark, dazzling blue. High and yet higher rose the arches, to their ori- ginal height in one part, and lowered, whether by time or depredation, in others. This truly colossal ruin far sur- passes any picture or description. I will, therefore, not attempt to describe it. It must be seen and felt. The golden sunlight appears to radiate from its mighty masses 120 ITALY AND HER CAPITAL. of unstained stone, casting shadows equally mighty, so that they seem eternal. On the intervening earth, in one of the higher arches, a thorny shrub had rooted itself, and hung down in yellow festoons, bright, yet mournful in its autumnal tints. I stood again, for a few moments, within the enclosure, beneath the stars, having for this to ask leave of passage of the French sentry. The moon was not visible while I was in Kome, so that I had not to ask French leave to enter by moon-light the typical monument of Rome. Short grass covers the ground once red with the blood of gladiators, and, afterwards, with the blood of saints. Verily, old Rome was cruel ! But that was in imperial times, when luxury reigned, bringing, as she always does, mercilessness in her train. The glorious days of Rome were the days of the republic ; and I truly believe that (whatever may be the case in other lands, in our dear old England, for instance, where we have indeed no reason to wish for a change in the form of government) for Rome, a republic would be the most likely arrangement to bring glory and happiness again. Rome had to expel her kings for villany, and her emperors brought her to the dust. The very name of emperor is fatal for Rome. The whole of the Palatine hill (the hill of Romulus) is covered with the ruins of the palace of the Caesars. The magnificent remains of the Baths of Caracalla are not far distant. It was among these latter, amid the roses which then clam- bered luxuriantly along the arches, and of which there are still some relics at the base (the place having been ruth- "i 3 THE RUINS OF ROME. 121 lessly despoiled, when I visited it, for some English fete), that Shelley wrote his, perhaps, finest poem, certainly his finest of any length — " Prometheus Unbound." One can fancy the boy, angelic in his beauty, forgetting for the while " the whips and scorns of the time," or rather weaving them, even if unconsciously, into the drama of his dream, lying beneath that sky (earth can have but few like it), and singing his sweet melodies alone. Again, poor boy ! What, after all, are the Colosseum, and the Palace of the Caesars, to such wrecks as he was ? Oh ! let us help our brethren with the help of love ere they go beyond our reaching ! Dead walls may be left to moulder, but living souls ! To win such to hope and to salvation when "ready to perish," there is no wisdom like that. But for it there is needed not only truth, but love, I have but pointed to some of the ruins of Rome. At Florence it was useless to think of investigating and describing every treasure of art. But at Rome every fragment has a history. The city herself is a ruin. The houses of the Present are built with the stones of the Past. And while antiquarian labour has there a vast sphere still unexplored, I would rather that the reader should join me in love for Rome as she is, and in prayer that she may rise yet again, ''great, glorious, and free"— free, both in political liberty and in the freedom of true, and no longer spurious, Christianity. >w / / 122 ITALY AND HER CAPITAL. CHAPTER XX. THE CITY OF ROME. ♦' And Paul dwelt two whole years in his own hired house, and received all that came unto him, preaching the Kingdom of God and teaching the things which concern our Lord Jesus Christ with all confidence, no man forbidding him." Somewhere in the old city was this house. We do not know the exact spot, but among all the numberless associations of Rome the words referred to supply at once the most sacred and the most interesting, based on no mere legendary tradition, but on the sure word of Scripture. The Apostle of the Gentiles trod these streets (a little below us truly), for assuredly he did not spend those two whole years without air and exercise ; but, chained to his guard, must have walked in the sunshine and beneath the sky of Rome. The quarter of his '' brethren, his kinsmen according to the flesh, who are Israelites, of whom, as concerning the flesh, Christ came " — the world-renowned Ghetto — lies not far from the base of the Capitol (to the left on leaving it), whence it is the shortest way to the modern city. Thus it is not much distant from the arch commemorating the commencement of their latest wander- ings. In this Jews' quarter, as nowhere else in Rome, are there evidences of life and industry. The people are at work, and the dream-like silence which reigns over much of the rest of the city is broken here. The Ghetto terminates on one side in the Piazza Navona, the noisy market-place THE CITY OF ROME. 123 garrulous and bustling, though scarcely with the proofs of steady industry seen amongst the Jews. And on the other side in the Piazza delle Lagrime (so called from the church of Santa Agnese delle Lagrime), the suggestive name of the square close to which is the Palazzo Cenci, once the dwelling of Beatrice. The gates of the Ghetto have been removed of late, but the people, whether from necessity or from habit, chiefly confine themselves to their old quarter. " Theirs are the promises." And the evening shadows of their long day of woe are already falling. " The night cometh, and also the morning." I remember, on my first ramble, directing my steps instinctively to the ancient part of Rome, which, happily, is not very distant from any point of the city, only that the seven hills (though less lofty to the eye than I antici- pated, having doubtless been lowered through the raising, by time, of the soil at their base), and the round stones above alluded to, lengthen the process, — and I shall never forget my sensations on finding myself on the Hill of the Capitol. I entered a small shop on the ascent, and sat down to write a letter to a friend. It was early in November, but a sudden storm came on, darkening the air, while the thunder rolled, and the impetuous rain of Rome came down in torrents. In a moment the streets were flooded, and seemed turned into the pebbly bed of some mountain stream, so sudden and tremendous are the storms of Rome. The streets of the modern city are chiefly narrow, though the frequent and unexpected appearance of some \ 124 ITALY AND HER CAPITAL. work of antiquity (it may be in the frieze of a modern building), and the glimpses of distant edifices of world- wide fame, relieve them of meanness. On the Quirinal is the palace of the Pope, said to be much grander than that of the Vatican, where he now resides. But as it was from the former that he made his famous escape to Naples in 1848 he has since avoided even the sight of it. A walk up one of the steep sides of the Quirinal brought me one afternoon to the Via delle quattro Fontane, where the nieces of my dear old friend, Filippo Pistrucci, pursue their artistic profession of the cutting of cameos, for which Rome is so celebrated. It may not be generally known that the spirited design of St. George slaying the dragon on our English sovereigns of the reign of George III. was the work of their father. So they inherit talent in that line. Alas ! they are deeds of ancient heroism that are commemorated in these intaglie. The very palaces of modern Rome, wherein reside an effete race of so-called princes, whose nobility of rank is proved chiefly by their indolence and cowardice, are constructed with the stones of the past. Story, in his Roba di Roma, gives a long list of buildings of old renown, with the spoils of which the Farnese palace, the residence of the ex-royal family of Naples, was compiled; amongst others, the Colosseum, the Baths of Diocletian, the theatre of Mar- cellus, and the temple of Antoninus and Faustina. This palace stands in or near the Piazza Colonna. On leaving the Vincolo dei Greci, I went for the remaining days of my stay to an hotel in the Via di THE CITY OF ROME. 125 Pietra, kept by a kind old man of the name of Cesari, who proved to have known, in his youth, my friend Filippo Pistrucci, and to have heard him improvise in the hall near the Fountain of Trevi. I suppose that is the hall in which were exhibited, when I was in Rome, a series of illustra- tions of the Divina Commedia which I had seen before in London. The paintings are large and fine, especially in the figures of Virgil and of the sad but heroic poet himself. Was Dante ever in Rome? I am not sure whether his works decide that question. If he never was, the intellec- tual state of that city must have been low ; the Popes must have effected much of their depressing work even at that time, if no Roman was found like Delia Scala of Verona, or Carrara of Padua, to lighten the exile of Italy's greatest child. And was Petrarch crowned at the Capitol, and were there no laurels there for the brow of the greater Dante ? * However, here he was now in Rome at last ; his poems reflected outwardly in these pictures, faithful as ever in their sublime allegory to the sorrow and the mystery of life and of humanity. Is it remembered that this Dante ends his mighty poem, perhaps the saddest ever written, by striking the chord of Hope ? He tells us that he saw •ench gendarmes are stationed at the door to watch if i A SUNDAY IN ROME. 151 ^ ' »J any Roman enters. If he does, he must take the conse- quences." Thus does France support the Papacy ; thus are French men of blood in league with those Scribes and Pharisees of the present, who may surely hear the voice if they will, *' Woe unto you, ye blind guides, who take away the key of knowledge ! ye enter not in yourselves, and those that would enter in, ye hinder ! " I entreated my Garibaldian companion to study the tiny treasure his English friends had given him. No priest can bar the pearly gates, nor close the door which is Jesus Christ, by Whom, " if any man enter in he shall be saved." I reached Rome in safety, thanks to my kind escort, and night soon fell upon my Sunday in Rome. My rest was not perfect ; some things I had heard dis- turbed it. To these we will come in the next chapter. 152 ITALY AND HER CAPITA I- CHAPTER XXVI. THE llOMANS. " Let us walk up Fleet street, and see men, sir."— Z>r. Johnson. The Garibaldian said, as may be remembered, that if any Roman were known to attend the English church, the world would lose sight of him. " There is a church be- hind St. Peter's," he told me, " to which offenders of that sort are removed.* In 1848 we found men there half- buried— that is, interred to the half of their bodies in the stone. Of course We freed them, but there are doubtless others in their condition at this time." ' Do you mean to say there are such noiv ?' I said. ' Why do you not go in a body and storm the church ? I will lead you.' " If we went before we were able,'' he replied, " the French would be down upon us, and we should do harm instead of good. But we are readt/ when the time comes." October, 1867, asks, were they ready ? If not, let these other words of his give the reason—" We are half- starved." And it is so. The poverty of the Romans (the cardinals and priests, nuns and foreigners excepted) is something incredible. The princes themselves share it, thanks to their idleness; but since they dread exertion even more than starvation, we will not include them * His allusion must have been to the ?ant' Uffizio— the Holy Office or Inquisition. THE ROMANS. 153 among the sufferers. But the enslavers of the Roman people have known well how to keep them in bondage. Their enslavers are the Pope and his train, who " eat the fat, and clothe themselves with the wool, but feed not the flock." By almost entirely intercepting communication with the outer world, by the discouragement of industry in consequence of that interception, as well as from other causes, while the demoralising and ruinous lottery is made a public institution, the people of Rome are kept at once helpless and degraded. Little suffices in that climate to support mere life, but the people have not actually suf- ficient food to maintain physical energy. " Man does not live by bread alone'' but by God's ordinance his body does subsist partly by bread — i.e., food. The Romans are in chains none the less real because not forged of iron. That they all do not feel them, proves only the more certainly the reality of the bondage, which in some has produced moral as well as mental and physical paralysis. They MUST BE FREED, FOR THEY CANNOT FREE THEMSELVES. For this reason, among many others, the enterprise of Gari- baldi ought to have received the armed aid of all Italy, and the undeviating moral support of every nation, of England especially. Her moral support, at least that of those of her children worthy of the name, it indeed had. But let it be hoped that when again the dungeon-door of Rome shakes on its iron hinges, England's voice, as the voice of one man, may bid God speed to him who would turn the bolt and set free the prisoners. True, what Rome wants is God's own life-giving word. But Garibaldi, while 154 ITALY AND HER CAPITAL. hating priestcraft, has always encouraged the circulation of the Scriptures. Himself surely ready to " receive the kingdom of God as a little child," he is also ready to help forward all whom he sees to be tinithful and anxious to spread the truth. An honest nature like his knows honesty at a glance, and at once responds to it. He is no infidel. Though he may lorg have stood (and should it be so the wonder is not great) with Pilate's question on his lips, yet is he willing to learn, and to let others learn of Him, Who is " the Way, the Life, the Truth." The Romans are a somewhat heavy, silent race, very unlike the sprightly mercurial Italians of the south, the graceful Venetians, and the acute Florentines, and very like what the English would be in their condition. The old Roman stuff is still perceptible in their very solidity. But alas ! that which was the inertia of determination, is now the inertia of torpor — almost of despair. " Is it lawful for you to scourge a man that is a Roman, and uncondemned ? " Is this the city, is this the race, that made others to fear because of injustice, or hasty violence, done to men " being Romans ?^^ Alas ! should not Romans have some regard, some chance of rightful judgment now ? The whole civi- lised world owes a mighty debt to Rome, who gave it the example, and bequeathed it the laws of justice, if not of mercy. Now no stripes are too many for these Roman citizens. *' Civis Romanus sum" is now a plaint rather than a boast. If to see ancient Rome be sad, to see modern Rome is sadder still. But I say, while this con- THE ROMANS. 155 tinues, Italy is neither free nor safe. Some of the Romans, at least, are ready to receive the gospel. While the hateful system of Romanism is destroyed, the City of Rome may be spared, and many of the Romans be " free- born" of the new Jerusalem. For this, there must be the " entrance of God's word," which '' giveth light and un- derstanding." There are those ready to receive it. When I spoke to Cesari respecting the Sacra Scala, and of the great message I believed to be needed by Roman- ists — viz., that the work of Jesus for our salvation is "'finished^'" needing acceptance only, not addition, he re- plied, *' Consummatum est." The answer showed thought- fulness, and a mind ready to embrace the truth, when once assured it was the truth. In fact, that is what the Romans need; they have been long "wearied with lies," long sickened with heartless forms, long depressed by poverty and ignorance. They are waiting (not as the frivolous Athenians) to see and hear "some new thing." For what they want would to them be new — " The old, old story Of Jesus and His love." 150 ITALY AND HER CAPITAL. FROM TERNI TO AROXA. 157 CHAPTER XXVIL FROM TERNI TO A R O N A. " Beloved, thou docst faithfully whatsoever thou doest to the brethren and to strancrers, which have borne witness to thy charity ; whom if thou bring forward on their journey after a godly sort thou Shalt do well." I LEFT Rome on the 9th of November, reaching Terni in the evening. The next day was Saturday. Time now rendered it necessary to speed to England with all possible despatch, which, however, did not supersede the greater necessity of a Sunday of rest. Where was that to be spent ? It was impossible to reach ^lilan in time, but Bologna could be attained. I therefore left the next morning for that city, via Foligno, by the earliest train, which was not very early, and which would have permitted me to join an excursion to the celebrated Cascata delle Marmore, but that I was then unequal to bear either the fatigue or the expense. Terni itself is highly picturesque, and the Hotel dell'Inghilterra was a pleasant halting- place, because of the attention and courtesy of the people. But, after Rome, it was cold, as what place with any other climate than that indescribable one would not have been ? Colder and colder, more dreary, though stronger grew the air and the scene, till at length Bologna was reached, past midnight. I went to the Hotel dei Quattro Pellegrini, I and when I at length lay down, overcome by fatigue, fell into a slumber, from wliicli I did not awake till the middle of the next day. Accustomed to the brilliant sun of Rome, the bright shining gave me no warning of the hour, and I went down, as to breakfast, supposing I had time to set out for the morning Protestant service. However, when I discovered the state of things, I did not quarrel with the large measure which God had given me of His good and necessary gift of sleep, but enquired the way to the place of assembling of the Italian Protestants that I might start for it after needful refreshment. These enquiries gave the opportunity for some serious conversa- tion w ith my attendant, who was intelligent, though, alas ! like most Italians, well nigh despairing of arriving at certain truth. I found him (and should judge that it was so with the Bolognese in general), a strong and hopeful patriot, fully persuaded that Rome would be the acknow- ledged capital of Italy in a very short while. Bologna has herself not long escaped from thraldom, and remembers • what it was. She has, therefore, the vivid sympathy which springs only from the experience of like suffering. I set forth as soon as possible, not having been able to obtain very clear directions, and pursuing my search in conse- quence by enquiries of those I met, some of whom aided me, whilst others superciliously declared their ignorance of such a place as I was seeking. Thus I walked on along the cloister-like arcades of Bologna, which afforded some protection from the drizzling rain which was falling quietly but incessantly through the cold grey air. At I 158 ITALY AND HER CAPITAL. length, on asking a gentleman, who was coming down a wide stone staircase, if he could inform me where was the room for which I was looking, he replied, ** Yes, it is here," and, turning back, led me up the stairs to an apartment which, from the benches and books about, was evidently used as a school-room. A young lady came in, whom I addressed in Italian, till, on the gentleman who had guided me saying she would prefer English, I changed the tongue. And indeed that fresh, child-like face could belong only to a daughter of the isles, recognizable under any sky. She responded joyfully to the loved sounds, and led me into the inner room, where were a gentleman and one or two little ones, plainly her own husband and children. The name Wall was at length mentioned, and I found I was in the company of the Rev. James Wall of Bologna, an English evangelist, who had long been known to me (through " The Revival ") by report as a promoter of Christ's cause in Italy, but whose presence in that town I had forgotten when I reached it. I attended the service in the evening. The address, which was simple and forcible, was given by an Italian on " God is love." This is the truth which the loving Italian heart needs to know ; the truth which Romanism systematically obscures. The preacher supposed an inscription to have been discovered on a wall in Herculaneum or Pompeii, of which part was effaced, leaving only the words, " God is . . ." " What human philosopher would ever have supplied the missing word?" Ah! that truth that "God is Love," is the truth which even Christians have yet fully to learn. The ■ FROM TERNI TO ARONA. 159 congregation was small, but attentive and earnest, and the work evidently real, and likely to be progressive. I had tea with this Christian English family, and as my travelling funds were growing low, was helped by Mr. Wall by a small loan to prosecute my journey to Arona, at which point my return-ticket became available. I mention this as an instance of our Father's providential care, and also of the thoughtful kindness of practical Christianity. As I most truly wrote to Mr. Wall, when returning to him the money from England, I felt that I received it from the hand of Jesus himself. I left Bologna early the next morning, having at first a party of soldiers as my travelling companions. I had some conversation with them on the most important of subjects, meeting in response with thoughtful attention from some, whilst others manifested strange ignorance, asking me if I had seen the saint of those parts, a young woman who managed to subsist without eating ! I reached Milan about 4 p.m., having to wait till 6 o'clock before the train proceeded. The increasing cold began to tell upon me very painfully, and the draughty station of Milan was anything but com- fortable. This was more than atoned for, however, by the grateful recognition of the railway-porter, to whom I had given a portion of Scripture on a previous occasion. One of the stations on the way to Arona was Novara, of sad memory. Here the train stopped a little while, and I had a short conversation with a guard, as it seemed that some small mistake had occurred about a coupon of my ticket. * This is rather annoying,' I said. * But what of not / IQQ ITALY AND HER CAPITAL. living the right ticket for Heaven? That - more im- portant/ I then spoke of Christ, as Himself both the Way and the Title to admittance there, and deplored the general indifference of the Italians on spiritual matters. " Don't you think you .'ould be indifferent," he replied, '' if you had heard all the nonsense that we have from our earliest years r' 'No,' I said, 'I think not; I should be sure there was some truth behind all those shams.' The man pressed my hand, and the train rolled on, ^--mg at Arona,onthe Lago Maggiore, at 11 p.m. Here I had some tea at the small but comfortable station-hotel, where I met with much kindness, and was wrapped in a blanket (the cold now being severe) for the passage of the Simplon. Thus equipped, I entered the diligence about midnight, an elderly French-speaking Swiss bemg my first travelling companion. THE 8IMPL0N, 161 CHAPTER XXVIII. THE SIMPLON. ♦• I sing the almighty power of God, Who made the mountains rise." The Alps !— the alabaster gates of Italy— the gleaming portals of her palace of beauty !— how fair, how solemn, how awful they are ! About five in the morning, of Nov. 13, the diligence reached Domo d'Ossola, and, after a short time for re- freshment at the inn, set forth again. My travelling companion now, the Swiss having departed, was a young Italian returning to his work in Paris, having joined the army in Italy during fighting time, and expressing his readiness to do so again should it recommence. This passage of the Simplon was something altogether different to me from that of the St. Gothard. Then the month was September, and I was going into Italy. Now it was November, and I was coming /rowi Italy northwards. Then the diligence sped on as if borne along by winged steeds, beneath the sky of night, lit by the mystic moon. Now the snow had fallen, rendering the transit dangerous, except at the slowest jog-trot along the frosted path ; and though this pass was crossed by day, the light came chiefly from the snow beneath, and the snow-filled clouds M l«jqHu«an!IS«iiw