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EUROPEAN MOMjC.

BY
HOWARD PAYSON ARNOLD.

"Below was all mosaic choicely planned
With cycles of the human tale
Of this wide world."

BOSTON:
LITTLE, BROWN AND COMPANY.
1864.

Ed . ft, if

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1864, by
Little, Brown and Company,
in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts.

RIVERSIDE, OAMB RIDGE:
PBINTED BY H. 0. HOUGHTON AND COMPANY.

To
MY HARVARD CLASSMATES OF '52,
AS WELL THE LIVING AS THE HONORED DEAD WHO HAVE GONE
FORTH FROM OUR RANKS,
Efifs JEaUotit is SBeutcatea
WITH EVERT SENTIMENT OF PERSONAL ESTEEM.

CONTENTS.

PAOE
CHAPTER I.
LUCERNE AND THE RIGHI  1

CHAPTEB II.
GOLDAU  8
CHAPTER in.
THE PASS OF ST. GOTHARD  21
CHAPTER IT.
ALPINE VALLEYS  36
CHAPTER V.
MILAN AND THE TTALIAN LAKES .... 61
CHAPTER VI.
FLORENCE  85
CHAPTER VH.
FLORENCE  96
CHAPTER VIII.
THE FLORENTINE GALLERIES  108

Ti CONTENTS. PAGE
CHAPTER IX.
THE ENVIRONS OF FLORENCE  127
CHAPTER X.
ROME AND ITS RUINS  137
CHAPTER XI.
THE COLISEUM AND THE OBELISKS .... 149
CHAPTER XH.
ST. PETER'S  163
CHAPTER XHI.
THE STATUE OF MOSES  172
CHAPTER XIV.
THE DYING GLADIATOR AND THE CAPITOLINE AN-
TINOUS  185
CHAPTER XV.
THE PROTESTANT CEMETERY AT ROME . . . 206
CHAPTER XVI.
THE FRENCH ARMY AT ROME  221
CHAPTER XVII.
THE FRENCH ARMY  234
CHAPTER XVIII.
THE LETHARGY OF ROME  245
CHAPTER XIX.
ART IN ROME . . . . . . . . 256

CONTENTS. vii
PAGE
CHAPTER XX.
MOUNT VESUVIUS  276

CHAPTER XXI.
HERCULANEUM AND POMPEII  291
CHAPTER XXn.
THE CAMPO SANTO OF NAPLES .... 303
CHAPTER XXIII.
CAPRI .  309
CHAPTER XXIV.
THE PROGRESS OF ITALY . . < . . . .317
CHAPTER XXV.
TRAVELLING EXPERIENCES  326

EUROPEAN MOSAIC.

CHAPTER I.
LUCERNE AND THE RIGH1.
Lucerne is a small town of about ten thousand
inhabitants, and is more beautifully situated than
any other in Switzerland. It lies on the shore of
the largest and grandest of the Swiss lakes, while
on one side the serrated outline of Mount Pilatus,
rising clearly against the sky, is strongly contrasted
with the verdant slopes of the Righi on the other.
In the distance, across the lake, are long ranges of
snow-covered mountains. Behind the town the
old towers and walls of its earlier history yet re
main. From its situation in the midst of scenery
so varied and enchanting, Lucerne should be the
source of every enlightenment and liberal influence.
But the beauty and grandeur of nature alone never
elevate the mind of man. Therefore it is not so
strange as it would otherwise be, that Lucerne
is merely a fossil remnant of the past, with little
more animation than one finds withip the walls
l

2 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
of disentombed Pompeii. Here vigor either of
body or mind is no longer to be found ; bigotry
and intolerance flourish, and ignorance follows in
their train. It is like an old ruin, where the bats
and owls of the past flap their dreary wings in the
darkness, or lurk in many a hidden cranny and
gloomy hole, far from the light of beneficent day.
If there are any ancient pretensions which have
for a century past lost their hold upon the masses
of mankind, they are infallibility in priests and
legitimacy in monarchs. Yet Lucerne always has
been, and is now, the very focus of these in Swit
zerland. It was formerly the head-quarters of the
Jesuits, and the source of all their pernicious in
fluences in that country, until the Diet in 1846
decreed their expulsion and the suppression of their
establishments. Lucerne and six other cantons
thereupon determined to offer armed resistance to
this ordinance, and for this purpose formed the
" So'nderbund," or separate league. This rebellion
against their federal government resembled in many
respects that against the government of our own
country, and met the fate which it deserved. They
were defeated by the troops of the Diet at Fribourg
and Lucerne, and compelled to submit to the con
stituted authorities. Thus was offered another in
stance of the "irrepressible conflict" which will
always exist between the powers of light and those
of darkness, and of the ultimate and inevitable
result of that conflict.
Lucerne has lately been made the rendezvous

LUCERNE. 3
of legitimacy, by the appearance there of the Due
de Bordeaux, grandson of Charles X. of France,
and now titular Comte de Chambord, who claims
to be the rightful king of France under the title
of Henry V., and is a most fanatical son of the
Catholic Church. In the summer of 1862 he held
his court there, and about 4000 Frenchmen (out
of 36,000,000) came to offer their allegiance to
him as their lawful sovereign, and to perform, as
his courtiers in the salons of the Schweizer Hof, a
part which, however willing, they could not have
fche privilege of playing at the Tuileries. As the
possibility of the return of Henry V. to the throne
of his ancestors is about as great as that of the
Jesuits to Lucerne, perhaps this place was not ill
chosen for the advent of this noonday ghost of
legitimacy and bigotry. The Comte issued a proc
lamation to his adherents, in which he laid down
at great length the principles of their conduct as
followers of an anointed king, and called upon
them all to refrain from voting at the French elec
tions, unless by so doing they could save the church
in France from the rapacity of their 35,996,000
misguided and rebellious fellow-citizens. It was a
very elaborate document, but had about as great an
effect upon the French nation, as an address from
the Sphinx to the mummies of Egypt would have
upon that country.
Lucerne forms an excellent central point from
which excursions can be made in every direction,
both by land and water, and hardly any town in

4 E UROPEAN MOSAIC.
Switzerland offers greater attractions in this respect.
From it travellers can visit with facility all the
localities made famous by the deeds of Tell, the
battle-field of Sempach, the site of the overwhelmed
village of Goldau, and many other places of interest.
The ascent of the Righi is one of the most agreeable
of these expeditions, and one of the most popular.
This mountain is only about six thousand feet high,
the path to its summit is very easy, and the view
is one of the grandest in Switzerland, offering, as
it does, a glorious panorama of far-reaching, snow-
covered Alps. It is extremely fashionable with
tourists to pass the night on the top, where is an
excellent hotel, in order to see the sun rise ; and
this spectacle is none the less interesting from the
fact that at least nine tourists out of ten have never
seen him rise anywhere, and it is consequently a
novel and mysterious phenomenon. The Hotel
of the Righi Culm is not unfrequently visited by
twenty thousand people in the course of a single
season, and on a clear morning the scene at sun
rise is one of great animation and amusement.
As few would probably rise at the untimely hour
of four o'clock, unless they were called, an ex
tremely loud and dissonant horn is blown at that
time, with a blast which would start up anything
but a granite block. The hotel is situated a little
below the topmost peak of the mountain, on which
is a small pavilion. Towards this there soon pours
forth a long and irregular procession, most of them
as pale from the unwonted effort as " the Grecian

THE RIGHI. 5
ghosts that in battle were slain." Ladies in des
habille, or uncertain raiment, their tangled hair
playing with the morning breeze ; portly old gentle
men and ladies with bedclothes wrapped round them,
(in spite of the request printed on the walls of all
the rooms begging " Messieurs les Strangers " not to
do so, which of course reminds them to do that very
thing) ; maiden aunts with frigid Medusa faces and
handkerchiefs tied around them to prevent their
dear old heads from taking cold ; widows in the
jauntiest of hats, the nattiest of boots, and the gayest
of parasols, having risen before the horn ; roister
ing German students, incessantly piping, who have
slept in their shawls on the piazza ; grumbling Eng
lishmen, who have been wedged away somewhere
under the eaves ; Frenchmen and Italians calling
for cafe ; sprightly jokes and lambent smiles of gay
young ladies, and irrelevant exhortations of elderly
ones, as they feel the crash of yielding skirts ; orig
inal remarks about the weather, and hopes that the
sun will do the right thing now or never ; calls for
Tom and Giovanni and Johannes, and " Oil est
Jacques ? Mon JDieu, it sera trop tard ; " and one
bright young lady bearing a candle, with the naive
remark that " it is so dark, one surely cannot see
the sun rise without it ; " — all these strike the
eye and ear, and form a scene which, once viewed,
is not easily forgotten.
But gradually all are toned down into compar
ative quiet, and look forth earnestly over the ruins
of Goldau and the mountain - ridges beyond to

Q EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
watch the gradual advance of light. The gray
mantle of dawn now slowly unfolds its cloudy
drapery in the east, while here and there faint
red or golden bands are drawn across it, which
slowly and steadily increase in brilliancy. Below
lies the Lake of Zug, its waters dimly seen through
wreaths of rising mist, which float round the base
of the giant precipices on which we stand. Be
hind us slope the verdant pastures of the Righi,
covered with fat, tawny, meek-eyed cows, lying
quietly down, or wetting their feet and lips with
the dews of night as they feed. And now was
heard the song of many birds from bush and tree
and distant thicket, while the first faint accents
of reviving nature stole softly over the landscape,
and in many a gentle whisper solicited each herb,
tree, fruit, and flower to add its grateful tribute to
the charms of blushing day. Here and there the
foliage quietly nodded to the breeze ; and from many
a long and graceful tendril fell the pearl, that night
had bestowed upon it ; and from many a delicate
fern and feathery grass and netted leaf glittering
showers sprinkled the ground, or studded with
silver knobs the filmy cobwebs that veiled the herb
age. Thus, like an eagle shaking the clew from his
plumage, the earth awoke and moved forth with
majesty to meet her lord and master.
Above us the stars yet glimmered with a light
which grew each moment more wan and paly, all save
the morning star, which glowed with an unnatural
brilliancy, till the golden screen of a brighter light

THE RIGHI. 7
was drawn before it. Far off in long procession ex
tend the Jungfrau and her attendant mountains, like
a train of white-robed vestal virgins. But now the
sun salutes their snow-covered foreheads, and as his
first ardent rays strike them, like the angel, they
answer " with a blush, that glows
Celestial rosy red, love's proper hue."
And now the sun strides high in the east, like a
god going forth to battle ; the clouds fall back at
his approach, and exultant notes from every living
thing and cheerful voices and clapping hands wel
come the approach of the spirit of light. The rosy
flush gradually fades away from the brows of those
fair, stern maidens, and in the full effulgence of
sunlight, their chaste forms, tranquil and majestic,
stand forth, bearing the aspect of uninterrupted
and eternal peace. Slowly we all retire from the
scene, and a feeling of solemnity comes over our
souls, for who can see unmoved the proud approach
of the great symbol of power, glory, strength, and
beauty ? From such a presence we go with rever
ence. One of the great mysteries of nature has
been opened to us, and we have for a moment
" looked beyond the veil."

EUROPEAN MOSIAC.

CHAPTER II.
GOLDAU.
. It was late in the afternoon when I approached
the site of Goldau, and the setting sun was already
casting the shadow of the Righi over its tomb.
The road wound over and among. the shattered
dSbris thrown down by the mountain above. Huge
splintered rocks, gigantic boulders, and the moss-
grown trunks of aged trees were mingled in confu
sion with banks of gravel and smaller stones, which
Nature had hardly yet covered with her green
shroud. Over all hung the craggy precipices,
whose bare shoulders had relieved themselves of
this destructive burden, while gently gleaming
upon the green slopes of the Righi was the first
slender sickle of the harvest moon. Even among
all this ruin could be seen here and there a cottage
or little chdlet, whose small garden-plot of fruits and
vegetables, or strip of bright green pasturage, bore
witness to the thrift which could extract the means
of life from so desolate a scene. As I was meditat
ing among these vestiges of the past, the evening air
bore to my ear the sound of music. As its mourn
ful tones, at first faintly heard in the distance, came

GOLDAU. 9
nearer and nearer, I distinguished the psalm for the
repose of the dead which is usually sung by the
Catholic Church. It came from a funeral proces
sion which was winding slowly along the road,
hearing to the grave with decent reverence the
mortal remains of some fellow-pilgrim. The de
ceased had evidently been held in great respect,
for the procession was long, and even though in
time of harvest, when all the peasantry are needed
in the fields, it appeared; to me that nearly all the
neighboring villagers must be present. Every one
bore some marks of grief and sorrow. Some were
in tears, some were dressed in black, while others
wore such simple weeds of mourning as were suited
to their means or condition. From the lips of all
flowed that solemn chant, which had struck my
ear from afar. Its mournful tones blended with
the gentle voice and sad complainings of the evening
breeze which sighed through the pines and birches
around us, and journeyed on with it into the twi
light, as when one finds a companion for whom be
has long waited.
Touched by the scene, I followed the procession
till it reached the graveyard, that green background
of life which awaits us all. The bearers set down
their honorable load at the edge of a newly opened
grave. The dusk of nightfall was now over all,
while the evening star, growing brighter and
brighter in its descent, lingered on the edge of
the mountain, like a parting Christian soul which,
even as it approaches the gates of death, sends back

10 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
to weeping friends ever more and more abundantly
bright rays of cheer and messages of peace. The
coffin was opened, that the sad retinue of the dead
might commune with him for the last time. I could
not restrain the desire I felt to join with them in
paying this final tribute to a fellow-mortal. He
was an old man, whose white hair and venerable
expression gave evidence of the length of his pil
grimage. His aspect was that of placid rest, and
even in death the lineaments of heaven abode in his
face. They seemed to express " the rapture of re
pose," as he lay there calmly before us. His life
had evidently been that of the righteous, and his
face was radiant with " the beauty of goodness."*
The hand of death had almost effaced the wrinkles
of age, and the tranquillity of the gently closed mouth
and eyes seemed the mere unconsciousness of the
sleep of innocence. The grave had evidently pos
sessed no terrors for him ; and like a weary traveller
on arriving at his earthly bourne, he had laid down
his staff, and " sweetly reposed forever."
Few words were said, though sobs and tears
sprang forth unbidden. Many stooped to touch
the coffin with reverence, some kissed it fervently,
while a few of the older mourners pressed their lips
to the pale cheeks of the deceased. The priest, a
simple, kindly, pious man, advanced in years, was
deeply affected. He could hardly pronounce the
words of that last benediction with which the
* " En vieillissant, elle avait gagne" ce qu'on pourrait appeler
la beaute" de la bonte"." — Victor Hugo.

GOLDAU. 11
Church wafts her sons from the shores of mortal
ity. As he sprinkled the consecrated water upon
the prostrate form, his hand trembled with emo
tion, and he seemed almost to faint. At length he
knelt and kissed the face of the dead, and while he
said a few inaudible words, his tears could hardly be
restrained, and one deep, convulsive sob, that passed
over him, showed that the grief which makes the
heart swell had left its impress upon his soul.
Slowly and sadly, alone or in groups, talking in
low, yet earnest voices of the past life of the dead,
they left the church-yard. The priest walked apart
from the rest, for all respected the depth of his
sufferings, and instinctively felt that time, solitude,
and his own pious meditations were the only cure.
The graveyard has much divinity for pious old age.
With advancing years one loves to frequent its se
questered paths, and in the depth of its quiet and
the softness of its sleep to find that soothing calm
which is welcome to every troubled soul. Around
us are the endearing monuments with which affec
tion tries to smooth the ruggedness of its sorrow.
In silent converse with these memorials of death,
these milestones which mark our way to eternity,
the hours pass dreamily away, and the repose of
the tomb vitalizes the satiety of life.
At length all had gone but the priest and myself
and the grave-digger. The stillness of evening
brooded over the landscape, and no sound broke
that silence of nature which sinks like sad music
into the heart, save the muffled voice of the clods,

12 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
as they welcomed to their embrace him who was
so soon to become one of themselves. But now all
was finished, and the gate was about to be closed
for the night. The priest and I went forth to
gether and walked slowly down the road. Seeing
that I was a stranger, he kindly spoke to me, and
we entered into conversation. He seemed a man
of cultivated mind, and bore a certain appearance
of refinement not often found in a rustic village.
I asked the name of him whose obsequies had so
excited my interest. He said it was the last sur
vivor but one of the buried Goldau, he himself in
his old age was the last. He and the deceased had
been partially educated together for the priesthood.
His friend had been an active, intelligent boy, and
everything promised well, when misfortune came
upon his family, and he was obliged to leave his
studies and labor with his hands for his support.
At the time of the destruction of the village he was
a young and thriving farmer, while my informant
was the village curate. The former was over
whelmed with his family, but was rescued after
several days' burial ; while the latter, living on the
edge of the village farthest from the mountain, saw
the avalanche of ruin stop just at his own door.
" It was about five o'clock in the evenino-," said
the curate, " when the great disaster took place
which destroyed my unhappy village. For a few
days before there had been wide crevasses in the
side of the mountain, and now and then a large
rock had been loosened from its bed and come

GOLDAU. 13
crashing down through the forests ; but we were
so used to these disturbances that they did not
alarm us to any great extent. But towards the
end of the afternoon the violent shaking of the
walls of my house, and a low rumbling, like distant
thunder, alarmed me, and I was conscious of a
sudden thrill, such as one not unfrequently feels on
the edge of some crushing disaster. Then came
a roaring like the thunder of a thousand avalanches,
a crash like the instant felling of a forest of lofty
pines ; a wave of horror seemed to engulf me, and
I rushed tremblingly to my door, only thinking
to mutter a prayer to the holy Madonna, that I
might not unprepared be suddenly brought into
her heavenly presence. I looked towards the moun
tain. It was moving from its base. It was com-'
ing towards the village, slowly at first, but in a few
moments, which appeared ages to me, it seemed
to reel like some gigantic Titan, and fling itself
over my unfortunate people, who, like me, were
gazing with horror upon it. No cry of despair
went up from the depths of that tomb, which thus
instantly swallowed up hundreds of innocent peo
ple. I heard no human voice. Stupefied with
terror, they stood dumb and motionless, as they
saw the veil which conceals death from our view
suddenly rent in twain. No minister of mercy
stood between them and the awful form of the
king of terrors, as he stepped from his throne to
trample them beneath his stony heel. A moment
more, and they were gone into the depths of the

14 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
grave, with no kindly care to assuage their anguish,
no hope, no solace, and without those last comfort
ing. words with which our holy church consoles the
parting spirit, and sends it on its way with joy to
the dark land. I too was paralyzed with terror,
and for a moment was unconscious at the prospect
of my impending and awful doom. When I re
vived, what a prospect met my eyes ! At my
door lay an enormous rock, and beyond it, up to
the slope of the mountain, was the very chaos of
ruin. Huge shivered masses of rugged stone,
which a few moments before had towered high
above the village, lay scattered over the valley,
partly buried in masses of mud and gravel a hun
dred feet deep. Lofty pine-trees, the growth of
many a century, were tossed here and there like
toys ; some were rent and splintered as if struck by
lightning ; some, with their tortuous roots high in
air, were half buried in the ruin which had torn
them away ; others were piled in great heaps with
other less lofty trees. It had rained heavily for
several days before the fall of the mountain, and,
bursting forth from its torn and jagged summit,
streams of thick black mud, like lava, dropped
slowly and sullenly from crag to crag and disap
peared in the dSbris, or made their way over it
to the lake below. The blue surface of this was
dense with mud, and a large part of its waters
were driven with violence over the island in its cen
tre, and carried ruin far up beyond its shores. The
very air was convulsed by the general uproar, and,

GOLDAU. 15
whirling round in many and many a w,ild and
violent eddy, carried hither and thitherVclouds
of dust, leaves, and small branches of \trees.
Soaring high above this scene of havoc, in wider
and still wider circles, was heard the loud and
angry scream of a vulture, who had been driven
from the cliff which had borne her nest and the
now ruined home of her callow young, and who
seemed to me at this awful moment like some aveng
ing angel to sound the trump of general doom.
" With the approach of morning, we addressed
ourselves sorrowfully, yet earnestly, to the task of
saving, if possible, some poor unfortunates from the
ruin which had overwhelmed them. Our success
was small, for the mass of stone and gravel was
so great that we made very slow progress, though
assisted by all the neighboring villagers. Thus
but few were rescued alive ; and it was only after
arduous labors for more than three days, that we
reached the cottage of my friend, whose funeral
you have just seen. He was found alive, yet faint
and exhausted, with the dead bodies of his two
young children. With careful nurture he recov
ered, but he was a changed man. He seemed like
one, who, having passed beyond the grave, has re
turned to the realities of life again. His sufferings
during those few days were fearful, and he shud
dered to speak of them to any one but myself. But
to me, who had known him so long and so well,
he spoke at times, apparently with a feeling of
comfort and relief, of the agonies he had passed

16 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
through. His story has become as familiar to me
as if it had been a part of my own experience. In
the course of the past few years he has frequently
repeated it to me ; and when his powers began to fail,
and the simple, childlike nature of our earlier years
returned to him, it seemed to be almost the only
distinct part of his past life. He would describe
it to me with so much naturalness and gentle
pathos that it made a most vivid impression upon
me. I almost seem to myself to have felt the iron
grip of threatened starvation, the pangs of cold
and damp, — to have heard the moans of my dying
children, and to have been walled up in the solid
darkness. " On his death-bed his last words and his last
thoughts, as the light of reason seemed to glim
mer like the rays of a distant torch reflected at
intervals in the waves of a dark and troubled sea,
were of this part of his life. As solicitous for his
eternal peace I bent over him, after administering
the last sacrament of our holy religion, and spoke to
him a few words of affectionate consolation, his aged
lips appeared to mutter some reply. Wearily and
sadly stretching forth his arms, and apparently grasp
ing at something he could not find, he said, ' O my
son ! how heavy that darkness, which will not let
me see thee.' And then he died, and his soul re
posed in that eternal light which no mortal may
see and live."
A few tears rolled down the cheeks of the vener
able man as he spoke, the harvest which had sprung

GOLDAU. 17
from the deep furrows of grief. " He was the last
link to bind me to earth," said he ; " I am now like
a lonely column in the desert. I hope soon to join
him ; and," he added, with deep fervor, " may my
last end be like his."
After a short time the curate said, " It may in
terest you, as a stranger, to hear the story which
my friend told me of the horrors of that fearful im
prisonment which he underwent for three deadly
days. ' I was working,' said he, ' in a field, at
some distance from my house, when I saw the first
motion of the slide. I at once rushed home to save
my two boys, but had only time to get inside my
door, when the awful mass was upon us. In the
crash of the beams of my roof, the bursting of the
shattered walls, the thundering of heavy boulders,
and the " thick darkness that might be felt," it is
not strange I thought all was lost, and that a fear-
ful death had come upon us. But for the moment
we were safe. One corner of my house, where the
beams were very solid, did not yield ; and in that
scanty space, no larger than a small room, I took
refuge with my children. My heart sank within
me, as I thought of the slow and cruel fate that we
must inevitably meet. Yet my love for my boys
bore me up, as I thought how every chance of
safety rested on me alone. Yet what could I do?
What shout for aid could help us in that house
of death, that cave of mortal agony ? We could
only watch with meek submission the slow ebb of life,
and offer up our prayers to the Madonna for help.
2

18 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
Yet I whispered words of comfort to my children,
— words which my soul belied. Their tears, their
cries for food, as they awoke and found no succor,
almost drove me mad. Hour by hour they grew
fainter and fainter, and I knew that they must soon
die. My youngest son died first, and my eldest-
born must soon follow. As I awoke, I heard a
faint voice say, " Father ! " " What, my child ? "
" Father ! " again he spoke, in still fainter accents.
I crept to him, and bent my ear close down to his
lips. " Father, I see the light ! " But as he ut
tered these words, even in that solid darkness my
heart told me that he was dead. The light that
he saw was not of this world. My son had been
very dear to me, and none the less so on account
of his sad lameness. He always had been a kind
and good child ; and his mother on her death-bed
said to me, " Whatever happens, take good care
of John." These were almost her last words. Af
ter that, as we were poor and had but one bed,
my children used it with me. Joseph always slept
at my side, yet John lay near my heart. When
he was dead, my soul was very heavy, and my
grief and the want of food almost crushed my
mind. Yet when I could think, I was calm ; and
often the words " I will never forsake thee " came
up before me so distinctly that they seemed bright
ly written on the wall of darkness near me, and a
light from them shone into my soul. At times I
lost all feeling and swooned from exhaustion, or
slept and dreamt. In these dreams I saw many

GOLDAU. 19
pleasant things. My dear dead wife seemed to
stand over me, and welcome me with rapture to
a land that knew no tears. She asked me where
were the boys, and I knew not what to say. I
tried to answer, and could not for my deep sor
row, and my heart seemed almost to burst. I woke,
and then I slept again, and there came other bright
forms, and they seemed to have wings, and they
faded away- And then I became partly conscious,
and all that I had ever done, even to the minutest
thing, came vividly before me, and my very soul
seemed to weep, as the past stamped its fiery let
ters into my heart. Then more forms came forth
from the inner darkness, and they appeared to me
lost souls ; and one drew nearer than the rest, and
said, " Come," but I did not go ; and a light shone
far behind them, ruddy and fearful, as if from the
abodes of the lost, and I tried to pray that I might
not go there, but could not say a word. And yet
again he approached still nearer, and said, " Come,"
and I thought he tried to seize me with his shadowy
arm ; and as he spoke my name in a still louder
tone, I awoke in tears and sweat, and saw a bright
ray of light in my dungeon, and heard my name
pronounced by a friendly voice.'
" That voice," said the curate, " was mine, and
you can easily imagine with what joy we found
him alive whom we had already mourned as dead.
He was faint, exhausted, and almost lifeless ; yet
the kindly nurture of a few weeks restored him to
comparative health. But he was greatly altered,

20 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
and for the rest of his long life seemed like one
who belonged to another world. He lived near
the spot where he had passed through his great
sorrow. His after-life was pure and spotless, and
he lived among us, but not of us. He was like a
messenger sent to us from the world beyond ; and
all his time, except that necessary for his own sup
port, was spent in doing good to others. His feat
ures always bore that placid, benignant expression
which you saw him wear even in death. I never
saw him smile, nor did he ever weep. The depth
of his grief was too profound to be ruffled by any
future trouble. He grew old amid the blessings of
all our people. He has passed away amid our
sighs and tears. And I long earnestly for the
time when I shall join him above. It will not
be long."
As the aged priest said this, his voice became
tremulous with emotion, and he raised his face tow-,
ards the sky, whence the eternal flowers of heaven
were shedding clown their mild and beneficent ra
diance upon the earth, and, muttering some silent
prayer, entered his cottage, in front of which we
had been sitting. I walked forth into the starlight,
deeply impressed by what I had heard, and thankful
that so few of us here on earth are called upon to
dive down into the real depths of human affliction.

THE PASS OF ST. GOTHARD. 21

CHAPTER III.
THE PASS OF ST. GOTHAM).
The St. Gothard is one of the grandest of the
great Swiss passes, those gigantic arteries which
send the life-blood through her whole frame, and
vitalize her otherwise lifeless and dreary existence.
It is these which give her people the means of
frequent intercourse with each other and with for
eign nations, and thus introduce into her secluded
valleys the comforts, and not unfrequently the re
finements, of more favored lands. It is these
which improve their minds, soften their manners,
and give them a certain knowledge of the world.
It is these that temper their rugged hospitalities
with the courtesies of society. Without these the
greater part of Switzerland would be a wilderness,
inhabited only by a race as rude and fierce as
Caesar found the ancient Helvetii. Of course, the
difficulties of constructing roads through these
gorges have been enormous, and so are always
the labor and skill required to keep them in repair.
Yet the very obstacles in the way seem to have de
veloped the talents requisite to overcome them ; and
in nearly every case, except the great road built
by Napoleon over the Simplon, the engineers have

22 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
been Swiss. They have been born and brought
up among the crags and peaks over and through
which their genius was to lead the way.
The first Napoleon (whose entire want of all
kindly fellow-feeling for or with mankind made
him hesitate at no sacrifice of blood, of treasure, or
of life) had but to stamp upon the ground, and the
Simplon road was begun. Thousands of men and
millions of money completed the work in five years,
and another " Napoleonic idea " became a pregnant
fact. But with the road of St. Gothard it was far
different. This was begun and finished by the
manual labor and small contributions of the poor.
It was the work chiefly of the poverty-stricken
cantons through which it passed. It was their
vigor, and the abilities of their engineer, named
Miiller, which carried it to completion, and that
in spite of every possible impediment which nature
could place in their way. But this was not all.
The year it was finished the most terrific storm
ever known in Switzerland burst upon the pass,
and in a few hours made a perfect wreck of every
thing they had done. Yet they rallied and again
completed the work, though few but themselves
can appreciate at what an enormous expenditure
of labor and suffering.
Nothing can be more admirable than the manner
in which it was done. Bridges were thrown over
mountain-torrents, now flowing gently at the bot
tom of some deep ravine, but which, swollen in a
few hours by floods of rain, rush on with a force

THE PASS OF ST. GOTHARD. 23
that would sweep away everything but the strong
est and most skilfully built structures. Rocks were
tunnelled, and the road conducted along the base
of gigantic cliffs, where only the talent of,man
could find a way between their base and the river.
Whole miles were excavated in the solid rock.
Enormous galleries were built at different points
for protection from avalanches. Great buttresses
were thrown out from the face of precipices so
lofty that their summits are lost in the clouds, and
so inaccessible that the screams of the eagle and
the track of the chamois are the only signs of
animated nature. Thus every kind of engineering
talent was necessary for these structures, and no
public works in Europe show greater skill in over
coming serious obstacles. To have been the en
gineer of the St. Gothard Pass is glory enough for
any man. Both Miiller and Tell were born in
the same vicinity, near its entrance, and one may
well doubt which of them is the greater honor to
his birthplace. The heroic patriotism of the one
delivered his countrymen from crushing tyranny ;
the genius of the other guided into his native valley
the streams of wealth, of thrift, and of mental cul
tivation, and thus dignified and ennobled the liberty
acquired with so much bravery.
This is without doubt the most interesting of all
the Swiss passes, from the union it presents of
o-rand and beautiful scenery with repeated evi
dences of man's success in overcoming great nat
ural impediments. It is by far the most attrac-

24 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
tive route into Italy, and nowhere else can so
many of the grand aspects of nature be seen with
so little discomfort to the traveller. From Lu
cerne to Fliielen is a sail of thirty miles ; from the
latter, by way of Bellinzona to Locarno, is a dis
tance of about ninety. This latter town is situated
on the Lago Maggiore, and from thence one enjoys
another sail of thirty miles, nearly the whole length
of the lake, to Arona. The Lake of Lucerne offers
the most sublime water-scenery in the world ; that
of the Lago Maggiore is the most charming. The
route between them abounds in every variety of
both mountain and watery beauty.
The grandeur of the former lake culminates in
the Bay of Uri, at the upper end of which Fliielen
is placed. This gulf is entered only by one nar
row and rocky gateway, the Thermopylae of the
scene ; and its waters are confined on every side
by trackless precipices, against whose base they
ever fret and dash. Only near Fliielen do the
mountains withdraw from the shore,- that the River
Reuss, which flows down the pass, may find a
reservoir for its rapid torrent. Nothing can be
more picturesque or majestic than this scenery.
The calm surface of the water seems at one time
but a mirror to redouble the snow-covered Alps
and gloomy crags which overhang it. At another
the wind (called Fohn) rushes down from the
mountains, and lashes the waves into a raging
ocean, over which not even the steamboats can
pass. At the left hand, on a little shelf of rock

THE PASS OF ST. GOTHARD. 25
at the base of the precipice, is the chapel of Tell.
It is a small building, rudely adorned with paint
ings illustrating the early struggles of the Swiss.
It was built but a few years after the hero's death,
upon the spot where he leaped ashore from Gess-
ler's boat. Opposite this is Griitli, a small plot of
green pasture, where the three patriots met at mid
night to confirm by a solemn oath their determi
nation to free their country from the thraldom of
Austria. Here they swore " to be true to each
other," and, with a noble forbearance under the
wrongs they had suffered, added to their oath
that they would " do no wrong to the Count of
Hapsburg, nor injure his bailiffs." Tradition re
ports, that, as they raised their hands to heaven and
uttered their vow, " earth felt the shock," and
three fountains burst forth, bearing from mysteri
ous sources their unsullied waters to this cradle of
a new-born nation, even as the Magi of old, from
the uncertain regions of the East, came with pre
cious gifts to the manger of Him who was to lead
forth his people into the broad domain of religious
liberty. These fountains are yet shown. However skep
tical one may feel as to their origin, he may well
shed tears of genuine sympathy over the sufferings
of these simple-minded patriots, while he strongly
admires their magnanimity of soul. A feeling of
deep regret may well spring up, that at the present
day we so rarely find a piety so sincere, a patriot
ism so liberal, a wisdom so far-sighted.

26 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
Amid scenery of such grandeur, and which at
every step transports us far back into the past,
one could hardly expect to find any of the evi
dences of modern progress. Their presence in
such a spot causes feelings of both surprise and
dejection. On the edge of the precipice, which
rises a thousand feet above Griitli, is a large hotel,
which is always crowded with visitors in the sum
mer and early fall. Along the face of the opposite
cliff runs the telegraph wire to Italy, one of the
fastenings of which is driven into the chapel of Tell.
Let us hope that it may electrify the inhabitants of
that land with the spirit of the hero.
'The marks on the surface of the giant cliffs on
either shore of this gulf are extremely interesting
geologically. They seem to show that at one time,
when the earth was passing through its turbulent
infancy, they were united " in no faint embrace."
They now stand like sturdy warriors of a remote
age torn violently asunder in the heat of their
conflict. With fierce glances, and armor dinted
with many a blow, they still frown stern defiance
at each other, though constrained to await in stony
silence the day of general doom.
The chapel of Tell was built in 1388, at the ex
pense of his native canton, and was consecrated to
his memory in presence of over one hundred peo
ple to whom he had been well known either as
friend or relative. This was only thirty-one years
after his death. And yet, in spite of this strong
evidence to the contrary, certain modern writers

THE PASS OF ST GOTHARD. 27
have tried to prove that his whole story is a popu
lar legend, and that his existence is as dubious as
that of Achilles or Hector. In this age of general
incredulity, when Homer hafs almost become a
myth, and the attempt has been made to prove
even Shakspeare but a bright dream of the past,
one might, perhaps, expect that the memory of
Tell would not be safe from attack. In this case,
however, the sword has proved to be mightier than
the pen. It has been found that few are so skepti
cal as to turn a deaf ear to the clearest affirmations
of history ; that almost none are willing to ignore
the existence of him who was so great an honor to
our common nature. Even we from far distant
lands cannot yield him up, as the mere shadow of
great deeds. We feel from our inmost hearts that
he once lived and moved, like the very soul of pa
triotism, among his native mountains. His life is
identified with the most vivid recollections of our
youth, when noble exploits exert over the mind their
strongest and most lasting influence ; and in our
maturer years, when the heroism of the past has be
come to us the religion of the present, who could, or
who would, deny the existence of William Tell ?
Among scenes which his fame has so immortal
ized this seems almost a crime ; and when the storm,
" moaning and calling out of other lands," bursts
•over the Bay of Uri, it needs no vivid imagination to
hear the grieved and indignant spirit of Tell in the
blast hovering over his native waters, and sadly la
menting that it cannot burst the walls of its prison,

28 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
and testify by its visible presence that he once lived,
and that he is yet worthy of the veneration paid to
patriotic valor.
Surely it is ill for the interests of humanity thus
to apply the blighting touch of historical skepticism
to the great and' good of the past, — to thus weaken
our earliest, our purest, and our • strongest impres
sions. Must we indeed put our fingers into the
print of the nails, and thrust our hands into the
side, ere we can believe ? Are all our aspirations to
a spotless fame in future ages to be thus deadened ?
Can we look calmly forward to the time when
Washington, Adams, Franklin, and all our roll of
great and good names, shall fade away into " the
stuff that dreams are made of?" This was the
feeling of Milton, when in " The History of England"
he expressed, in words which do him honor, his
unwillingness to give up the historical traditions
relating to the early kings of that country. " From
them," he says, "we cannot be so easily discharged;
descents of ancestry long continued ; laivs and ex
ploits not plainly seeming to be borrowed or devised,
which on the common belief have wrought no small
impression; defended by many, denied utterly by
few." " Yet these old and inborn kings never any
to have been real persons, or done in their lives at
least some part of what so long hath been remem
bered, cannot be thought without too strict incre
dulity. So far as keeps aloof from impossible or
absurd, attested by ancient writers from books more
ancient, I refuse not as the due and proper subject
of story."

THE PASS OF ST. GOTHARD. 29
To the Swiss, Tell is a vivid reality. Painting
and sculpture and poetry have gladly acted as the
handmaids of history, to preserve his memory in
every part of their land. They, at least, thank
Heaven, have not yet reasoned away his identity.
Every rock of his native valley is to them vocal
with his name. Every mountain-top is an altar
silently breathing forth incense in his honor. Each
aspect of nature is ennobled by his worthy deeds.
The traveller listens with enthusiasm to the rap
tures of his countrymen. " These waves," say
they, " were rippled with the sturdy strokes of his
oar ; over those crags he chased the chamois with
his muscular and agile step ; the vane of yonder
steeple he shot from its rod with his unerring ar
row ; there grew the tree under which stood his son,
and on that spot was Gessler ; in yonder stream he
died in the effort to rescue a drowning child." They
take their children to his chapel, and as they
chant Lavater's hymns, their muscles and veins ex
pand, the blood rushes more quickly to their hearts,
and their faces glow with all the ardor of fervent
patriotism.* To them he is for the moment a visi
ble presence ; and never could more enthusiastic de
votion have been shown, not even when the woes
of the Niobe of Austria drew every sword from
• its scabbard to the exulting cry, " Moriamur pro
nostro rege, Maria Theresa ! "
* " Fathers hare, within my own knowledge, carried their
children to the chapel of the celebrated William Tell, to join in
full chorus the song which Lavater composed upon the merits of
that great man." — Zimmermann.

30 EUROPEAN MOS1AC.
The death of Tell was worthy of his life, and his
noblest sacrifice was his last, when he died to save
the life of another. He was swept away to his
grave in the Bay of Uri, to find in its pure and
never-failing waters an emblem of his own death
less fame. Surely his death and sepulture were
fitting. " Nothing is here for tears, nothing to wail
Or knock the breast ; no weakness, no contempt,
Dispraise, or blame : nothing but well and fair,
And what may quiet us in a death so noble."
Two miles from Fliielen is Altorf, where Tell
shot his shaft of freedom at the apple on his son's
head. Marble statues of him and his child, of the
size of life, mark the spot where he stood. About
two hundred feet- farther on is a stone fountain,
which occupies the site of the venerable lime-tree
to which the boy was bound. From this town the
road rises gradually and continuously to the sum
mit of the pass. It is an excellent Macadamized
way, smooth, and everywhere in good repair ; and
diligences, heavily loaded, daily pass over it to
and from Italy. So gentle is the descent, that
from the highest point to Fliielen they proceed at
a rapid trot. The Reuss is crossed from time to
time by numberless stone bridges, generally formed
of one arch, sufficiently massive to withstand even
the most furious rush of its waters. The way leads
on, and still on, through an endless succession of
savage gorges, and at the base of huge toppling
cliffs. The sublimity of the whole scene culmi-

THE PASS OF ST. GOTHARD. 2,1
nates at the Devil's Bridge, where the genius of
man has encountered the greatest difficulties of the
pass with a skill and audacity which call forth the
warmest admiration. Here the river, flowing from
the valley of Andermatt, plunges down the pass in
numerous cataracts. On one side of it is an enor
mous promontory of solid rock lying directly across
the road ; on the other is a precipice, almost exactly
vertical, against the whole length of which its waves
formerly dashed. This spot was once a complete
bar to any further progress. But the talent of the
engineer found a path over and through it. The
base of the cliff was excavated by workmen sus
pended down its face by ropes. They hung di
rectly over the river in the dazzling spray of its
fall, and the noise of their hammers was drowned
by its roar. Part of the roadway was thus hewn
out of the living rock, while part rests upon a
foundation of solid masonry built up from the bed
of the Reuss, and formed of the fragments of the
precipice and other masses of stone. It thus con
tinues, till it crosses the Reuss just below the point,
where that stream first strikes the face of the cliff
and changes its course at a right angle. This is
done by means of a single lofty arch boldly thrown
across but a few feet from the edge of the largest
cataract. Under its broad span the waters plunge
in their headlong course, while clouds of spray
bathe buttress, keystone, and parapet, and, sweep
ing down the valley, envelop the base of the
cliff.

32 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
From the opposite end of the bridge the road
mounts for a short distance by easy zigzags, till it
reaches the promontory mentioned above. For
merly, the only way of passing this impediment
was by means of boards hung by chains from its
face, and over these foot-passengers found a peril
ous and uncertain way, while almost blinded by
clouds of mist from the roaring river just beneath
them. Now it is pierced by a tunnel two hundred
feet long, which permits the passage of the largest
vehicles. This is called the Hole of Uri, and one
sees its cavernous entrance high above the bridge.
At the end of it the valley of Andermatt comes
into view ; and nothing can be more striking than
the sudden change from the rocky sterility and
grandeur behind to the peaceful meadows which
now lie spread out before us.
In Goethe's well-known and exquisite little poem,
" Kennst du das Land," in which he has condensed
all Italy into one single nugget of purest gold, there
is a verse which I am tempted to quote here, on ac
count of the accurate description it gives of the
bridge and the scenery about it. It is the more
interesting from the fact that when it was written
the poet had not seen the spot, nor had he yet
visited Italy. His vivid imagination .brings up
before us all the stern features of the place, and
they appear to smile with the added charms of
poetry and rhythm.
" Know'st thou the hill, the bridge that hangs on cloud ?
The mules in mist grope o'er the torrent loud,

THE PASS OF ST. GOTHARD. 33
In caves lie coiled the dragon's ancient brood,
The crag leaps' down and over it the flood :
Know'st thou it then ? 'T is there ! 'T is there,
Our way runs ; O my father, wilt thou go ? "
It would seem that so lonely and quiet a spot as
this should be free from the passions of humanity ;
yet even here " war hath performed what war can
do," and battle, murder, and sudden death have
desecrated this sanctuary of nature. In the year
1799, Suwaroff's barbarous hordes came up the
St. Gothard from Italy, in pursuit of the French.
Their supplies had become exhausted, and they
reached Andermatt almost in a state of starva
tion. They seized upon everything in the nature
of food that the helpless villagers possessed. They
ate their soap and candles ; and so ravenous were
they; that even the half-prepared leather in the
tan-vats was boiled and devoured with relish. The
French had filled the Hole of Uri with stones.
These the Russians removed, only to find the bridge
blown up. In its place was a gaping chasm, the far
ther edge of which was lined with riflemen, whose
well-sustained fire dealt out death to all who ap
proached. Yet nothing could restrain the eager bra
very of " the children of Suwaroff." So impetuous
was their onset, that, before they could be checked,
many of the foremost ranks had been driven into
the maddened Reuss, where nothing could save
them. Hundreds more perished by the bullets of
the French ; and dead and wounded alike crimsoned
3

34 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
the waters with their blood, as they were borne
away to the grave. Yet high above the cries of
the fallen, the rattle of musketry, the loud din of
battle, and the roar of the cataract, could be heard
the ringing voice of Suwaroff cheering on his men.
Beams of wood and trees were bound together
with the officers' scarfs, a rude bridge was formed
in spite of the efforts of the French, the Russians
charged across it, and drove their opponents down
to Altorf. It was thus that the Devil's Bridge
received a baptism of blood and passion befitting
its name.
The valley of Andermatt bears the aspect of
perfect tranquillity. It resembles the Bay of Uri
in its shape, being a smooth, green plain, almost
entirely surrounded by lofty mountains. It images
at once to the mind the Happy Valley of Rasselas,
and it would seem that into its peaceful abodes sin
and death ought never to enter, nor should any
suffering draw from frail humanity the tribute of
tears. Who can look unmoved upon its broad
pastures and quiet herds ; its quaint old houses
blackened with age and blessed with Scripture texts
under the eaves ; the grotesque costumes of the
simple-minded villagers ; the old stone church,
whose steps the worshippers of a thousand years
have furrowed with their footprints ; the lofty
tower which overlooks the vale, built by old Lom
bard kings ; the triangular forest of pines which
protect the village from avalanches in winter and
dispense their mournful music in summer ; the

THE PASS OF ST. GOTHARD. 35
morning sun leading forth the glad chorus of ani
mated nature, or at evening waving his broad fan
of rays over the landscape, as if in silent benedic
tion ; the mountains with their broad, snow-covered
backs seen in clear relief against the blue sky ;
the lake that reflects all these features, and buoys
up the white lilies which have striven upwards
from its sunless depths and now repose on its pla
cid surface, like pure spirits in assured rest after
long struggle with the trials of life ?
It is to scenes like these that man resorts, urged
7 O
by an irresistible impulse. Here, far from the tur
moil of life, the quiet majesty of nature expands
the soul. From the contemplation of her attri
butes one derives the purest of mental pleasures
which the natural world can offer. It is in such
secluded vales that in times past a pure religion
has taken refuge, when driven by persecution from
the abodes of men ; and thus, as it were, brought
closer to God, his children have preserved their
faith untainted, and virtue, health, and happiness
have expanded under its influence. The seeds of re
ligious liberty have been wafted from the mountain-
valleys of Savoy to the rocky shores of Cape Cod,
from the slimy banks of the Adriatic to the barren
hills of Scotland ; yet in these solitary wastes they
have ever taken root, and like some tall palm-tree
in the desert, alone with nature, have grown into
fruitful beneficence to man.

36 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.

CHAPTER IV.
ALPINE VALLEYS.
The valley of Andermatt is four thousand four
hundred feet above the level of the sea, and no trees
except the pine will grow there, nor will any corn,
wheat, or any vegetable. The people are there
fore obliged to go many wreary miles for their bread.
Thus their life is entirely pastoral, and their sup
port comes altogether from their herds and dairies,
except the small sums they receive from travellers
over the pass, and for the hire of horses for the
conveyance of goods. The produce of their pas
tures is deservedly famous ; and nowhere is the
cheese richer, the butter yellower, or the grass
brighter or more luxuriant. But their short and
beautiful summer is succeeded by a nine months'
winter. His stern face looks forth over the land
scape, and quietly, fatally, inexorably, as the head
of Medusa, stiffens the face of nature with the lin
eaments of death. Then the icy-helmeted cliffs
receive a drapery of snow, and shake down into
the mountain-gorges many an avalanche. Then the
life-blood of summer freezes in her veins, and win
ter stands like a conqueror over her prostrate form.
Only the pines lalnent her departure. They moan

ALPINE VALLEYS. 37
in melancholy cadence, like the solemn dirge of
ocean, as he sadly strives to smooth from his brow
the wrinkles of a thousand ages. And all the
power of angry winter cannot overwhelm or silence
these dark, stern mourners. They bear themselves
bravely. They yield not to the avalanche. They
tremble not at its thunder. They regard not the
winds, as with their thousand voices they hover
about them, now in exultation, now in anger, now
in tones of soft persuasion, now with the accents
of despair. At every blast, they cling more firmly
to the mountains that brought them forth, and on
whose breasts they were nurtured. They welcome,
as to a sure retreat, the mountain goat, when driven
by the tempest from his native crags. Only at
the approach of man they bow themselves, and their
wounds give forth the fragrant odor of forgiveness.
But mindful of the future even in death, they scat
ter with lavish hand their abundant cones, that in
the lapse of years other green harps may attune
their trembling chords, and plaintively temper the
wrath of the storm. Then go they forth to their
destined work. The gloomy weeds of mourning
are changed for the cheerful garb of labor, and
erect, in all the dignity of a beneficent life, they
bear to remote lands the blessings of commerce
and enlightenment. Such is the lesson of the pine.
The forests of evergreens which overhang the
mountain-valleys of Switzerland are not only an
extremely grand feature in the scenery, but are
of the greatest importance to the well-being of the

38 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
inhabitants. They are the basis of the whole pas
toral system. Their foliage attracts the showers
and dew, and their roots retain them, under the
thick covering of their fallen leaves, till they can
be gradually and equally distributed over the land.
Thus the land is fertilized by the rain, which, were
there no forests, would, if it came at all, flood the
country with sudden freshets, and pass away as
quickly as it came, leaving only desolation behind
it. Thus many tracts, which now support hun
dreds of people and multitudes of cattle and goats,
would, in the absence of the pine and the fir, be
only rocky and barren wildernesses, such as Pales
tine and Greece have become at the present day
from similar causes. But this is not all the benefit
of these sylvan deities. They protect the villages
from avalanches and storms ; their cones and
branches supply the people with fuel, and their
seeds with food ; their thick foliage shelters the
cattle and goats ; in the long, dark months of win
ter, their soft and delicately veined wood is carved
by the peasantry iirto many a useful implement or
ingenious toy. Thus hands otherwise idle find
employment, and no little money is obtained from
their labors. These toys are sold in thousands to
travellers in the summer ; and the pine is thus
carried to the ends of the earth, in the shape of
cottages, chamois, paper-folders, and numberless
other peculiar products of Switzerland. It is in
the form of timber, however, that these trees are
the most productive of money, and the more

ALPINE VALLEYS. 39
so that forests are very scarce in Europe. Hence
at their maturity as many of these monarchs of
the woods as can be spared without injury to the
country are cut down, and floated in large rafts
to Holland, where they are used principally as
masts and spars. The forests of Switzerland are
public property, and belong to the cantons where
they are situated. They are superintended by
officers appointed for that purpose, and the income
derived from them forms a part of the public rev
enue. Of late years, the industrial interests of the
country have caused a great demand for wood, and
its consumption has so largely increased that the
people have become alarmed at the probable results,
the more so, since it has been found that the in
habitants are poorer in those tracts where, from
various causes, the woods have diminished. Hence
they are now guarded with great care, and the
various cantons have taken stringent measures to
protect them from further diminution.
Humboldt says that the pine among the Alps
grows at a greater height than any other tree or
shrub. Only an occasional low-growing alder is
found at a higher elevation. The red pine thrives
luxuriantly more than six thousand feet above the
sea-level, while the white pine ceases to appear a
thousand feet lower. Next above the pines are
seen the bright and ruddy Alpine roses, fringing the
snow and the glacier ; above these come the moun
tain grasses.
In Andermatt, and in Hospenthal, which lies two

40 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
miles beyond it, the mountain life of Switzerland
appears to great advantage. Situated, as they are,
on one of the most frequented passes, their inhabi
tants derive many a benefit, both to body and mind,
from the travel over it, which keeps them always in
communication both with Italy and their own coun
try. They are thus superior in all respects to the
people of more remote and poorer valleys. These
latter are destitute of almost every comfort, and
their forlorn condition excites the sympathy of all
travellers. It is distressing to see how few they
possess of what we regard as the necessaries of life,
and how little has ever been done for the develop
ment of the feeble spark of intellect that is in them.
Yet they do not appear unhappy or discontented.
They are for the most part simple-minded, and,
knowing no other sources of pleasure than those
they see around them, they rest satisfied with what
they have. All the high Swiss villages are modelled
after the same plan. Hospenthal, Zermatt, Ober-
gesteln, are all composed of low, black houses,
crowded irregularly together, with narrow and ex
tremely muddy lanes meandering among them.
Thus whenever a fire breaks out, as it often does,
the whole village is generally consumed. Thus it
has lately happened to Chamouny, Thusis, and many
others. Yet in most localities this compression is
not only desirable, but on many accounts necessary.
Nearly all the arable land, every foot of which is
valuable, is thus reserved for cultivation or pastur
age, and every inch of land is used in Switzerland

ALPINE VALLEYS. 41
for some purpose, and it is all owned by some pro
prietor, even to the snow-line of the largest moun
tain. The most favorable site being chosen, every
family is equally well protected from avalanches and
freshets coming from the mountains around them.
They are further impelled to this arrangement by
their natural feelings of loneliness and insecurity in
these mountain-deserts, especially in winter, and
for greater warmth and facility of intercourse in
the same season. There are no farm-houses, prop
erly so called, and all the labors of the dairy are
carried on in the village, except such work as is
done by the herdsmen at their mountain-pastures,
to which the cows are taken in summer. The
goats are generally all driven out to their feeding-
ground in one flock in the morning, and return to
their various owners at night, under the care of the
same keeper. Every village is a little pastoral so
ciety, and the people live like one large family.
Though they have not exactly a community of
goods, yet experience has .taught them the neces
sity of combining their resources as closely as possi
ble. Each one by himself is nothing, and not only
their strength, but their lives depend upon union.
Their food is of the simplest sort. It is generally
goats' milk and cheese. Most of them eat only por
ridge in winter and milk in summer, and many do
not taste meat once in a year, though they work
more laboriously than any other peasantry in Eu
rope. Doubtless the invigorating mountain air gives
them strength to work harder, and bear more than

42 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
they would be able to in any other locality. Their
houses are not at all comfortable. They are sel
dom or never painted. The floors are of dirt, and
part of the first story is generally occupied by their
cows and goats. They have no chimneys, and no
windows except wooden shutters, which are occa-
sionalty opened to let out the smoke. Their low
roofs of bark are covered with stones. They are
black, low, and damp as a charnel-house." In these
the peasant, dressed in the coarsest homespun, and
surrounded by the rudest furniture, entombs himself
for nine months of every year. Here three times
a day, during the whole of his deadly life, he eats
his porridge with an iron spoon from the cheapest
of earthen bowls, and is happy. His conscience is
quiet, he is at peace with all his little world, and
beyond that is vacancy.
Thus the life of the mountain peasant is a dreary
routine, mitigated in summer only by severe labor,
in winter by storm and avalanche. His implements
of husbandry are rude and scanty. Most of them
are made by himself. He has never seen any others,
and his crops are so small that he needs no others,
nor has he money to buy them: The sun that peers
down into deep valleys for three or four hours in
the middle of the day, sees the peasants working
with tools of the same pattern as those used by
their ancestors far remote, perhaps by the ancient
Rhaeti. There are the same clumsy wooden rakes
and forked sticks for curing their hay, and the
same upright posts with arms to hang it upon and

ALPINE VALLEYS. 43
expose it to the sun and air. There are the same
coarse nets of rope, in which it is borne on the
backs of barefooted men and women, and tossed
into the same dingy log-cabins that their forefathers
Oi/ O
used. There are the same awkward long-han
dled spades of wood, with which they are digging
potatoes on some patch of ground a little more
sunny than the rest. There are the same women,
young, but yet wrinkled and bronzed, and bowed
down as if with the weight of fourscore, bearing
flat wooden tubs of goats' milk strapped to their
backs, or toiling upwards from the lowlands with
enormous loaves of black bread. And thus they go
on drudging in the same old way, and the world in
O O •- '
its onward progress leaves them daily farther and
farther behind it. Yet they care not. The danger
they have passed through and daily incur engenders
a mutual feeling of sympathy ; it endears them to
their lonely valleys and to each other. Their per
petual struggle with Nature, in dark and unfruitful
gorges, to wring from her a support, and the peculiar
habits of life in which they are thus reared, attach
them to their land. It is in this way that the Hol
landers are so strongly bound to theirs. The more
vigorously we wrestle with Nature, the deeper does
our love for her become, and the more enduring our
streno-th to bear the hardships of life. It matters
not whether the earnest worker is threatened with
the sea or the avalanche. The persevering indus
try of man ever triumphs over the great powers of
nature, and he sleeps on the field of battle.

44 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
The laborious life of these peasants affords them
little time or money for dissipation or any excess,
even were they inclined to such frivolity. Crime
is almost unknown among them. Their unpretend
ing life quietly unfolds itself from day to day.
They are content to work as their fathers worked,
and die as their fathers died, satisfied with the
teachings of their simple faith that they have an
eternity to rest in.
Their thrift, or perchance stern necessity, drives
them to seek food for their cattle from the most
inaccessible spots, and the approach of the grass-
gatherer frightens the chamois from his scanty re
past on the edge of the impending avalanche.
Like " one that gathers samphire," the herdsman,
hanging by a rope over the face of the cliff, where
even his goats dare not go, gathers with his sickle
the long bunches of mountain-herbage, and so ekes
out the food which his flocks require. There the
eagle screams around him to protect her young.
There, " close to the sun in lonely lands," she has
placed her nest, defying the lightning and regard
less of the storm. There her eaglets essay their
first flight, like children of the tempest, amidst the
din of elemental warfare and the thunder of the
avalanche. They go forth from their inaccessible
crags and descend to the valleys, yet they always
return to their lonely homes, and so does the
Switzer to his, and thus each calmly and without
thought works out the plan prescribed for him.
If superstition were ever to be looked for, it

ALPINE VALLEYS. 45
would be among a people simple-minded and ig
norant like these, and living as they do in the
heart of giant mountains, where all the great
powers of nature assume their sublimest aspect.
Hence we are not surprised to find these mountain
eers believing in a variety of supernatural agents.
They are not, however, grand and terrible, like the
natural phenomena around them, but tiny powers,
sprites, elves, and fairies. One of the most impor
tant of these is the pigmy. They are in many
respects like their brothers in whom the peasantry
of Ireland so firmly believe. This is not remarka
ble, since " pigmies are pigmies still, though perched
on Alps." They are looked upon with no small
dread by the rural population.
" Up the airy mountain, down the rushy glen,
They dare not go a-hunting for fear of little men."
To them belong the chamois and the fish, and they
are thought to be particularly malignant towards
those who pursue either of these. They are sup
posed to be extremely dwarfish, and their heads
are covered with little jaunty caps, from under
which their long hair reaches to the ground. They
wear green coats and long gray beards. It is not,
therefore, to be wondered at that the bare possi
bility of meeting them excites the terror of these
simple peasants. Indeed, it might cause that feel
ing in stronger minds. Other strange spirits are
also numerous ; some are vindictive, but most of
them beneficent. Their puny forms may be , seen
guiding the storm or dispelling the winds, moder-

46 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
ating the force of avalanches or infusing their pro
pitious influence into falling waters.
The Swiss, like the natives of mountainous
countries generally, have no admiration for the
scenery around them. Beauty both in nature and
art is felt by the sense, but recognized and compre
hended by the understanding. Hence the varied
attractions of a noble landscape can be appreciated
only by persons of cultivation and refinement.
To such they afford the most innocent and delight
ful of all the enjoyments of earth. This was the
feeling of Scott, when he said, " If I did not see
my own heather-covered hills at least once a year,
I believe I should die." But the mountain peasant
has no sympathy with Nature, and no knowledge of
her great laws. He perceives not the mysterious
chain of harmony which binds all together. Where
others admire, he cowers in superstitious fear.
To him the roaring avalanche, the lightning splin
tering the already jagged peak, the thunder re
sounding from glen to glen, as if even those mute
and dim recesses uttered the name of God, appear
neither sublime nor elevating. He thinks only of
the ruin they cause. Yet, in spite of his indifference
to their grandeur, his attachment for his native
mountains is proverbial, and years of absence only
strengthen it. This arises from the peculiar man
ners and habits to which he is brought up, and
from the simple and independent life he leads.
Were the beauty and grandeur of the Alps the
only source of their influence upon the Swiss, they

ALPINE VALLEYS. 47
would care no more for them than do the inhabi
tants of the mountain region of New Hampshire for
the scenery of the White Hills, — these not being
sufficiently high or vast to cause any difference in
the mode of life of those who live near and among
them from that of others, and therefore not excit
ing among an illiterate people the same attachment
as the Alps.
In all their mountain life there is nothing more
attractive to the Swiss than the chase of the
chamois. The danger, the excitement, and the
uncertainties of this sport render it extremely fas
cinating. They feel the same love for it that the
Western trapper feels for his outcast and lonely life
amongst deserts and Indians. They always return
to it with fresh eagerness. Sometimes a limb is
broken ; sometimes a life is lost in a crevasse or
over a precipice. But the most solemn oath will
never bind them to refrain from the sport. On
some fair morning the hunter does not appear at
his frugal meal with his family, and it is at once
sadly understood that he has gone to pursue the
chamois. Perhaps he returns the next day. Per
chance day after day passes, and he never comes
again. Hope gradually gives way to despair, and
despair to the bitterness of grief. He has died, no
one knows how, in some lonely waste by himself;
and the corroding sorrow of his widow and orphans
is slowly smoothed away by the rough friction of
hard work, for it is only gentlefolk who can in
dulge the luxury of woe, and " sit in the house

48 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
wi' handkerchers at their een when they lose a
friend." Yet many of these mountain hunters are
long-lived, and active to the last. " With moun
tains as with weapons armed," they defend them
selves against the approach of death to a good old
age. They are generally excellent guides, and
the bold deeds of these adventurous cragsmen
have ennobled many a pass and peak, and saved
many a life. There is nothing among these moun
tains more heroic or more famous than their
achievements. Yet I mistake. There are those
who have done more. It is those pioneers of
learning who are willing to dare every danger to
life and limb, if so be they can thereby aid their
favorite cause, and help the onward and resistless
progress of humanity. For this they have run
every risk of storm, of avalanche, of torrent. For
this they have gone where no Alpine hunter was
bold enough to follow them, or to bear what they
endured. Again and again has Tyndall planted
the banner of science on the summit of Monte
Rosa ; while Agassiz, for months solitary and alone,
mounts the car of the glacier and is borne onward
by that omnipotent power whose sources he seeks.
Where can a more fitting chariot be found for such
a conqueror ? Where a more kingly triumph than
this, — the great discoverer of nature's laws
amidst those hoary kings of the Preadamite world,
looking down, voiceless as Niobe, silent as the
Pyramids, while he bears away their treasures,
garnered up of old ?

ALPINE VALLEYS. 49
Saussure, in his extremely entertaining "Voyages
dans les Alpes," has given such an interesting and
copious account of the life of the chamois-hunter
that I have thought best to quote it in full, being
convinced that most readers of the present day will
not regret to see it : —
" The chase of the chamois engages many of the
inhabitants of the mountains, and frequently carries
off, in the flower of their age, men dear to their
families. When one knows how this is conducted,
he is astonished that a mode of life, at once so pain
ful and so dangerous, should have irresistible attrac
tions for those who have accustomed themselves to
it. The chamois-hunter generally departs in the
night, that he may reach at break of day, before the
arrival of the flocks, the highest pastures, where the
chamois are wont to feed. As soon as he can discern
the localities where he hopes to find his game, he ex
amines them with his glass. If he does not see any
chamois, he moves forward to a greater height ; if he
perceives them, he endeavors to mount higher than
they, and to approach them along a ravine, or behind
some eminence or rock. Having arrived at a position
where he can distinguish their horns, (it is by this
that he judges of the distance,) he rests his gun upon
a rock, takes aim with great coolness, and rarely
does he miss his mark. If he has killed the cha
mois, he runs to his prey and assures himself of it by
cutting the hamstrings ; then he considers the way
which it is necessary for him to take, in order to
reo-ain his village. If the route be very difficult, he
4

50 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
flays the chamois and takes only his skin. But if
the way be practicable, he places the game upon
his shoulders, and takes it with him, often over pre
cipices and to great distances ; he feeds himself and
family with the meat, which is very good, especially
when the animal is young, and dries the skin for sale.
" But if, as is most frequently the case, the vigi
lant animal perceives the approach of the hunter,
he flees with the greatest swiftness over the gla
ciers, snows, and steepest rocks. It is especially
difficult to approach them when there are several
together. In that case, while the rest feed, one of
them stations himself as a sentinel upon the point
of some rock which overlooks every avenue of
approach. As soon as he perceives an object of
apprehension, he utters a sort of whistle, at the
sound of which all the other chamois run to him,
in order to decide for themselves the nature of the
threatened danger. Then, if they see that it is
a savage beast, or a hunter, the most experienced
puts himself at their head, and they flee in a line
to the most inaccessible spots. It is then that the
fatigues of the hunter begin, for, carried away by
his passion, he thinks not of danger ; he passes over
the snow without caring for the abysses which it
may conceal ; he follows the most perilous paths,
climbs, and throws himself from rock to rock, with
out knowing how he will be able to return. Night
often comes upon him in the midst of his pursuit,
but he does not give it up for that ; he flatters him
self that the same cause will arrest the chamois,

ALPINE VALLEYS. 51
and that he will be able to come up with them on
the morrow. He passes the night, not at the foot
of a tree, like the hunter of the plain, nor in a cav
ern carpeted with verdure, but at the foot of a
cliff, and frequently upon heaps of dSbris, where
there is not the least shelter. There, alone, without
fire, without light, he takes from his sack a morsel
of cheese and a bit of barley-bread, which is his
ordinary food, — bread so dry that he is obliged to
break it between two stones, or with the axe which
he carries in order to cut steps in the ice. He
quietly makes his frugal repast, puts a stone under
his head, and sleeps, while he dreams of the route
which the chamois may have taken. But soon
awakened by the chilling air of the morning, he
rises, benumbed with cold, measures with his eye
the precipices which it will be necessary to climb in
order to reach the game, drinks a little eau de vie,
of which he always carries a small supply, replaces
his knapsack upon his shoulders, and goes forth
to run new dangers. These hunters remain some
times in this way several days in succession in these
solitudes. During this time their families, espe
cially their unhappy wives, are exposed to the most
frightful apprehensions. They do not dare even to
sleep, for fear of seeing their husbands in a dream ;
for they entertain an opinion that when a man has
perished, whether in the ice, or upon some unknown
rock, he appears by night to the person who was
dearest to him, in-order to point out where his body
is, that he may cause the last offices to be rendered
him.

52 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
" After this faithful picture of the life of the
chamois-hunter, we can hardly believe that this
chase is the object of a passion absolutely invinci
ble. I knew a young man of the parish of Sixt,
well-formed and good-looking, who had just married
a charming woman ; he said to me himself, ' My
grandfather died in the chamois-hunt, and so did
my father ; I am so well persuaded that I shall die
in it, that I call the sack which you see me have,
Monsieur, and which I carry in the chase, my
shroud,- because I am sure that I shall have no
other. But if you should offer to make my for
tune on condition of my giving up the hunt of the
chamois, I would refuse.' I made several trips
over the Alps with this man ; he possessed won
derful skill and strength, but his rashness was even
greater than either. I learned that two years after
he missed his footing on the edge of a precipice,
and met the fate which he had so confidently
expected. " The few who grow old in this pursuit bear in
their faces the marks of the life which they lead ;
a savage air, a certain haggard and wild appear
ance, makes them known in the midst of a crowd,
even when they are not in their costume. It is,
without doubt, this ill-omened physiognomy which
causes some superstitious peasants to believe that
they are wizards ; that in those solitudes they have
intercourse with the devil, and that it is he who
throws them over precipices.
" What, then, is the attraction of this mode of life ?

ALPINE VALLEYS. 53
It is not avarice, — at least, it is not a rational ava
rice, for the finest chamois is never worth more than
a dozen francs to him who kills him, even if we
take into account the value of his flesh ; and now
that their number has greatly diminished, the time
which is generally lost in order to catch one is
worth much more than that amount. But it is the
danger itself, the alternations of hope and fear, the
incessant agitations which these excite in the soul,
that stimulate the hunter, as they do the gamester,
the warrior, the sailor, and even, to a certain de
gree, the naturalist of the Alps, whose life resem
bles in some respects that of the chamois-hunter."
After leaving Hospenthal, at the upper extremity
of the valley of Andermatt, the road pursues its
way, now in gentle zigzags, now in long curves
around the base of lofty mountains, till it attains the
summit of the pass, seven thousand feet above the
sea-level. Here, in a valley whose perfect barren
ness and desolation offer a striking contrast to the
fertile plains we have left only two hours before, is
a small and gloomy lake. On its borders is the
hospice built for the succor of perishing travellers
who have occasion in winter to pass over this road.
Near it is a large inn, offering entertainment for
man and beast, though the nature of the accommo
dations led me to infer that they " entertained "
infinitely more of the latter than the former. The
inn and the hospice are both blackened by storms
and age ; the lake is black, and so is the soil on its
shores, and so are the barren mountains around.

54 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
It is one of the few scenes which are rendered
more cheerful by the drapery of winter. Here,
,in 1799, (and its aspect would seem to desig
nate it as a fitting place for such a scene,) the
French and Russians fought a murderous battle.
A small building at the road-side is yet filled with
the skulls and bones of the slain. These bear for
cible witness to the national folly which sent the
soldiers of countries a thousand miles apart to die
on this bleak mountain-top, whose rocky surface
did not afford them even a grave, and where the
eagle and the wolf alone ministered at the bed of
the dying.
It was here that occurred that incident in the life
of Suwaroff which proves so clearly the rude attach
ment felt for him by his soldiers, — an attachment
which was richly merited by his bravery, his skill,
and his devotion to them. The descent into Italy,
immediately after leaving the summit, is exces
sively steep, and so well had the French grenadiers
been posted at this point, that their fire drove back
the Russians at every attack. After the failure of
several onsets, Suwaroff caused a grave to be dug,
and, lying down in it, ordered his soldiers to bury
him there. " Death alone," said he, " can blot out
the shame I feel at seeing my children repulsed 'for
the first time." This appeal fired them with fresh
vigor; and when they had persuaded their aged
father once more to place himself at their head, he
led them on to victory. The words, "Suwaroff,
Victor," graven on the face of the cliff, testify to the

ALPINE VALLEYS. 55
site of this battle and the triumph of the, venerable*1
hero. From this place the road is conducted down'
the pass, over a precipitous descent, by no less than
twenty-eight zigzags. These are arranged in*theL
most skilful manner, and so gradual is the incline
that a carriage and span can trot down them with
ease and safety. It is interesting to notice with
what ability the procreant genius of the engineer
has availed itself of every rocky buttress and pro
jection, every shelf and ledge and " coigne of van
tage," to extend the road along the face of such
perpendicular crags.
Soon after leaving the summit of the pass the
scene changes, and the stern desolation we have
left is replaced by a landscape displaying every
form of natural beauty. Here the eye rests upon
lofty and verdant hills, covered with goats, whose
bells are heard in the distance, faintly mingling
with the fall of many waters ; quaint little cot
tages, perched upon rugged and almost inaccessible
heights ; rocky terraces, concealed by groups of
graceful birch and larch and stately fir-trees ; here
and there a gentle slope or broad pasture, clothed
with verdure and brightened with flowers of every
hue ; grand old white towers and forts of the
Lombard kings : the air is musical with the melo
dious murmurs of many and many a mountain-
rivulet, while far off in the distance blue misty
Alps steal into the sky from many a grove of gro
tesque and venerable chestnuts, with their broad,
shiny leaves. Through all this scene the Ticino

56 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
winds its way, now passing under the arches of a
bridge, now expanding into a peaceful pool, now
brawling and chafing through narrow and rocky
chasms, and then thundering, as it dashes down
some gloomy ravine. With such a prospect before
the eye, one may well believe that
" earth hath this variety from heaven
Of pleasure situate in hill and dale.''
The road, changing at intervals from one side
of the valley to the other, passes through several
galleries and tunnels hewn in the solid rock. Be
low Faido it leads through one of the grandest
gorges on the route, and so deep that barely light
enough penetrates its depths to show the falls of
the Ticino. This is one of the most imposing
scenes in the valley, and the mind recalls with rap
ture the strip of blue sky seen through rent and
ragged rocks that overhang the way, the delicate
ferns and tufts of moss that contend with waving
grasses for the possession of every nook in the face
of the cliff, the graceful arch that supports the road',
and the impetuous river, casting up from its indigo
depths thousands of blue and white bubbles, which,
bursting in the more tranquil waters below the
cataract, scatter far and wide the lacy foam which
flecks the surface. n
Those who would thoroughly enjoy this pass,
and appreciate at leisure every distinctive beauty
that presents itself to the eye, should walk through
it, as far at least as Bellinzona. In this way only
can one estimate its varied attractions. The trip

ALPINE VALLEYS. 57
may be easily made in two days and a half from
Lucerne, by taking, the steamer as far as Fliielen,
and sending one's baggage by diligence and rail
to Milan. The traveller should take a knapsack or
haversack with a moderate amount of clothing,'
a light coat, and an umbrella. This latter is in
dispensable, not only as a protection from the rain,
should a shower scowl over the landscape, but from
the sun, whose rays have greater effect upon one
on account of the difference in temperature be
tween the northern and southern sides of the Alps.
The first night should be spent at Hospenthal,
which is about thirty miles from Fliielen and two
hours' walk below the summit of the pass. An
active pedestrian might easily go on to the hospice
at that point, but the accommodations there are
poor, while the hotel at Hospenthal is large and
convenient. The second night can be passed at
Giornico, thirty miles from Hospenthal, where is a
very comfortable inn. At noon of the third day
Bellinzona can be reached, which is about seventy-
five miles from Fliielen. In an atmosphere so
exhilarating and amidst scenery so delightful fa
tigue is scarcely felt. As in the ever-changing
panorama one new beauty after another presents
itself, we are drawn on, as it were unconsciously,
with no more weariness than in a dream. The
hopes of the past have become to us the bright
fruition of the present, and all care and dejection
are absorbed in the intensity of our enjoyment.
As Goethe says, " The book of nature is, after all,

58 ' EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
the only one which has on every page important
meanings." No leaf of it teems with a deeper
significance, or can be studied with greater benefit,
than this, where all the myriad forms of nature's
works are grouped together.
In every form of watery beauty the pass of St.
Gothard is preeminent, and one can never admire
sufficiently the varied charms of its thousand cat
aracts. Some, " like a downward smoke," hang
over the face of steep precipices ; others rush with
violence over massy rocks. The most wonderful
of all is a cascade near Faido, whose current, de
scending from a great height, is again forced up
ward, in form not unlike a white ostrich feather,
fringed with curls of foam. In presence of the
irresistible beauty of falling water, old as the eter
nal hills, yet ever bright and gay, we can hardly
marvel that the ancients placed the source of eter
nal youth in a fountain. What can be more fruit
ful of unalloyed and ceaseless pleasure than the
Alpine torrent ? Born of the clouds near the
eagle's nest and the lightning's mark ; glacier-fed ;
free from mortal taint ; unwrinkled by corroding
time ; leaping from rock to rock and crag to crag
in every form of profuse and exultant beauty, — now
crowned with a rainbow, and scattering its golden
shower in the sunshine over every green and glad
some thing, now moaning, with voice low, soft, and
gentle as that of Cordelia, in some eddy under
deeply shading trees, and behind moss-covered
stones, as if it had found the refuge it sought

ALPINE VALLEYS. 59
and would never go forth ; slowly moving' under
graceful willows, whose fringed roots drink in its
precious influence till their boughs send down a
rain of foliage, as if they would gladly return to
the source from which their beauty rose ; battering
vehemently against some rocky barrier, or with
calm strength scooping out deep hollows ; leading
its long train of waters under massive arches, till
at length in peaceful meadows it broadly spreads
its current, and tranquil, passionless, without an in
undation, except the web which the delicate water-
spider circles around it, or the sigh which the fall
ing leaf wafts from its watery grave to either shore,
ever " full of all blessed condition," it ministers in
a thousand ways to the pleasures and wants of hu
manity. Such and so varied is the course of the
mountain-torrent ; such and so varied is the life
of man, and when the matured richness of a well-
spent life has expanded and purified the soul, such
is its peaceful and beneficent close.
Bellinzona, which lies at the entrance of the pass,
is a queer old town, with walls stretching across the
valley, and three castles, very well preserved, look
ing down upon it. As is the case with many other
Italian towns, everjr element of external beauty is
offset by an interior which annoys every sense
alike. Narrow streets, black with the accumulated
dirt of many years, — women, to whom washing is
evidently one of the lost arts, sitting in the market
place, and selling fruit and vegetables amid heaps of
garbage, — shops where no broom was ever known

60 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
to enter, — odors arising from every form of decay,
— harsh and discordant chattering of peasantry and
towns-people, — and many another aggravation, —
cause one to turn with satisfaction to the picturesque
scenery around it. Commanding every access to
two great roads, this town was formerly, and is
now, an important military station. It is situated
at the junction of the St. Gothard and Bernhardin
passes with the roads to Locarno and Magadino.
It was, therefore, in ancient times the nucleus
of more fierce fighting and intrigue between the
Swiss and Italians than any of their frontier towns.
The castles which predominate over it were for
many years garrisoned by the former ; and their
three bailiffs found in the exercise of an infamous
tyranny some slight indemnity for their temporary
banishment from their native mountains. From this
spot is a pleasant drive of twelve miles to Locarno
on the Lago Maggiore. Here we see for the first
time the orange and lemon growing in the open
air, and the laurustinus and myrtle everywhere in
blossom.

THE ITALIAN LAKES. 61

CHAPTER V.
MILAN AND THE ITALIAN LAKES.
Few minds are so apathetic as not to be im
pressed with the charms of the Italian lakes, Mag
giore and Como. Who would not crave to be
" a lord of words," that he might portray them in
fitting language to those who have not the privi
lege of seeing them ? And yet this is impossible,
so numberless are their attractions and with so
much subtlety are they interwoven. Theirs is that
" blending of all beauties " which produces a per
fect unity of impression on the soul, and nowhere
on earth are its sympathies with outward nature
touched to finer issues. Their charmed power
affects the mind like one of those works of ancient
Art, in which the most beautiful features of many
lovely forms were combined by the genius of the
sculptor into one shape of peerless beauty. Here
every age and condition in life finds a charm that
irresistibly draws the mind above and beyond
itself. He whom the rough friction of the world
has not yet deprived of the bloom of youth, but
who still sees the buds of pleasure opening around
him under the warm rays of the sun of happiness,
— he who stands lonely and sad after the lapse of

62 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
years, a moss-grown trunk amidst the fallen leaves
and faded flowers of past gratifications, — the rich,
sated with the long ennui of a life of indolence, —
the poor, fearing to look to-morrow in the face, —
the grave and the gay, — the bond and the free, —
learn from the contemplation of these placid waters,
overhung by misty mountains and sloping lawns,
that Nature is bounteous alike to all her children.
In the fulness of her abounding beauties the mind
is regenerated. It acquires fresh force and new
sources of delight. Here the already happy see
the refined gold of their enjoyment gilded with a
purer light ; the lily of Christian purity is painted
with the bright colors of coining heaven ; the violet
of humble faith and meek content gives forth the
added perfume of words of comfort and of cheer.
Nothing in the whole range of European scenery
presents a more attractive union of the grand and
the beautiful than the sail from Locarno to Arona.
This extends the whole length of the Lago Mag
giore, a distance of about thirty miles. As the
steamer crosses the lake twice, and visits almost
every town and village on its shores, one has an
excellent opportunity to see every element of its
varied beauty. And all is in perfect harmony.
One spirit seems to pervade the whole. As in
Mendelssohn's " Sommernachtstraum " the whole
diapason of melody fills the soul, from the deep so
norous tones of the wedding-march to strains that
fall upon the ear as gently as the last faint notes of
the ascending lark ; so, from the majestic pine-cov-

THE ITALIAN LAKES. 63
ered mountains which cast their shadows over the
lake to its slight mists and the listless sails of
drowsy boats on its surface, everything combines
to form the perfect concord of this wonderful work
of nature. All is perfectly satisfying. There is
nothing irrelevant, and the mind enjoys the full
measure of delight.
At that part of the lake where a broad bay
stretches towards the mountains beyond the Sim
plon road, are the Borromean Islands. They were
originally four small barren rocks, which the con
vulsions of past ages probably heaved up from the
bed of the lake. Two of them, the Isola Bella
and the Isola Madre, have been covered with soil
brought from the mainland ; and so mild is the cli
mate of this delicious land that the citron and the
aloe, the tea-plant and the cactus, the camphor and
the sandal-wood, and many other rare exotics, here
grow side by side in the open air. Of these islets
the Isola Bella is the most famous. Nearly two
centuries ago, when it was an unsightty crag,
Count Borromeo resolved to improve it by build
ing a palace and gardens thereon. Two wings of
the former were completed, and nothing more. In
the centre, where should be a splendid hall and
other apartments, there is now nothing but " empty,
vast, and wandering air." But the gardens were
finished, and still exist, a miracle of laborious in
genuity. Ten terraces, covered with soil from the
neighboring shore, rise one above the other, adorned
with numerous specimens of the luxuriant vegeta-

64 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
tion of the tropics, — plants which grow elsewhere in
Europe only under glass. These terraces are ar
ranged in the form of a pyramid, and decorated
with here and there a stately cypress, or statue, or
marble vase. This lofty and elaborate structure
(in shape not unlike the hanging-gardens of Baby
lon) seems strangely misplaced in so lonely a sce
nery, and from the contrast reminds one of those
patches with which the belles of old times sought to
set off a beauty already irresistible.
The shores of this part of the lake are lined with
the villas of wealthy Italians, Milanese principally,
who resort hither to pass the summer. At evening,
the whole bay is gay with the brightly colored sails
of their picturesque feluccas. This was a favorite
resort of Napoleon ; and there is still to be seen on
the Isola Bella a laurel, the largest of its race, on
which, shortly before the Battle of Marengo, the
spoiled child of destiny carved his autograph in the
shape of the word " battaglia.'" In 1797, when he
was holding his court at the castle of Monte Bello,
near Milan, he and Josephine frequently came
here with their retinue ; and the fascination of
her presence lent an additional charm to a land
scape to which inanimate nature could offer no
further adornment.
At the southerly end of Lago Maggiore the hills
«/ o OO
gradually fade away into the distant horizon, and
from their gentle slopes the eye wanders delighted
over the wealth of Italian husbandry. The plains
of Lombardy lie spread out before it, in all their

THE ITALIAN LAKES. 65
broad expanse and luxuriant fertility, as if God,
who has elsewhere breasted the surface of Italy
with life-giving hills, had here, in act of blessing,
pressed his hand calmly for a moment upon her
brow. How can such a scene be otherwise than
delightful ? long rows of elms extending in every
direction over the fields, twined with the " marriage
able arms " and dowered with " the adopted clus
ters " of the vine; groups of cheerful, swarthy, chat
tering oontadini, with wagons drawn by fat oxen ;
large baskets full of grapes, white, purple, and sea-
green, (little oval lachrymatories, overflowing with
the tears of the vine, caskets cracking and burst
ing with the wealth contained therein) ; green spires
of Italian poplars bounding wide meadows, where
peasant-women in quaint costume are turning the
hay with forked sticks ; long festoons of woodbine,
which the Italians call by the musical name vitalbe,
hanging from many a tree ; here and there a rip
pling stream, with groups of dark-eyed women on
its banks ; flocks of turkeys and geese, and black,
smooth-skinned pigs rambling about at will ; fields
of maize, glowing with large, orange- colored pump
kins ; dark old farm-houses ; white chdlets gleaming
on many a hill-side ; while in the blue distance the
Apennines look down upon the scene, and the sun,
" shepherding the fleecy clouds," leads them on to
the peaceful folds of evening.
Not the least attractive feature of the landscape
is the oxen, which are here more beautiful than
anywhere else. No creatures could be found that

66 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
would harmonize more perfectly with the scenery
around them, or could be more perfectly adapted
to the labors required of them. They are every
where to be seen, white or cream-colored, long-
horned, broad-browed, with dark, sad eyes, full and
expressive as those of Antinoiis, " crook-kneed,
and dewlapped like Thessalian bulls ; " massive and
strong, tranquil and patient, ready for the altar or
the plough, they calmly chew the cud as they per
form the work assigned them, and pass quietly on,
leaving behind them the long and fruitful furrows
of a peaceful and laborious life.
These oxen appear all the more patient to one
who has seen the brutal manner in which they are
treated, and the perpetual torture in which they
live. Their harness is extremely clumsy and pain
ful. The yoke is composed of a stout, straight
beam, into which are inserted four vertical bars,
one of which comes down over each shoulder. To
the centre of the beam- is attached the pole of the
cart. A thick rope, passing from the end of the
pole, is tightly twisted round the right' horn of the
near ox, and from thence is attached to the point
of the left horn of his companion. In consequence
of this cruel arrangement, they cannot move their
heads themselves, yet they are painfully wrenched
in different directions by the motion of the cart or
plough, and especially on striking a stone or other
impediment. An iron ring is placed in the nose
of each, and to these are fastened the cord reins, by
frequent jerks of which their speed is quickened.

MILAN. 67
The driver is armed with a long and wicked goad,
and if he feels obliged to descend from his load, he
thrusts it into the poor creatures with all the ma
levolence of a mean and vindictive soul.
It was once my fortune to see the process of shoe
ing one of these animals. On each side of him were
two stout posts, connected by a round bar about
five feet long. Beneath him, from one bar to the
other, were passed two ropes about an inch thick.
These, at first loose, were stretched, by turning
each of the bars, till the ox was raised from off the
ground. He was then entirely helpless, and the
ropes appeared to penetrate deeply into his flesh.
As he could not place himself in a convenient posi
tion to be shod, one man twisted his ear fiercely
with a pair of pincers, another lighted a small
bunch of hay and held it exactly under his nose,
while a third, turning up the long hair at the end
of his tail, savagely bit it till the blood flowed.
But after all the helpless creature could not stir,
and they were obliged to let him down to the
ground before they could shoe him. And thus the
whole affair went on. An instance of more inhu
man cruelty never came under my notice. And
yet this is only one of a thousand indignities that are
daily practised upon dumb creatures in Italy, and
which the traveller everywhere encounters.
Milan has a population of nearly 200,000 inhab
itants, and is a very old city. It was large and
prosperous in the days of the Roman Empire, and
at that time was amply adorned with temples and

68 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
palaces, theatres and baths, and all the luxurious
appointments of a great capital. But about the mid
dle of the fifth century came the day of its down
fall, and " temple and tower went to the ground "
before the ravaging hordes of Attila. It recovered
o o
its splendor in the Middle Ages, only to drink again
to the dregs the cup of humiliation, in 1162, when
Frederick I. razed it to the earth, and dispersed
the captive citizens into other lands. Only a few
churchesj towering over heaps of ruin, were left to
show that ruthless vengeance and the gratification
of every passion had not effaced from the mind of
the conqueror all reverence for the institutions of
religion. The Roman remains, as might be ex
pected, are but few, and only here and there are
found a few columns, sole vestiges of some temple
or theatre. The most extensive relics are sixteen
pillars of the Corinthian order, near the church of
San Lorenzo, which are supposed once to have
formed part of the Baths of Hercules. Their ma
jestic forms, black with age and furrowed with the
ploughshare of ruin, rise above the teeming life of
one of the most populous quarters of the city, and
seem to rebuke the frivolity and vice of the present
populace, who quarrel and swear and hive in squalid
poverty at their base.
The foundation of many ancient cities, if we may
believe their poets and historians, was due to cer
tain animals, whose opportune appearance (dead or
alive) dictated a site, where the wisdom of man
failed to guide him. Thus the advent of a milk-

MILAN. 69
white cow suggested to Cadmus an appropriate
place for the building of Thebes ; the exhumation of
a horse's skull convinced Dido and her followers
that they had found the corner-stone of Carthage ;
while the prolific mother of thirty young pigs was
so far elevated in the social scale as to become the
founder of Alba Longa. It was a " half-fleeced "
member of the latter family to whom tradition in
forms us that Milan owes both its site and its name,
this latter being in the Latin tongue Mediolanum
(fn medio lancej. Bellovesus, a Gaul, was the in
strument in the hands of Jove of carrying out the
wishes of this animal ; and the intimation thereof,
by many mild grunts and many vivacious wriggles of
its curiously twisted tail, convinced him that it had
gone to the right spot. The grateful citizens have
preserved the portrait of their foundress in the Pa
lazzo della Ragione, where it may now be seen. It
is one of the very few remains which have survived
the havoc of the Middle Ages.
During the last two centuries of the period just
mentioned Milan was famous for its articles of dress
and personal ornaments, which were therefore called
millinery. Fashion had not then begun to send forth
her stern decrees from the banks of the Seine ; and
the queens of society in those days were glad to
heighten the eloquence of their beauty with such
adornments as the modistes of Milan had to offer.
It may somewhat surprise the ladies to learn that it
is to the scanty raiment of an ambiguous animal that
is really due the name of those fashionable decora-

70 EUROPEAN MOSAIC. ¦ ¦
tions which serve to fill up the measure of their
attractions, while they deplete the purses of hus
bands and fathers.
If the traveller enter Italy by the pass of St.
Gothard, it is generally in Milan that he first encoun
ters the more polished and elegant society of that
country ; and it certainly appears extremely refined
to one who exchanges the brusqueness of Switzer
land and Germany for the courtesies of a great city
like this. There are now in Milan many families
of the old nobility, and there are also a large num
ber of merchants who have become wealthy from
the business which has for many years flowed into
the city as a centre of trade. Thus the elements of
noble birth and wealth unite to form a society of
great refinement. Even that part of it which the
traveller meets in public shows both taste and ele
gance ; and rarely does one see a more agreeable
company than that drawn together on pleasant af
ternoons in the public garden to hear the band play.
Since the new government came into power, and the
Milanese have secured the enjoyment of constitu
tional liberty, society has been greatly benefited.
With the flight of the Austrians fled the shades of
night. With the bright beams of a purer atmos
phere returned many a high-minded citizen, who
had been banished for expressing his dislike for the
darkness of despotism, or who for some slight indis
cretion had been. obliged to exchange the society of
friends and family for a noisome dungeon worse than
the Black Hole of Calcutta. They have been liber-

MILAN. 71
ated, to find freedom of thought and speech and
greater confidence and firmness among their fellow-
citizens, who see now a strong barrier between them
and tyranny. There is no Italian city whose people
appreciate more fully the blessings of liberty, and
the more so that in past ages, like many other cit
izens who struggled manfully against the despotism
that engulfed them, they have suffered from some
of the most atrocious forms of persecution. They
may yet recall the rule of Bernabo Visconti, who
years ago held the reins of government, and to the
ordinary exactions of a despot added the most in
genious forms of torment. He owned five thou*
sand hounds, whom he compelled the citizens to
maintain for his benefit. They were to be kept of
just the same size and weight. If on inspection, at
'the end of every two months, the scale showed the
difference of a pound more or less in their weight,
the unlucky keeper was fined, tortured, or impris
oned at the option of the tyrant. The Milanese of
the present day have suffered almost as badly from
their Austrian rulers. They found them and their
enormous garrison nearly as ferocious and brutal
as Visconti and his hounds. But now they and
their minions have been driven away. The people
have obtained that freedom for which they have
long sought, and in the assured confidence of better
days and mutual self-reliance, they bid fair to enjoy
prolonged prosperity.
In the refectory of the convent of Santa Maria
delle Grazi'e are a few fading vestiges of the " Last

72 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
Supper " of Leonardo da Vinci, a work which, had
the artist done nothing else, would have insured
him an eternal fame. It is now more than two
centuries and a half since this masterpiece was fin
ished. Within fifty years of its completion it was
sadly injured, and its decay has been slow and sure,
till now only a wreck remains. Everything com
bined to insure its ruin. Leonardo, by nature a
theorizer and inventor, used as a ground for the
picture a composition prepared by himself. This
looked well for a time, but the oil-painting soon
began to drop off in small flakes. The refectory,
being on very low ground, was often flooded with
mud and water, whose damp exhalations with the
smoke from the kitchen near by continually dimmed
its brightness. The monks, having no deep love
for Art, enlarged the door under the painting, cut
away the feet of Christ and several apostles, and
badly shattered the rest of it. After this, nothing
remained to complete its destruction but to let loose
upon it the restorers ; and two daubers, at different
times, nearly effaced its few remaining beauties. At
the close of the last century the refectory was used
as a stable for cavalry horses and for the storage of
hay. Of later years, however, the room has been re
paired, drains have been built around it, and every
thing possible has been done to protect these fading
remnants from further decay. Very fortunately the
head of Christ, whose wonderful beauty forms the
most attractive feature of the whole work, has been
but slightly retouched, and one can yet faintly dis-

MILAN. 73
cern that expression of divine benignity and deep
sorrow which characterizes it. In the light of that
countenance we would ever dwell. Though but
dim, it leaves an impression on the mind stronger
than any other painting. It comes up before us in
its graceful lineaments, like some dream once faintly
outlined on the dark background of sleep and never
erased from the mind. It seems a more than mor
tal work. The Greeks believed that the gods in
visions displayed the matchless beauty of their
forms to those artists who most ardently longed to
portray them worthily to the eyes of men. Thus
Jupiter appeared to Phidias, and Hercules to Par-
rhasius. We learn from Milton that the Muse
" dictated to him slumbering," and in visions of the
night presented to him many of the images in his
majestic poem. May it not have been thus with
Leonardo ? For fifteen years he strove to bring
clearly before his mind the features of the Son of
God. May not divine power have granted to these
ardent and pious aspirations a well-defined and last
ing vision of those sacred lineaments, which his
genius enabled him to preserve for our learning ?
Though this idea may be a mere flight of fancy, yet
who can stand in the presence of this matchless
work, even in its present forlorn condition, and look
upon the all-pervading sorrow too deep for tears, the
elevation of intellect, and the purity of character
expressed in that countenance, and not yield imper
ceptibly to the thought that it is the offspring of
Heaven ?

74 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
The apostles are arranged in four groups of three
each. The expression of every one is animated and
characteristic, and nothing can be more admirable
than their attitude and artistic grouping. In every
respect the design is greatly superior to the " Last
Supper " of Raphael, to that of Giotto, and also to
that of Andrea del Sarto, which are all at Flor
ence.* * The present government takes great care of the painting,
and a. custodian is' always in attendance. To every visitor is
given a printed description, lest he should unhappily not know
how to appreciate its merits. I give it here in full, as an inter
esting example, not only of Italian art-criticism, but of the pecu
liar change which the English language undergoes when passed
through the mind of an Italian : —
OUE LORD'S LAST SUPPER,
BT
LEONARDO DA VINCI,
In the Convent of Le Grazie in Milan.
Amen dico vobis, quia unus vestrum me traditurus est.
If we examine attentively each figure of this wonderful work,
we perceive, first :
Bartolomew, (that is the first figure on the left-hand side of
the spectator,) uncertain and doubtful about what he thinks to
have heard, and upon which he wants to be assured by Christ
himself, and by no others. We observe afterwards :
James the Just, who inquires, amongst his neighbors, with
more calmness, those whom he thinks apt to inform him.
Andrew, struck with wonder and amazement.
Peter, who interrogates with a threatening anger.
Giudas, amazed at being discovered, and who composes him
self again with an ill-disguised deceit.
John, turning himself to Peter, who questions him, and leaves
by this movement to he conspicuously seen the figure of our
Eedeemer. He, meek and grave, shows and almost shades

MILAN 75
The public collection of paintings at Milan, called
La Br'era, is large and well arranged. It has not
many masterpieces, but there are a few of great
merit. One of the most beautiful appeared to me
to be the famous work of Raphael, " Lo Sposa-
lizio," or the Marriage of the Virgin. In the cen
tral background is an edifice of most harmonious
proportions and graceful outlines. In the middle of
the foreground is the high priest. At his right hand
stands the Virgin, with five female figures behind
her; on his left is Joseph, in front of the disappointed
suitors, his five rivals for her hand. Her figure is
slender and symmetrical, and her youthful features
wear an expression of meek resignation, — the sub
mission of the doomed, rather than the serene happi
ness of the loving. Joseph is manly and tall, with
thick gray beard and whiskers, and well advanced in
years. He bears a rod, from the end of which a lily
has blossomed, and thus shown the divine preference
for him over the other suitors. The rods which they
bore they are in the act of breaking at the sight
of this miracle. They are younger and handsomer
than he, and are looking downwards with an air
7 o
¦ of dejection. The high priest, who is joining the
his deep anguish, which, however, does not in the least alter his
beauty, greatness, and majesty.
James the Elder, who is horror-struck.
Thomas, who swears to revenge himself.
Philip, who protests his love.
Matthew, who confirms sorrowfully our Redeemer's words.
Taddeus, who suspects. •
Simon, who doubts.

76 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
hands of Joseph and his betrothed, has an air of
perfect contentment, which contrasts strongly with
the deep melancholy of the other figures. His aspect
is extremely Jewish, and he looks like one who has
just made a good bargain ; as Shylock, for example,
would have appeared had he betrothed Jessica to
the rich and aged Tubal, instead of bewailing her
escape with Lorenzo. To one who knew not the
subject of this painting it would seem to be a Jew
ish father consummating a wealthy match for a
young and unresisting daughter. The scene ac
cords with the traditions of the Romish Church,
wThich Raphael never doubted, and for which he
had the deepest veneration. Except for this relig
ious element, he never would have chosen a subject
so little in accordance with his own feelings as the
espousal of a fair young girl by an old man.
As a work of Art the painting is wonderfully
beautiful. The coloring is fresh and clear, and
the verdant landscape, the architectural elegance
of the temple in the background, the correct draw
ing and attitude of the figures around it, the aif of
melancholy meditation which seems to pervade not
only the faces of those in the foreground, but even
their forms, their attitude, and their very drapery,
constitute a scene which will ever be a delight to
those who have been so favored as to see it. It is
in an excellent state of preservation, and the neces
sary restorations have been made with great care,
and, what is quite unusual, have really developed
new beauties. This is especially true of the " most

MILAN. 77
living landscape," whose delicate outlines light up
the background, and, seen through the open doors
and beyond the slender pillars and graceful arches
of the temple, adorn the work of man with the un
speakable beauties of nature.
The rest of the pictures in this collection are
many of them estimable, and the lover of Art
here finds abundant employment for all his leisure
moments. Here are excellent paintings by Titian,
Guercino, Gaudenzio Ferrari, and many other great
masters, whose works make the present radiant with
the light of other days. One of the most attractive
is an exquisite design by Leonardo da Vinci. It is
a head of Christ, in black, red, and white crayons,
and strikingly reminds one of the famous portrait
in the Cenacolo. It is supposed by many to be the
original sketch for that work. There is the same
o
expression of divine sorrow for fallen man ; of mor
tal anguish at his fate, the pains of which, in all
their intensity, now begin to press upon his soul ;
of majestic pity even for him who is about to betray
him ; all accompanied by an elevated intellectual
expression, which appears still more strongly in the
painting. The Ambrosian Library was founded two hun
dred and fifty years ago by Cardinal Borromeo, and
has formed the nucleus of a vast collection of works
of Art, manuscripts and palimpsests, unique books,
autoo-raph letters, and original writings by eminent
authors. Here are several letters of her whose
woes seem almost to darken the page as we read, —

78 EUROPEAN M0S1AC.
Beatrice Cenci, whom love, beauty, youth, and
rank only served to light on her way to torture and
death. Not the least interesting is a very large
volume filled with drawings by Leonardo, which,
in their finished elegance and accuracy, as well as
their extraordinary variety, illustrate his genius and
versatility of mind. Every fanciful design here
appears : military machines, bridges, caricatures,
sketches .for paintings sacred and profane, and odd
conceits clone in the lighter moments of the artist.
They are provided with descriptions in his own
hand, which, as he was accustomed to guide his pen
from right to left, are not very easy to read. For
merly twelve of these volumes were to be fouud
here, but eleven of them were taken by the French
to Paris. The gallery and museum adjoining this
librae are extremely interesting, and contain many
works by Michel Angelo and other artists of fame.
It is the Cathedral of Milan which attracts, more
than anything else in that city, the attention of the
traveller. It is seldom that one meets with a more
perfect example, not only of the architectural splen
dor and religious fervor, but of the persevering
energy, which prevailed in the Middle Ages, — an
energy which enabled the leading minds of that
period, notwithstanding their want of the mechan
ical appliances and ingenious inventions which we
possess for the economy of labor and force, to
erect structures of which it were folly at the pres
ent day even to begin the foundations, and which,
as we find them among us, we can hardly pre-

MILAN.

79

serve from the mutilating fingers of time. It is,
moreover, an admirable instance of the results aris
ing from the condensation of power, when all its
elements are brought to bear upon a single object,
by a great mind, centring in itself the bodily and
mental capacities of others. In the presence of a
temple, whose interior is so grand and solemn,
whose exterior is adorned with so much elaborate
taste, the criticism of small minds is foolishness ;
and even the clear intellect of genius and the study
of a lifetime are reluctant to suggest any improve
ment where there is so much which deserves admi
ration. Generally, the mind is content to yield it
self, without resistance, to the influences around it,
while under lofty arches springing from massive pil
lars whose outline is faintly seen in the submissive
light, and through aisles stretching far away in the
dim perspective, the organ sends forth its waves of
solemn music, and the choir in their white robes,
like angels, respond at intervals to its tones, as their
distant surges break upon the ear, — while marble
statues here and there reveal themselves of saints
and benefactors of the church, to whose virtues their
posterity have decreed a burial-place so magnificent,
— while the high altar holds aloft its candles, now
faintly flickering in the gloom, now bringing out in
strong relief the features of the dying Son of God
on the cross, and behind it glow the great win
dows, their deep, rich hues rendered still deeper
and richer by the last rays of the setting sun.
What mind can resist a scene so imposing, so rich

80 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
in every attribute of solemnity, so suggestive of
mental power and divine splendor ? Here the
weakest mind expands, and knows that it is indeed
an emanation of the Deity. Here we seem to be
sensible of the near approach, the almost visible
presence of God, with a clear confidence that here,
if anywhere, we can wring from him a blessing.
That man is not to be envied who can in such a
place indulge in carping criticism, or who does not
feel the better aspirations of his soul strengthened
and purified.
Under these arches, which, soaring aloft in the
gloom, appear to draw our souls beyond ourselves
and " intimate eternity to man," the genius of the
place works powerfully upon the imagination, and
one unconsciously perceives that the architect, like
the poet, can " give to airy nothings a local habi
tation and a name." And the source of his influ
ence over us in this cathedral is the same as that
of the poetry of Milton, which offers to the mind
images that are much more impressive from the fact
that their outlines are but dimly suggested. Here
the imagination sees around it the
" pillared shade
High over-arched, and echoing walks between,"
" Where more is meant than meets the ear,"
while its arches are lost in " the empty-vaulted
night." The deep notes of the organ are prolonged
among those far-reaching aisles, like the sound of
the curfew, " Over some wide-watered shore,
Swinging slow with sullen roar."

MILAN. 81
In the " dim, religious light " we see dusky forms
flitting from column to column, like " calling shapes
and beckoning shadows dire," and in their uncer
tain voices, which fall distantly upon the ear, we
hear those " airy tongues that syllable men's names
On sands and shores and desert wildernesses,"
while the soul, upborne on the slowly fading clouds
of incense, has a foretaste of that " gentle wafting to
immortal life " which Milton so well expressed, and
which his own death so fully exemplified. The poet
felt, as we know, the strongest admiration for the
glorious specimens of Gothic architecture which
adorn his native country, and the strongest sym
pathy with the influences which accompany them,
and that notwithstanding the fanatical hatred ex
pressed by his party for all such objects. Those
minds which are the most strongly impressed by
the beauties of " Paradise Lost " will perceive most
clearly the attractions of a Gothic cathedral. The
source of their power over the imagination is the
same. Both are poems, the one written, the other
hewn. " Paradise Lost" is Milton's Gothic temple,
and, like that, is adorned with every image which a
pure taste could draw from the beauties of nature,
— - from " herb, tree, fruit, and flower glistering
with dew."
This cathedral has been called a Gothic chaos, and,
so far as purity of architecture is concerned, perhaps
the term is not far from correct. Yet one can never
admire and study sufficiently the profuse and elab-

82 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
orate decorations, especially those which adorn the
exterior, and which, if not architecturally correct,
are yet very impressive. The eye is captivated by
elegantly carved door-ways and window-frames, rich
in every form of labored ornamentation, — bird and
flower, leaf and fruit, vine and herb, and all the
wealth which the Gothic artist borrowed from na
ture's exuberant fertility ; cherubim and seraphim,
supporting graceful and well-designed friezes ; deep
mouldings adorned with ball-flowers and foliage,
quatrefoil and trefoil ; the delicate netted tracery
of high-arched windows, bearing aloft, like gorge
ous flowers, their bright glass, which, decorated
with every elaborate design, glowing with varied
and harmonious coloring, replete with figures
taken from Scripture story, and blazing with the
hues of an eternal sunset, irradiates the saints and
martyrs in the interior, who, wearing the linea
ments of exceeding peace, look down from many
and many a quaint capital and highly wrought'
canopy, or stand around "lofty grouped pillars, rest
ing upon every form of leafy and floral beauty,
and bathed in the misty incense or the breaking
surges of the organ. Here and there appear gro
tesque forms, chimera or griffin, sphinx or dragon,
no longer like the monsters which seem to glare
from the gnarled and knotted branches of an oak,
no longer quaintly and fiercely grinning from the
rough grain of granite or sandstone, where the
rude but independent genius of Northern work
men has placed them, but looking strangely tame

MILAN. 83
in the mellow smoothness of white marble. Soar
ing above all, and standing forth in clear outline
against the bright blue sky of Italy, rise a thous
and pinnacles of whitest marble, each formed
of cluster above cluster of delicately carved can
opies of ever decreasing size, till crowned with its
statue of angel, apostle, or holy father, or, in more
slender shape, their angles studded with knobs of
marble, like the fruit of a climbing vine, spring
skywards with the elan, the elastic tension, of
a vigorous jet of water, suddenly checked in
its first impulse and petrified into marble. Pre
dominating over these, the bright nucleus of the
whole and combining all their beauties, towers the
lofty, glistening turret of the cathedral, crested with
the statue of the Madonna, soaring above the
gloom of the church below, as if her sainted soul
were rising from the tomb to heaven, escorted by
attendant angels.
The Duomo of Milan rises above the plains of
Lombardy, like the mountains of Switzerland above
the lower lands of Europe ; and as the eye ranges
from their towering and peaked snows to its lofty,
shining form, it seems like a Christian temple
carved from some wandering and lonely Alp, upon
whose icy pinnacles, spotless, erect, untrodden of
man, not bowing their crested heads even to the
lightning, ever resting calmly above the wind and
storm which rage about their base, glowing with
the bright sunshine beyond the clouds, reposing in .
the blue ether, serene and silent as the morning

84 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
star, pure as the polar snow, divine messengers
might well alight when charged with tidings of
love and mercy to sinful men. Yes, there is in
deed a " mountain brotherhood " between this ca
thedral, this " eternal ark of worship undefiled,"
and the Alps. It may well symbolize to our souls
those majestic features of nature which elevate us
far above the grossness of earth up to the Creator
of all.

FLORENCE. 85

CHAPTER VI.

FLORENCE.

In the minds of many, perhaps I might say most
persons, there exists a great delusion in regard to
the climate of Italy. The popular prejudice is in
its favor, and the great majority of people consider
that country as a sort of paradise which enjoys a
perpetual summer. In consequence, many travel
lers on their arrival find themselves unprepared
with suitable clothing, and suffer from their impru
dence when it is too late to remedy it. In the
northern part of Italy, the cold in winter is often
extremely severe, and the snow abundant. In Flor
ence, the climate at that season is very disagreeable,
and few cities offer a more comfortless residence.
From November to March, the weather is at most
times remarkably chilly, and the north wind, the
Tramontana, blowing across the snowy Apennines,
causes great suffering, especially among the indi
gent. To a foreigner from the North it is particu
larly troublesome, as cold in warm climates is always
harder to bear than in more northerly latitudes. The
Tramontana is full as disagreeable as the east wind
of New England, being quite as raw and penetrat
ing. When accompanied, as it frequently is, by rain,

86 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
which comes down in water-spouts, the very depth
of discomfort is reached. In the short days of win
ter, dark and with no twilight, when the rain was
thus pouring1 in the narrow streets of the city, lined
on each side with tall houses, and making the scene
still more gloomy by shutting out the sky, I could
not help thinking that Dante here found the orig
inal of that part of the " Inferno " where were
hapless. wretches upon whose heads
" Dark water tumbled through the gloom profound."
In the depth of the loneliness one could hardly
avoid repeating, with a mournful satisfaction, —
" I' sono al terzo cerchio della piova
Eterna, maladetta, fredda, e greve."
To the rain and cold must be added the further
annoyance of smoky chimneys, and the entire ab
sence of any conveniences for heating apartments
to a sufficient degree for comfort. During the
whole month of December I found it impossible to
warm my room so that I could not see my breath
in any part of it, even though sitting close to
the stove, or rather the little soapstone box which
served in place of that article. In Rome and Na
ples, however, the temperature is always milder,
and there one can pass the winter months without
a fire in his room, especially if it have a sunny
location. In Florence, with the approach of the raw and
dismal Tramontana, which almost makes one's bones
rattle, and benumbs every faculty, begins the reign

FLORENCE. 87
of scaldini. A scaldino is a little earthen pot, with
a bail of the same material, and frequently with a
flat cover of iron net-work. These are of various
sizes, rude in their manufacture, very coarse and
very portable. In the summer season, they serve to
hold milk or other liquids, or to make omelettes
in. In cold weather, they are filled with warm
ashes and ignited charcoal, and are to be seen in
the hands of nearly every man, woman, and child.
This is the whole heating apparatus of nine tenths of
the people of Florence, and I might perhaps say
with truth of all Italy. There are no stoves or fire
places in most of the houses, except those necessary
for cooking ; and if there were any, they could not
be used. The scarcity and cost of fuel are so great
that they would serve only to aggravate their
owners by suggesting a luxury beyond their means.
The scaldini are the life-preservers of the Floren
tines, and by no other means could they resist the
intense cold and damp of their disagreeable winter.
Every man carries one, or croons over it, or holds
it against his body. Every woman puts one under
her skirts, and rests her feet upon it, and often holds
another in her lap. Each child bears a scaldino of
small capacity, with its modicum of ashes and coal.
Every beggar, male or female, contrives to own one
of these, and probably finds it absolutely necessary
as a safeguard from the effects of the cold. It cer
tainly struck me as remarkable to be pursued along
the banks of the Amo by an old, gray-headed fe
male, flourishing one of these, and crying, in a

88 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
whining way, " Son' poverina, date • me qualche
cosa ; " which, freely translated, means, " I am a
poor little old woman, — poorer than I ought to be,
in fact. Can't you see how cold I am, and how
like the mischief the wind blows my hair ? Give
me something ! " (with a strong accent on the
"Give"). In winter, the poor undergo untold sufferings in
Florence. I used to see begging daily on one of
the most frequented streets a woman and three chil
dren. They were bareheaded, and clothed in rags.
They were shoeless and stockingless and scaldino-
less. One of the latter was an infant in its moth
er's arms. Yet there they stood in the drenching
rain, day after day, and entirely unprotected.
How they could live through all this destitution
and exposure seemed a mystery.
It is somewhat remarkable that the natives can
bear the cold of their climate with less annoyance
than foreigners. They are so accustomed to pass
ing their winters without fire that they generally
find even the warmth of a comfortable room in
that season oppressive. I have known an Ital
ian gentleman, when making a call on foreign
friends, to be so overcome by the moderate heat of
the apartment as to be unable to stay in it with
out fainting. And yet they bear the intense heat
of their summers with little apparent discomfort.
During all this dismal weather the ground did
not freeze, and the plants continued to flourish with
luxuriance. Their bright leaves and blossoms formed

FLORENCE. 89
almost the only enlivening feature in the landscape.
Under my window, orange and lemon trees grew in
the open ground without protection. They fairly
crouched under their burden of fruit, and were
covered with long, tender shoots of vivid green.
In the garden was a large clump of camellias, full
of pink and white flowers. The hedges were
white with clusters of laurustinus, and gay with
pink roses. The fig-trees were covered with little
green nuggets, looking fat and cheerful, and confi
dent of being eaten about the first of January. Yet,
over them all, I looked upon the snow-covered
Apennines in the distance, and shivered with cold.
Florence is one of the noisiest cities I ever vis
ited, and in its narrow streets, on a fair day, the
uproar is quite fearful. The street-cries are as
numerous and dissonant as those of London once
were, and require an expenditure of vocal strength
which would shatter the lungs of any one but a
Tuscan or a Neapolitan. First came, early in the
morning, numerous boys shouting, " Lo Zenzerof
This is the title (signifying " The Ginger") of a
sarcastic little sheet which was very popular, and
was sold for three centesimi, five of which coins are
equal to one cent of our currency. These ran a
friendly and noisy race with other ragged youths,
(rag-azzo, by the way, is the Italian for boy,) who
called " Gazef del Pop' " with great animation.
This is their abbreviation of " La Gazetta del Po-
polo" or " People's Journal," price five centesimi.
These are soon followed by boys, or perhaps worn-

90 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
en, trundling long, low, two-wheeled carts, full of
baked pears, and screaming, " Burney ! Burney !
Burney I " (Buoniif) till the whole neighborhood
rings again. Then there are men drawing carts,
with rolls of cloth, — pantaloons and coats in the
chaotic state. Then one sees, perhaps, a dealer in
chestnut-pudding. This is large, round, flat, and
thick, and of a dark red color. A deal of it is eaten
here in slices. It is compounded with poor olive-
oil, and looks and tastes like brown putty. His
next competitor is one who sells roosters' combs,
and the heads and claws of poultry, which these eco
nomical people boil into a soup. Here come young
squashes, with the flower still clinging to the little
green ball, and fruit, green and mottled, and acorn-
shaped, which is the crude original of jujube-paste.
Then comes a fruit-dealer, with splendid figs,
quinces, pomegranates, and grapes. There is a
boy with matches, at a centesimo per box ; and
every soul vociferating and bawling at the top of
his lungs, till the din ' is really terrific, and one
appreciates the blessing of occasional deafness.
A favorite delicacy is squash or pumpkin seeds
roasted in a stove and salted. Of these for two
centesimi an almost fabulous quantity can be
bought. One hears a fearful clangor, as if a revo
lution had broken out at the corner of the next
street. On examination, he is surprised to find
that it is merely the natural expression of a man
who has squash-seeds to dispose of. Anon, the up
roar ceases for a moment ; but it is not the result

FLORENCE. 91
of an earthquake which has swallowed up this dis
turber of heaven and earth. It is only the ap
proach of a small boy, who produces two centesimi
from some cavity in the shreds he wears, and goes
away in ecstasy with every crevasse about him
filled to bursting with the rich, ripe, luscious fruit.
Is it not strange that two centesimi in the hands
of a ragazzino should be an engine of such power ?
People here have great fondness for bread contain
ing grapes, and will even pay an extra centesimo
per pound for that bonne bouche. Brooms are sold in
Florence without handles, as the latter are a needless
expense. Every family is provided with a broom-
handle, as part of the outfit when they begin house
keeping. When the broom is worn out a new one
is bought, and the old handle transfers its allegiance
to that. The stump is used to cook two or three
meals with.
Food of all kinds is very cheap in Florence,
especially fruit. A breakfast of tea or coffee and
bread and butter, with a bagatelle of salt, costs ten
cents. A veal or mutton cutlet, or beefsteak, with
potatoes, is the same. The number of chestnuts, figs,
nuts, peaches, grapes, and other fruits, one can buy for
a cent is wonderful. Many of the people live almost
entirely on chestnuts and bread, and never taste
meat. This fruit is as much the popular food as is
the potato in Ireland, and the failure of the chest
nut crop causes as much suffering as the decay of
the latter vegetable among the verdant natives of
that green gem. For five centesimi one can obtain

92 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
enough of them for a meal, and they are very nutri
tious and digestible. They are sold both roasted
and boiled, amid the discordant shouts of the tawny,
muddy-faced sellers and the violent gesticulations
of the same complexioned buyers. I believe they
are the only articles in the city, except pictures and
statues, which are not sold by weight. Everything
else is so much la libra (per pound). If one buys
a peach or an apple, it must be weighed ; and so with
grapes, wood, charcoal, and many other things.
These are not sold at so many soldi (or cents)
per pound, but for so many centesimi, five of which,
as I said before, equal one of our cents. The prices
vary from day to day. One day grapes, for exam
ple, will cost twelve centesimi the pound, and the
next, perhaps, thirteen. People in Florence don't
jump recklessly in a single day from one soldo
to another, as we do. From this use of exces
sively small coins, one can infer the scarcity of
money and consequent low prices which prevail.
A portly Tuscan, with five centesimi in his pocket,
feels quite independent. (And they are, by the
way, very neat little disks of copper, stamped with
an accurate portrait of a very homely king, wear
ing a large moustache.) He is good for fifteen or
twenty chestnuts at the next fruit-stand, and will
not necessarily starve till the last centesimo has
disappeared. He might even afford to treat a
friend on an emergency.
The confectionary and pastry of Florence are
very good, especially the latter. The little cakes,

FLORENCE. 93
like tarts, cream-cakes, and others, which they call
"paste" are sold for exactly seven centesimi
apiece, and never vary a hair's-breadth, — not even
during the last revolution, when the Grand Duke
was banished. Butter is brought to one's door,
fresh every morning, in small round pats, at five
centesimi. No salt is ever put in it, and every one
is expected to add his own at the table, — bread and
butter and salt being invariably served together.
Flowers are very abundant and beautiful. Tube
roses, carnations, orange and lemon blossoms, helio
trope, myrtle, and laurel, in short, all the floral
wealth of nature, can be found in profusion. In
the flower-market every delicious odor fills the air,
till it really becomes heavy and oppressive. And
then, (not to be guilty of bathos,) to think of the
cheapness ! Three soldi for a bunch of tuberoses,
two for a sprig of orange or lemon flowers, and
such heaps of roses and carnations for nearly noth
ing ! One of the Florentine peculiarities is the
flower-girls, who frequent the cafSs, restaurants,
and public promenades, with baskets of rose-buds
and other small flowers. These they try to insin
uate into the button-hole of any gentleman who
desires to be thus illuminated. If permitted, they
will do this daily during the whole of a stranger's
stay in the city, without expecting any pay except
a small douceur at his departure. These females
are not neat little sylphs, with the air of having
just floated out of some fairy-tale, but stout old
women, wrinkled and brown, with coarse straw

94 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
hats, and not a little of the virago in their aspect.
They certainly cannot be called " unprotected fe
males ; " and it struck me that any man who should
ever contend with one of them, either in-words or
blows, would be pretty sure to get the worst of it,
even if it should turn out to be " a discussion with
sticks." The citizens here seem to have a natural deprav
ity for owls, and numbers of them are always on
sale in the streets, to be kept as pets. They are
not the great owls which we generally see or hear
in our own country, whose blinking yellow eyes
are as large as a small pond, but neat little fowls,
with a quaint, demure expression, suggesting a vast
amount of wisdom condensed into a very small
space. One of the most popular Italian periodi
cals is an almanac called " L'Amico di Casa." In
the last number is quite an interesting article on
the owl. The writer eloquently demands justice for
that bird, portrays the many virtues of his private
character at length, and concludes by remarking,
" Una civetta in campagna e piit utile di died gatti"
" An owl in the country is of more use than ten
cats." The market in Florence is a very amusing resort
for those who are fond of studying human nature.
It is held in a very long and narrow lane, fearfully
muddy, and lined and obstructed in every part with
baskets and barrels, carts and boxes, so as to be
hardly passable. Here one finds every possible
variety of fruit and flowers, fish, flesh, and fowl,

FLORENCE. 95
cooked and uncooked. Almost everything is eaten
by the poor of this city, and a fat cat is regarded as
a dainty morsel. I sometimes think it a pity that
these nocturnal marauders cannot be disposed of in
that way among us. If they knew their impending
fate, their serenades ' might be shorter and more
to the point. One favorite food is fried cakes of
coagulated blood, which are eaten with avidity.
The market-people have a great weakness for frit
ters cooked in fat. Every time I passed through
there, men were to be seen with the preparations for
this delicacy before them. These consist of a large
kettle of boiling fat, and another vessel of batter,
quite liquid, with small scraps of meat therein.
The presiding genius plunges his hand into the
batter, without the needless intervention of any fork
or spoon, seizes a bit of meat, and, with the small
amount of batter clinging thereto, pops it into the
fat. Down it goes to the bottom,, but soon returns
to the surface, — sputtering and puffing as if this
mode of life disagreed with it, — in the form of a
nut of dough with a kernel of meat. These are
eaten with salt, and thought to be very savory,
though there appeared to be very few transient
cats or dogs around ; and if any passed that way,
they looked askant, and stood not upon the order
of their going, but went at once.

96 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.

CHAPTER Vn.

FLORENCE.

The clocks in this city are very ill-conditioned,
and have but one hand. It is odd that they should
be in such a crippled state. They show only the
hours, and " take no note of time save by its loss."
If one wishes to know the exact minute and has
no watch, he must hire a cab and drive about till
the clocks strike, or else sit down on a door-step and
wait. The municipal authorities would do well to
sell half a dozen of these " uncertain speakers," and
buy hands for the rest. Another peculiarity of
the " Lily of Tuscany " is the apparent liberality
of a certain class of the citizens, to wit, the den
tists, the physicians, and the barbers. If one asks
the fee for a prescription, or for relieving him of
a troublesome tooth, or abbreviating his locks, the
reply is, " Niente, Signore," " Nothing, Sir," with a
profound bow, but he really leaves it to your liber
ality to pay as much as you please. In this way,
a foreigner is greatly annoyed. He, of course,
wishes to have a reputation for liberality, as who
does not? He hesitates, fumbles in his pockets,
and knows not what to do ; meanwhile, he who has
so nobly and confidingly intrusted himself to the

FLORENCE. 97
magnanimity of " it signore" continues to bow and
scrape. In the end, one generally gives twice the
value of the service performed. If this system
were in vogue among us, however, I fear profes
sional men would be less numerous than at present.
The barbers do all the bleeding in Florence,
and find a constant demand for their services.
The reckless way in which the Italians allow their
lives to be drained from their bodies is astonishing.
This is considered throughout Italy a remedy for
every ailment. People are bled even for mental
excitement. At Naples, during the last eruption
of Vesuvius in 1861, when the city was shaken
by a slight earthquake, twenty thousand persons
are said to have been phlebotomized in order to
eradicate the seeds of fright from their systems.
It was a veritable reign of terror, and blood flowed
in streams. Every barber was obliged to work
night and day, and, even with' that, had ten times
as much as he could do. Long queues were formed
in front of their shops, and men waited for hours,
as thev do before a theatre in order to gain admit
tance to a successful tragedy. The medical science
of the Italians is everywhere in a barbarous state,
and it is not strange that Cavour was bled to death,
as he certainly was. The views of their physicians
are extraordinary, and far behind the age. It is the
general opinion that consumption of the lungs is
a contagious disease. When a person dies of this
complaint, the laws require that his clothing and
bedding shall be burned, and that the plastering

98 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
shall be scraped from the walls and ceiling of the
room in which he was ill, and new put on ; and
all at the expense of the heirs of the deceased. I
heard of one case where the friends of an Amer
ican, who died in Florence, were obliged to pay
two hundred dollars on this account.
Medicine is often given in the wafers that are
used by the Romish Church in their religious cere
monies ; that is, of course, before they are conse
crated. These are thin disks, made of flour and
water, and stiffened by stamping with a hot iron.
They are impressed with the figure of a crucifix, and
the letters I. H. S. The language of the prescrip
tions is, " Prendesi con ostie" " To be taken with
wafers." One of these is soaked for a minute in
water, when it becomes soft: The medicine is placed
in its centre, rolled up in it, and so taken con amore.
Thus the means sanctifies the end. There is much
blindness among the Italians, and one often sees,
in the course of a walk, fifteen or twenty unfor
tunates thus afflicted. The cause of it I do not
know, though it is doubtless largely occasioned by
early neglect and hardship. But little attention
is paid to personal cleanliness. Water is looked
upon as " great medicine," and its external or inter
nal application is regarded with horror. Nothing
short of impending death could tempt an Italian
into a bathing-house.
Everywhere on the continent, and especially in
Italy, one is struck by the small quantity and poor
quality of the food which the common people con-

FLORENCE. 99
snme, as well as by the various ways in which they
contrive to disguise it, so that mean viands are made
not only eatable, but even palatable. This is par
ticularly noticeable to an American, in whose coun
try food is so abundant that the superfluity of a
single family would support at least two in Europe.
The meagre supply of provisions arises from poverty
and the general scarcity of money in Italy. We do
not find there an active trading community, as in
our own country, where great fortunes are constant
ly accumulated, where wages are high, and every
industrious man can live in comfort and even lux
ury. With them mercantile energy is almost dead,
long ages of misrule have blighted their former vigor,
and they are now dependent upon foreigners for
many of the necessaries of life. They have no in
ventive genius, and no knowledge of the laws of trade,
which have been so systematized in other countries.
The variety of their cooking results principally
froni the natural distaste of a sensual and blase
nation for simple food. Even the palates of the
poorest must be titillated by high-seasoned dishes.
They must have condiments and sauces to suit
an artificial taste. The nutritious chestnut is made
into an oily and indigestible pudding. Bread must
be prepared with grapes, and vegetables peppered
and spiced into a high-flavored soup. " A kind of
cake, which is very popular and sold in thousands,
is called " Panforte di Sienaf That every one
may know how to make it himself, the receipt is
given in " L' Amico di Casa." It is composed of

100 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
honey, almonds, burnt filberts, citron, pepper,
ground cloves, cinnamon, grated chocolate, lemon,
rice-flour, sugar, and white of egg. These are
formed into a paste, and baked in small round
loaves. Many of their dishes are savory, but
hardly digestible. The pleasure of eating them
certainly cannot compensate those who make them
for the time spent in their preparation. This is an
important item to hard-working people. In a large
community it represents a capital of millions, which
might be added to the resources of the country.
A Florentine almost invariably takes for breakfast
a simple roll, generally without butter, and a cup of
coffee. He eats it as late as he can, and if, as is
often the case, he has no more in his pocket than
enough to pay for this simple refreshment, he does
not care. In his constitution the force of inertia
is very great, and unless he sees clearly the need
or advantage of changing his position, he remains
as he is. He has a general antipathy to going
to bed, to getting up, or to any kind of exertion.
His plain breakfast comes from necessity, and not
from choice. If he has the money to pay for a
luxurious " colazione," he will order it, and will
devour more apoplectic mushrooms, truffles, and
" omelettes d I'huile" than any American would
think of eating, unless he wished to die of indiges
tion. If it were not for poverty, he would gladly,
like the ancients, "brag of the madness of deli
cious feasts, and that his kitchen was ruining his
patrimony."

FLORENCE. 101
More is spent for wine in Italy than for eatables,
and a poor vintage is a great national trouble.
Even the peasant cannot do without his foglietta,
of Montepulciano or Chianti. If taken at a cafe,
it costs a franc, or perhaps a franc and a half;
and yet he must have it. It is a simple treat,
however, and much more can be said in its favor
than in that of their cookery. The national drinks
are more innocent than those of any other nation.
Certainly more so than that of the English navvy,
who imbibes the source of joy from a beaker of the
wine of barley, and is never perfectly happy till he
is perfectly boozy, and can see his ruddy face in the
bottom of an inverted mug. The Italian wines are
O .
extremely pleasant to the taste, but are made to
last only from year to year. No alchohol is mixed
with them, and they are, therefore, the pure juice
of the grape. The people are very unskilful wine-
makers. They almost always labor in great haste,
and nothing can tempt them to take any pains, or
to improve upon the methods employed by their
ancestors. They are very improvident and care
less; and at a good harvest, when the grapes are
very abundant, not only is the process conducted
with much negligence, but there is immense waste
on account of deficient preparations and want of
the necessary materials and utensils. The wines
are very cheap, to be sure ; but even so small a
price as a franc for a flask is a large sum for a
poor person.
There is but little matrimonial or domestic hap-

102 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
piness in Italy. Marriages never take place for
love, and the young people see but very little of
each other before their wedding-day. The dowry
is taken into consideration in preference to anything
else. This is true of all classes, and even Beppo, the
Roman beggar, gave to his daughter, on her mar
riage, a dowry of three hundred scudi, being part
of the donations which his wheedling pertinacity
had wrung from helpless forestieri by years of men
dicity, (and, I might add with truth, of mendacity^.
An Italian has no fondness for the comforts of
home. Of the delights of a pure and peaceful
domestic life he has not the slightest appreciation.
It is an Italian proverb, incessantly quoted, and
that with a serious air as if it were a melancholy
and indisputable truth, " fl matrimonio e la tomba
dH amore" " Marriage is the grave of love." The
idea that " one man with one unceasing wife "
must " play the long rubber of connubial life " is
not entertained by him for a moment. He must live
in society. He must eat and drink and smoke with
all the world. He must show himself in public,
wearing the most elaborate results of his tailor's
genius and all the jewelry he can afford to buy.
He must do his part towards crowding the theatres,
the cafes, the billiard-halls, and gambling-saloons.
And it is well if this is all. Every enjoyment is
artificial and unhealthy, like his food. Alone by
himself, he is nothing and worse than nothing ; he
is utterly helpless and unhappy, a mere negation
of nature. He has no sources of enjoyment aris-

FLORENCE. 103
ing from mental pleasures or habits of thought.
In public, however, with the men of his race, he
is at least one of those ciphers, which, with a unit
at their head, make a brave show.
From these circumstances arises matrimonial in
fidelity, which both husband and wife regard as not
of the slightest importance, provided one does not
interfere with the other. As Byron says, " They
ma.rry for their parents, and love for themselves."
The Italian dispenses with all domestic ties, and
avoids all social duties and responsibilities as far as
possible. He has no honorable anxiety to improve
his position. He has no wish by diligent applica
tion to increase a pitiful income. His principal
aim in life is to marry a woman of property. Fail
ing in this, he will try to obtain from a paltry sal
ary as much vanity and folly as he can. He will
live on the smallest pittance in private, that he may
make a grand display in public. The society of
Florence is by no means what it should be. In
truth, nothing like what we term society exists there.
That which goes by the name is a mere agglomer
ation of people, brought together only by conceit,
love of show, and selfish gratification. All its no
bler elements are entirely wanting. The capital
of Tuscany has for years enjoyed a somewhat du
bious reputation as the resort of those whom indig
nant society in other countries has banished from
its pale for violations of its laws. It has proved
the refuge of many a La Traviata and Becky Sharp.

104 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
Here they can maintain a certain position, and drown
the sorrows of sin for a season in the midst of a
people as worthless as themselves. The sensuality
of the Florentines is fearful. Few cities have ever
attained to deeper and more abandoned depravity,
or have more completely blunted the moral sense,
than this. A friend informed me that while staying
in that capital he " confessed " to a Spanish priest
who had passed several years there. The latter
enjoined upon him to have as little intercourse as
possible with the people during his stay at Flor
ence, as they were so hopelessly bad that nothing
but injury could result from it.
With the death of Mrs. Browning, the last few
elements of virtue and moral worth seem to have
fled from this city. From the height of her saintly
purity she looked down upon the corruption around
her, as the chaste Lady of the Mask regarded the
monstrous rout of Comus. It is gratifying, how
ever, to notice that the Florentines have erected a
tablet to her memory, though I believe the idea
was first suggested to them by her English friends.
This is placed on the front of the house in which
she resided, and which she rendered so famous by
her poem entitled " Casa Guidi Windows." It is
situated at No. 1902 Via Maggio. On the slab,
which is of white marble, is the following inscrip
tion, commemorating her worth and talents : —

FLORENCE. 105
Qui scrisse e mori
ELISABETTA BARRET BROWNING
Che in cuore di donna conciliava
Scienza di dotto e spirito di poeta
E fece del suo verso aureo anello
Era Italia e Inghilterra
Pone questa memoria
Firenze grata
1861*
Florence is well provided with gardens and
pleasure-grounds. The Boboli Gardens, behind the
Pitti Palace, are liberally opened to the public.
The Lung' Arno promenade leads by the side of
the Arno to the Cascine, beyond the city walls, and
is daily crowded with the wealth and splendor, gay-
ety and fashion, of Florence. The Villa Torrigiani
is the largest in extent in the city, and its grounds
are laid out with great taste. They are kept with
care, and adorned with everything that can delight
the eye. They belong to the Marquis di Torrigiani.
Orange and lemon trees, full of large and choice
fruit, are there in profusion. The green-houses
are full of costly and beautiful exotics which are too
delicate for exposure even to the air of Italy. The
laurustinus and myrtle are perfectly luxuriant, and
covered with white clusters. In these gardens they
attain a height of fifteen feet, and form groves which
* " Here wrote and died Elizabeth Barrett Browning, who in
her woman's heart reconciled the learning of a savant and the
genius of a poet, and made of her poetry a golden ring between
Italy and England. Grateful Elorence erected this memento,
1861."

106 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
hardly the eye or the foot can penetrate. There
our own tulip-tree flourishes as in her prime, while
the Virgilia lutea, which adorns our Southern States,
covers itself with its delicate white veil of blossoms.
There, also, the magnolia finds a foreign home ; and
locusts with abundant coffee-colored flowers, rhodo
dendrons and camellias, the dracsena, the begonia,
and many another tropical and exotic plant, lend
an additional charm to the natives of the soil.
Conspicuous among the rest is a bunch of the tall
and superb grass of the pampas, with its high
tufts of feathery blossoms. Near the centre is a
lofty tower, from the summit of which is a fine
view of the picturesque city. A small pond, with
a tiny island of rock-work in the middle, from
which bursts forth a fountain, increases the charms
of the spot. In it are carp, some of a brilliant
scarlet, others of pure white, while' some are gayly
spotted with both these colors. No one, who has
not seen them, can have any idea of the vivid
beauty of these burning coals, as they float lazily
from side to side, or dart hither and thither with
all the vivacity of health and happiness. Lastly,
but by no means the least dowered with natural
beauties, our own woodbine is there in all the exu
berance of abundant leaf and flower, stem and ten
dril. It is the world's vine, and seems everywhere
at home. Like the Wandering Jew, it is ever in
motion, urged on by. an inevitable power that it
understands not. It is called vitalbe (melodious
name) by the Italians, and Chiabrera has praised it

FLORENCE. 107
in lines as full of grace and beauty as the plant
itself. It is certainly a charming object, and
whether gracefully gathering its drapery of scarlet
and green around the rents made by time in old
ruins, shielding some antique statue or inscription
from " the windy storm and tempest," clambering
over the cottage of the peasant, entwining itself
in the hedges or rambling over the rough stone
walls of the farms around, where no eye can ob
serve its manifold graces, it is always the same,
ever fresh and ever fair. It is always " the well-
attired woodbine " of Milton and " the lush wood
bine " of Shakspeare. Wherever the traveller goes
he finds it, and its tendrils twine around his heart
like memories of home.*
* At the time of my visit the Villa Torrigiani was occupied
by our Minister, Col. T. Bigelow Lawrence, whose kind atten
tions and courteous hospitalities to his countrymen have made
him so popular both at home and abroad. Our country has
not for many years had such able and cultivated representatives
in Europe as at the present day.

108 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.

CHAPTER VIII.
THE FLORENTINE GA.LLERIES.
The great collections which the wealth and
power of the Medici enabled them to accumulate
for their own glory and that of Florence are con
tained in two vast palaces, the Uffizi and the Pitti.
But lately the property of the Grand Duke of Tus
cany, they have now come into the possession of
Victor Emanuel and the constitutional government
of United Italy. In the lower stories of the for
mer are contained numerous public offices (from
which is derived its name) and the Magliabecchian
Library. In the third story, and extending around
three sides of a long parallelogram, is the famous
gallery, which, as a whole, is the richest in the
world. It contains not only a large collection of
antique statues and of sculptures and paintings
by Italian artists, but a vast variety of ancient
vases, bronzes, gems, ivory carvings, and minia
tures. Here one may linger for weeks, and daily
find new objects to delight the eye and improve
the taste.
Near the entrance is a famous painting by Fra
Angelico, around which is always gathered a little
group of spectators, and of artists engaged in copy-

THE FLORENTINE GALLERIES. 109
ing it. It was formerly an altar-piece, ancfi
sents the Virgin with the infant Christ in her f^
It is enclosed in a large frame, on the broad gold"™
ground of which angels are painted in the act of
adoration. On the folding-doors of this are por
trayed full-length figures of four saints, and all are
finished with that most rare and careful elabora
tion which the piety and devotion of the artist al
ways led him to bestow upon his works ; for if any
painter ever labored con amore, it was Fra Angelico,
" II Beato." The angels are particularly admired,
and so great is the desire of artists and others to
copy them that it is necessary to make application
to the authorities for years before obtaining the
opportunity. Their features seem to beam with
more than mortal saintliness, purity, and love, and
such angels were never painted by any artist before
or since. They are the bright effulgence of the
painter's own pure mind. In their heavenly forms
we 'see the excellence " which God hath in his
mighty angels placed." They are playing on va
rious musical instruments : one on the violin, an
other on the tambourine ; one blows a trumpet,
another beats a drum, and still another turns the
handle of a small organ ; while three others elicit
the harmony of the horn, the pipes, and the cym
bals ; two others, having no instrument, only clasp
their hands and gaze with rapture upon the Virgin.
Yet so serene and holy is the expression, so graceful
are the attitudes of this little angelic orchestra, as
they cluster round the radiant object of their adora-

HO EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
tion, that there seems nothing incongruous or absurd
in the instruments which they are playing.
Not far from this is the famous Tribune, which
contains the masterpieces of the gallery in painting
and sculpture. Here Madonnas by Raphael and
Correggio, Michel Angelo and Andrea del Sarto,
adorn the walls, and look down upon the triumphs
of ancient sculpture, which, with the tranquillity of
" all things whose life is sure," stand around in a
magic circle, into which the creations of no modern
artist dare intrude.
Facing the principal entrance stands the world-
renowned Venus de' Medici. Of this goddess, who
from her marble throne casts so "glorious a beam "
about her, who has inspired so much eloquence and
such an effulgence of poetry, one can hardly say
anything new, and it may appear almost foolishness
to write a word. Yet " a thing of beauty is a joy
forever," and really not enough can be said or sung
in praise of this priceless pearl of beauty, which
even ancient artists gazed upon with rapture. The
earth for a thousand years has guarded it from the
ravages of man and time, that it might be preserved
for our age, to be the delight and the despair of
modern Art, a precious legacy to us from the past,
a symbol of that beauty which never dies. Her
form is perfect, and, in the abounding grace and
harmonious simplicity of its outlines, offers to the
eye the image of that bright ideal which at times
the mind of the artist sees, but which at the present
day he can never, with all his yearnings, translate

THE FLORENTINE GALLERIES. m
into marble. One line of flowing harmony seems
to melt into another, and enchant the eye as deli
cate strains of soft and distant music bewitch the
ear; they appear to undulate gracefully over her
form, like the soft palpitations of a gently rising and
falling sea.
The right arm, part of the left, and the hands
were not found with the statue, but are modern
restorations by Bernini, and are very poorly done.
Though we must reflect that it would be a severe
test for the works of any, modern sculptor thus
to be brought into close contrast with the best
works of ancient Art, yet one cannot avoid wishing
that the artist had possessed a little of the modesty
of Michel Angelo, who refused to restore a certain
antique statue, because he felt his inability to do
justice to the matchless charms of the original.
But Bernini had no such artistic diffidence, and he
has disfigured the Venus, as he has every part of
Rome, with his sculptured adsurdities. Indeed, his
excessive vanity led him to neglect no opportunity
which might be afforded him of placing the results
of his incapacity by the side of the best works of
ancient genius. He was guided in his restorations
of the Venus de' Medici, to a certain extent, by the
fragments of the arms which remained attached to
the body, and by its attitude, though he has not
placed the arms moulded by himself so near the
figure as they formerly were, as would appear from
their position in another statue, resembling this,
which has since been discovered. The feet have for-

112 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
tunately been preserved uninjured, and are univer
sally regarded as models of womanly beauty in that
respect. One never tires of admiring their ex
quisite shape, their delicately rounded outlines', and
the elastic tension with which they seem to support
the body, yet hardly to rest upon the earth.
The countenance does not present the majestic
mien, the lofty and assured calmness, of the celes
tial, coronetted Venus, but appears more " of the
earth, earthy." In fact, it has been thought by
Winckelmann, from certain features, to be a por
trait. It has a voluptuous, unintellectual expres
sion, (at least so it seemed to me,) suggestive of
the gross enjoyments of the world, rather than the
refined delights of heavenly love. It is more like
that beauty which " winds itself into the easy-
hearted man, and hugs him into snares." When
I looked upon the expression and attitude, the idea
repeatedly suggested itself to me that the artist
from whose brain they sprang might well have had
in his mind those lines in the " Hymn to Venus "
which describe the appearance of the queen of love
before Anchises : — " Then before him she
Stood like a virgin, that invincibly
Had borne her beauties ; yet alluringly
Bearing her person, lest his ravished eye
Should chance to affect him with a stupid fear."
The admiration of Winckelmann for this statue
was very great, and he wrote and spoke of it in
terms of eloquence and enthusiasm. He compared

THE FLORENTINE GALLERIES. H3
it to " a rose, which, after a lovely dawn, unfolds its
leaves to the rising sun." To those who know the
exquisite taste of this writer, and his thorough ap
preciation of the beautiful in art, this simile appears
peculiarly fitting. It was Winckelmann himself,
the newly risen sun of ancient art, whose rays illu
minated the whole broad domain of antiquity, and
brought to light a thousand hidden beauties ; it
was he to whose fervent gaze, as he for hours bent
admiringly over this bright, consummate flower,
petal after petal unfolded itself, till it rested before
him in the fulness of matured and graceful beauty.
It is an interesting study of human nature to
watch the demeanor of the various people who ap
proach this statue, and notice its effect upon them.
The hasty look of the blase traveller, who has seen
it "a hundred times;" the uncertain glance of pa
terfamilias, who now regards it for the first time in
the presence of his family ; the affected rapture of
some, the absurd remarks of others ; the silence
of those who do not know what to say, and the
criticisms, generally bad, of those who think, be
cause it is the Venus, they must say something, and
thus offer the tribute of ignorance to genius. Here
is, one going close to it and absolutely stroking it, in
spite of the printed prohibition not to touch the
statues, as if he wished to satisfy himself of the
smoothness and fineness of its skin. There a
grand dignitary dwells apart, as if he would keep
the figure as far off as possible, and not gratify it
by too near a perusal. And then to notice the

114 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
utter disagreement of all their critiques ! One says
her expression is sweet, and another simpering ;
one maintains that she is modest, and another bold ;
one suggests that her eyes are wanton, and another
tender, and still another remarks, " What an entire
want of any expression." One exclaims, " What a
beautiful dimple in her chin ! " another, " What a
disgraceful blotch is that dimple of hers ! " And so
it continues through the whole diapason of criticism.
Authors may write as they please of the wonderful
effect of a great work of genius on the uneducated.
Their ideas are not borne out by the Venus de'
Medici. The remarks of the majority of those
who criticise this statue are silly and unmeaning,
and show an entire want of appreciation of its real
beauties. And thus it must ever be, with those who
visit works of art without mental culture.
This statue is an excellent illustration of the
maxim that the line of beauty is a curve. Its
graceful and perfectly harmonious outlines result
from the workings of the rule of Greek art, that
" the forms of a beautiful body are determined by
lines the centre of which is constantly changing,
and which, if continued, would never describe cir
cles." It is a further example of the truth that
the nearer our labors approach the simple laws
of nature, the more perfect will be our success.
Nature, who abhors uniformity in everything, al
ways puts in practice this law of constantly chang
ing curves. " The air we breathe moves in waves ;
the messages of sense and motion run along the

THE FLORENTINE GALLERIES. H5
nerves in oscillations. The sea undulates in har
monious curves, and the smaller ripples, which form
a chasing for the faces of the billows, divide their
surface into curves of infinite minuteness." The
attraction of gravitation operates in curves, and so
does every note of music, and so does the voice of
man. The path of the lost Pleiad, as she wandered
far over starless deserts, the weeping Magdalen of
that bright sisterhood ; the smallest orb " that in its
motion like an angel sings ; " the poet's utterance,
when from his golden lyre " he shakes delightsome
sounds up to which God doth sing," — all attest the
rhythmic harmony of nature. And so does the
path of every ray of light, as it moves in curves
of infinite minuteness from the sun to the earth.
There may be a nearer connection than we know
between these eternal laws of nature and the
charms of this exquisite statue. And in the resem
blance between the numberless and ever-varying
curves of its graceful form and those of a ray of
light there may exist one of the mysteries of
nature, and the genius of the sculptor may have
led him to "build better than he knew." At
least, it shows that beauty in art is the more per
fect the more it is in harmony with the simple laws
of Deity. Science has shown that light is the hid
ing of creative power, and that every earthly thing
and every earthly process is its work. It is the
source of all commerce and all civilization. It
drives the long and heavily freighted train from
city to city, and urges the gigantic steamer from

116 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
port to port, and it is of light that both steamer
and train are made. It is necessary to human life,
" And almost life itself, if it be true
That light is in the soul,
The all in every part."
The stones, the trees, the mountains, nay, pei*-
chance "the great globe itself, yea, all which it
inherit," are composed of those very myriads of
imperceptible curves which for ages have undulated
from the source of light, and which were working
quietly and irresistibly ages and ages before the cre
ation of man. And may not these lines of beauty
have been shaping themselves in- the pure, white
marble into forms of perfect grace, which the genius
of the artist was to lead forth by following their
outlines ? Was it not the mission of the Grecian
sculptor to thus reveal to us, in tangible shape, that
harmonious beauty which we do not see in a ray
of light, because our mental sight is feeble, and,
" whilst this muddy vesture of decay doth grossly
close it in," we cannot perceive the delicate undula
tions which in myriads go to form it ? Yes, this
must be the source of the attractions of the Venus ;
and it thus fills out the eye with beauty, because
it is in reality a divine, idea, moulded into a visible
presence for our advantage, and radiant with the
deathless graces which come from the eternal and
simple laws of nature. It is but another link to
bind us to the Deity, towards whose infinite perfec
tions humanity daily moves. The sculptor, whose
eye, bright with the inspiration drawn from the deep

THE FLORENTINE GALLERIES. H7
springs of our common nature, could, like Prospero,
see airy spirits where duller minds could perceive
nought but the unpeopled sky, was only liberating
lines of beauty which had lain quietly there for
ages. These sprang forth at his bidding, to show
that the mighty yet tranquil power of light had
imprisoned in the growing marble forms as pure and
graceful as those spiritual beings which " walk the
earth unseen," or people the sea, or " in the colors
of the rainbow live, and play i' the plighted clouds."
It is, then, on the wings of light that beauty,
which flows from God and back to God, comes from
his throne to us, — light, "first of things, quintes
sence pure,'' — light, in which God has ever dwelt,
— light, which (as the apostle says) God is. Beauty
is thus an emanation of God himself; and the first
curve of light, which began its journey through
the airy gloom, was not only the first idea of the
Creator, the original atom of existence, drawing
after it the long retinue of creative power and wis
dom, but the essential element of beauty.
Hence, if this be true, the Greeks held not so pure
or elevating a faith as the ancient Persians, who
thought it impious to exhibit the Creator under
human form, and who worshipped the sun as the
source of light, attributing to it only supreme maj
esty, and thus adored the essential of beauty. The
gods and goddesses of the Greeks were ever before
them in perfect symmetry and matchless harmony ;
yet they were clothed with degrading mental attri
butes, and had many a mortal taint. Brought thus

118 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
face to face with those, that worshipped them, and
deprived of the grandeur of mystery, the presence of
these bodily forms, notwithstanding their beauty,
was degrading in its effect, and in bringing their
gods down to earth the Greeks drew their own
souls away from heaven. The Persians really wor
shipped the Creator ; the Greeks, the created. The
former adored the mental representative of God ;
the latter, the bodily image. The Persians really
intended to worship the pure spirit of light, the su
preme mind. Modern science would seem to show
that they had done so, — that light is coeval with
God himself, and that when the apostle said, " God
is light," he was inspired to utter a literal scientific
truth. To one who reflects on this subject it seems
not a little remarkable that the most perfect work
of art remaining to us, the purest model of beauty,
is the Apollo, the sun, the source of light " in hu
man limbs arrayed."
The group called " I Lottatori," or " The Wres
tlers," is a work of wonderful merit. It is carved
from one block of marble, and represents two
young men of extreme beauty and strength strug
gling in close and fierce embrace. It was, doubt
less, a scene which the sculptor had often looked
upon in the Palaestra, and had probably studied
with diligence and enthusiasm ; for in no other way
could he have acquired that perfect knowledge of
the human form which is here displayed. It is a
work which certainly could not be done by any
artist of modern times. One wrestler bends down

THE FLORENTINE GALLERIES. H9
over the other and holds him there, while every
muscle quivers and expands with the violence of
their struggle. The expression of exultation in one
countenance, and the shadows of coming defeat in
the other, the natural attitude of each, and the per
fect proportions of every limb and muscle, all attest
the wonderful power of the artist. It seems to me
that this must be one of those works of ancient art
of which we read as the sole labor of a lifetime, and
by which the sculptor thought to secure an undying
fame. But the name of the artist has passed away
into eternal night, and only this record of his mind
remains graven in the living stone. Yet, though,
when we think of his yearnings for a spotless fame,
and of his " laborious days," we pity the hard fate
which denied him an earthly immortality, our sym
pathy is lost in our admiration, and in our hearts,
like the ancient Athenians, we erect an altar " to
the unknown God."
The other antique statues in the Tribune (the
Dancing Faun, the Apollino, and the Scythian
whetting a Knife) are well known as marvellous
specimens of ancient genius, and have been dis
tributed in every part of the world in marble,
bronze, and plaster, until they have almost be
come household gods. The rest of this vast col
lection is contained in numerous halls which lead
out of each other in different directions. Here is
an admirable series of busts of the Roman emper
ors and of many of their empresses, in the absurd
head-dresses which their vanity induced them to

120 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
send down to us. Here one finds, also, wonderful
works of Michel Angelo and Donatello, and miracu
lous original drawings of Raphael, of Leonardo da
Vinci, and other great artists, of which the gallery
possesses no less than twenty-eight thousand. In
a small anteroom there is an unfinished bust of
Brutus, by Michel Angelo, under which these lines
are written : —
" Dum Bruti efBgiem sculptor de marmore ducit,
In mentem sceleris venit, et abstinuit."
Never were lines more apt, for, even in their in
complete state, the noble features loom through the
murky veil of marble which covers them, like some
majestic countenance which it were sacrilege to
display to the eye of man.
Near by is a famous antique bust, called Alexan
der Dying, which is one of the very few antiques of
merit in this gallery that did not make the jour
ney to Paris. Napoleon, for reasons best known to
himself, saw fit to spare it to Florence. Perhaps
he had a prophetic distaste of it, perchance a
vision of a similar bust taken from his own feat
ures while he was prostrate in the embrace of
death. No conqueror can ever like the contem
plation of that change which is to knead together
his clay and ours in the same "cold obstruction."
This work is eminently worthy of the eloquent
sonnet which Alfieri wrote upon it. It fascinates
every one who knows the manly qualities and
genius of the hero ; and none can look unmoved

THE FLORENTINE GALLERIES. 121
upon the last moments of a noble nature yielding
to mortal weakness and the approach of death.
Judging from the remaining busts of Alexander
which time has spared to us, this must be an accu
rate portrait. It represents him with long, thick,
flowing locks, parted in the middle, like those of
Jupiter, whose son he claimed to be. The cheeks
are broad and fair, and the neck somewhat large
and muscular. The head is cast back, half in lan
guor, half in wretchedness, while his countenance
wears a noble expression of grief. His eyes are
turned despairingly up to heaven, as if he had
sought in vain for the aid of his divine father.
This is one of the most suggestive of the antique
busts, and is the nucleus of a multitude of thoughts
to those who draw food for reflection from the
" tricks " of the sculptor's " strong imagination."
A little beyond this is another, but far different
scene of human affliction preserved to us by the cun
ning art of the sculptor, — the group of Niobe and
her Children, who are perishing around her under
the cruel arrows of Apollo and Diana. Her grief is
too deep for tears, nor is it poured forth in passion
ate outcries. She does not scream with a loud and
bitter cry, like an eagle robbed of her young, as
does Constance. She does not drop lifeless, like
Octavia ; nor does she, like Macduff, relieve the an
guish of her soul with words of noble self-reproach
and stern resolution. The very intensity, the very
helplessness of her misery, elevates her high above
every other feeling, all tears, all words, all bodily

122 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
suffering. Hers is the very poetry of grief. Yet
still, even in the apathy of her sorrow, the instinct
of a mother remains ; and she spreads out her man
tle over her daughter, and turns her eyes up to
heaven, as if by this meek appeal to shelter at
least her youngest-born from the wrath of Diana.
The grief of Alexander is that of a mortal ; the grief
of Niobe, the lofty sorrow of a goddess. She stands
in the centre of the group ; and while her children
are in every attitude and expression of despair and
horror, fear and anguish, she towers above them all
like some monument of tearless, helpless, stony woe.
These statues are supposed once to have adorned
the pediment of some temple, perhaps of Diana,
where the worshippers of the " fair, silver-shafted
queen " might see how genius could embody in
imperishable marble the triumphs of a goddess,
the vengeance of an insulted mother.
From amidst the unnumbered sands of the silent
East there rises a lofty obelisk, lonely, passive, mo
tionless. It has escaped the earthquake, the fiery
sand-storm of the desert, and the more destructive
ravages of man. It still bears on its sides the mys
terious characters graven upon it in the days of its
glory. For a thousand years, the sun by day and
the moon and stars by night have looked down upon
the solemnity of its desolation and the majesty of its
loneliness. Its massive shaft still casts its protect
ing shadow over many a prostrate dome, many a
fallen and broken pillar, and the ruins of shattered
temples. It is the cenotaph of the buried grandeur

THE FLORENTINE GALLERIES. 123
of a once noble city. Even so does Niobe stand
amidst her dead and dying offspring, — the stately
relic of her past prosperity, the last sad monument
of her own pride and ruined hopes.
The Pitti Palace is a noble, grand, and massive
edifice, of historic interest, and within its walls
is to be found the very luxury of art. Here, in a
long range of elegant saloons, is a collection of five
hundred paintings, most of them admirable works
of art, and none of them bad or uninteresting.
The rooms are elaborately decorated with gilded
cornices and carvings, and the ceilings glow with
frescos by eminent artists. Here one finds lux
urious tables of Florentine mosaic, composed of
precious stones of fabulous richness and costly mar
bles, which the admirable skill of the artist has
translated into flowers, fruits, shells, and every
bright and beautiful thing which the earth pro
duces. Here are perfectly royal chairs, gilded and
velveted, in which one is allowed to sit at his
ease and use the catalogues, which are freely pro
vided, in an atmosphere which, even in the coldest
days of winter, is always comfortable. Polite at
tendants move here and there, ready to do any
thing for the visitor, or give him any information.
And here, as in the Uffizi, it is strictly forbidden to
exact or to accept any fee or reward. The present
government, with extreme liberality, have extended
the same policy to all their collections ; and in this
respect there is a great improvement wherever the
rule of Victor Emanuel has been established.

124 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
Through these ample halls the stream of visitors
from all foreign nations is incessant, and yet one s
meditations are never interrupted. The rooms are
large, and one never, need be annoyed by a trouble
some neighbor. Every one seems soothed into tran
quil reverence and quiet demeanor by the genius of
the place, and one seldom or never hears loud talk
ing, laughing, or vapid criticism. All are in pres
ence of the illustrious dead, who, in every phase of
genius, once lived and moved amongst us, but who
are now become standard-bearers in the armies of
the ages. From the bright region? of their immor
tality they beam upon us through their works.
Yet it is to foreigners that their fame is now almost
entirely due, and an Italian is rarely seen in these
galleries, which make their nation illustrious. One
hears at Florence repeated accounts of men, even
those in high professional position, who have passed
their lives without once visiting these treasures of
art. Though we hope for better things in the fu
ture, yet the present race have preferred to dawdle
away the dolce far niente of a worthless life on the
banks of the Arno. ,They have not the slightest
appreciation of the wealth of beauty about them ;
and it is not too much to say that they are no more
affected by it than were the sheep on the plains of
Bethlehem by the glory around them, when the
glittering ranks of the heavenly host appeared to
the shepherds.
In this gallery are three Madonnas by Raphael,
. one of which is the famous " Madonna della Seggi-

THE FLORENTINE GALLERIES. 125
ola," which, in a thousand different forms, has borne
over all the earth the fame of the artist. It is indeed
worthy of his genius, the type of all that earth can
draw from heaven of sweetness and grace. And
yet it is but one of many shapes in which the im
mortal Mother of God presented her features to the
mind of Raphael. Each countenance has its own
individuality, and conceals, under an apparently
calm and waveless surface, the deep workings of
nature, the hidden springs of character. It is like
the sky which is irradiated by the light of the sun
after he has withdrawn behind the hills. To the
casual observer each sunset is the same, but to
the thoughtful mind how different. In " the sa
cred calm that breathes around," in the lustrous
beams which illumine the landscape, in the gold
en vapors which hang their fleecy drapery about
it, in the delicate and rosy clouds which fleck the
sky, and in the thousand different hues which pass
over its face, he sees the tokens of a myriad dif
ferent sources of power, a power which always
changes, yet is always the same. And so it is with
the genius of Raphael. Its mild light illumines the
faces of his Madonnas with a thousand delicate, yet
expressive outlines, and, like the peaceful harmony
of setting suns, it steals over our souls, and from
its seat, like the chaste Lady of the. Mask, sheds its
precious influence over every worldly and tumultu
ous passion.
How fortunate it would have been for the world
if Raphael could have been coeval with Shakspeare,

126.'\ EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
and/have illustrated his works. What new ideas
^stfoiild we not have received of the powers of both
painter and poet. How the former would have
rejoiced to delineate the magical creations of the
latter. What appreciation he would have shown
of every character. How would the calm beauty.
of Hermione and the helpless innocence of Desde-
mona have beamed forth from the canvas. With
what ever-increasing interest should we have looked
upon the self-devoted and heroic Cordelia, the shat
tered lyre of Ophelia, the ethereal graces of Mi
randa. Yet it was not fated so to be ; and one can
only regret that it so rarely happens that the gen
ius of painting faithfully interprets to us the deep
meanings of the poet.

THE ENVIRONS- OF FLORENCE.

CHAPTER IX.
THE ENVIRONS OF FLORENCE.
Among the numerous sites in the vicinity of
Florence which genius, science, or piety has
rendered illustrious, none excites deeper interest
than Galileo's villa, which was consecrated by his
imprisonment for eleven years within its walls.
Here, old, blind, and poor, bearing the marks of
the rack by which he had been tortured at Rome,
exposed to the vengeance of bigoted persecutors, he
slowly passed his sad decade, till his earthly life
brightened into immortality. Posterity has ren
dered a tardy justice to his memory in connection
with this spot, and a bust and inscribed tablet now
adorn the front of the house. They were placed
there by two eminent citizens of Florence, Io Bap-
tista Clementa and Antonio Bonaroti, who admired
his genius and pitied his sufferings. They desired
that every passer-by might at least know that
genius had once honored the place. The inscrip
tion is in Latin, and in eloquent terms does justice
to his genius, while it calls down upon his persecu
tors the execration they merit.
Though the sorrows of the philosopher were
great, they were alleviated to some extent by the

128 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
devotion of his pupils and friends, who clung to
him through every ill. They were allowed to
visit him at times, and, soothed by the cheerful and
innocent pleasures of their society, his hours passed
less heavily. He imparted to them the truths
which his genius and his observation of nature had
taught him. He brought forth the rich stores
which the study of a lifetime had acquired^ To
gether they discoursed pf the past, and longed for
the light of the future. Often he recited his own
poetry, or, perchance, the animated and graceful
verses of his favorite, Ariosto. Sometimes he
played a few simple tunes upon the lute ; while
often, on a festive day, a neat repast,
" light and choice,
Of Attic taste, with wine,"
enlivened the sunset hour. It was thus that Mil
ton found him at his visi.t in 1637. In that year
he had become suddenly blind. How prophetic
was all this of Milton's own future, had he but
known it ! How deep must have been the sym
pathy between the aged astronomer and him who
wrote the sonnet " To Mr. Lawrence."
Near this villa is a tower where Galileo, in the
prime of his years, was accustomed to observe the
stars. It is now called " la Torre di Gallo," from
a weathercock on one corner of it. It is three
stories high, plain and square, and built of rough
brick. At present it is connected with a farm
house, though but little used. Few can visit the
spot without being deeply impressed. Here, doubt-

THE ENVIRONS OF FLORENCE. 129
less, on this " high, lonely tower," the poet and phi
losopher held communion high ; here they " oft out-
watched the Bear," or " unsphered the spirit of
Plato " and the mighty dead. Here they inquired
earnestly of the future, and sought to pierce its
deep and hidden meanings. We well know that
the astronomer was blind, and needed no lofty
height from whence to observe the stars, — the
heavens had stamped themselves upon his brain,
— but here alone could they converse unwatched
and unheard.
As they stood there at midnight, under the glit
tering skies of Tuscany, the venerable gray-headed
priest of nature, wrinkled with the woes of a life of
toil and persecution, and the fair-haired young poet,
with lustrous eyes and cqmplexion delicate as that
of a maiden, how strong was the contrast, and yet
how great the mental resemblance ! Did not some
unseen and mysterious influence bind the sage and
the poet closer together ? Did not Galileo, on the
verge of eternity, prophesy to his friend of coming
sorrows ? that he, too, was to be " blind among
enemies ; " that him, also, poverty and age, on either
hand, were to conduct to the threshold of another
world ; that he, too, was to be the mark for igno
rance and superstitious bigotry ? Did not the long
procession of impending woes pass between him
and the stars ? Did not discordant voices syllable
his future, and interrupt the deep music of the orbs
above ? As this scene presents itself to the imagi
nation, who would not be a " lord of words," that

130 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
he might describe it in fitting language? Who
would not be a painter, that he might ennoble his
pencil with so elevating and inspiring a subject ; or
a sculptor, that he might present to the world these
fixed and quiet images centered in the stars at
midnight? Age and youth on their worldly pil
grimage ; science and poetry in the wilderness of
superstition ; faith and hope journeying towards
immortality ; far-sighted genius and heavenly piety
looking with confidence towards " the all-hail here
after." The view from this tower is of wonderful beauty.
Beneath us lies the city of Florence, with its pic
turesque outline of dome and campanile, tower and
spire. Where else can be found a scene so richly
adorned with the works of genius, wealth, and re
ligious fervor ? In the centre stands the peerless
dome of the Cathedral, the masterpiece of Brunel-
leschi, and the largest that the genius of man ever
designed or his skill erected. As it rises above the
smaller cupolas around its base, in the converging
outlines of its harmonious proportions it reminds us
of what the mind of the artist should be, and what
the mind of Brunelleschi was : soaring serenely
above the grossness of earth and the meannesses of
rivals, drawing from every source the elements of
beauty, reposing with confidence on the inspira
tion of the great spirits of the past, extending its
broad protection over the institutions of religion,-
standing forth, with the assured tranquillity of truth
itself, to be an unfading light for future ages.

THE ENVIRONS OF FLORENCE. 131
At its side, like Raphael by Michel Angelo,
another example of architectural genius pierces the
clear, blue sky, — the Campanile, tall and graceful,
in which Giotto embodied in stone the artistic long- o
ings of a lifetime, the fair vision of many a sleep
less night. Even as we gaze, the tones of its bells
fall upon the ear, bearing far and wide, over distant
hills, the daily hymn of praise which they offer to
his memory. Nearer at hand, we see the sacred
walls of Santa Croce, the Pantheon of Florence,
where Michel Angelo, Galileo, and Machiavelli
have found that repose which their own passion
ate fervor and the hatred of rivals denied them
when on earth. Thence the eye falls upon another
monument of genius, the tower of the Palazzo Vec-
chio, rearing high its massy battlements, and rest
ing as it were on air. How often has it looked
down upon the turbulent assemblies of the fickle
Florentines ! How did it echo the sighs of the
fallen Lorenzo, and the prayers of the martyred Sa
vonarola ; forty-five days was he imprisoned within
its narrow walls ; eleven days was he tortured with
the rope and the rack ; yet went he forth happily
to his burning, fervently saying, " The Lord has
suffered as much for me." Beyond, the eye rests
on the dome of San Lorenzo, the youthful bride of
Michel Angelo, another proof of the religious zeal
and devout energy of Brunelleschi.
Across the valley rise the heights of Fiesole,
its environs adorned with the white walls of many
a villa surrounded with olive-groves and vineyards,

132 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
and stretching far away towards the snowy Apen
nines. Here are the pleasant gardens and cool re
treats from which the magnificent Lorenzo looked
forth and meditated over distant Florence, as Lucul-
lus surveyed outspread Rome from the Pincian Hill.
From here the wide and fertile declivity gently de
scends to the Arno, whose broad and silent wind
ings stretch on, like a chain of mirrors, towards the
sea. Fiesole lies at an elevation of a thousand feet
above the banks of that river. This ancient site,
immortalized by Milton in " Paradise Lost," is re
sorted to by every visitor at Florence, on account
of the view which it presents of that fair city and
its charming valley. Few scenes confer more pleas
urable sensations than that visible from the " top
of Fesole" ; " and Galileo might well be pardoned
if for a few moments he turned his eyes from the
" imagined lands and regions in the moon " to the
Val d'Arno as it lay sleeping below him. It bears
an ancient name, as the successor of that Fsesula?
to which Catiline fled after the discovery of his
infamous conspiracy. Here he rallied his band of
traitors ; and, under the walls of the neighboring
town of Pistoria, he offered up, by a brave death, the
only expiation in his power for a life of murder
and rapine. The way thither from Florence is
pleasant, and mounts by an easy ascent to the
heart of the town. Formerly, the approach was
quite narrow and steep ; but about fifteen years ago
the citizens thought it desirable to improve it.

THE ENVIRONS OF FLORENCE. 133
The town was poor, and the municipal authorities
foresaw that it would be very difficult to raise the
funds necessary to build a new road. The plan
they adopted to remove the obstacle was peculiar,
and certainly does credit to their ingenuity and
knowledge of human nature. They did not form
a joint-stock company, or raise a loan on the credit
of the city. They thought they saw a clearer way
than that.
Fiesole is a place of very small extent, —
" You scarce within the borders enter
Before you 're in the very centre.
A single crow could make it night
As o'er their town he takes his flight."
Yet, though small, it has its " privileges ; n and the
Podestd and his satellites happened to recollect that
it was an independent city, and, as such, had never
lost its ancient right of conferring titles of nobility.
Their own experience, moreover, had taught them
that there were many weak-minded and scatter
brained travellers who would pay no small sum if
they could be legally called Count this or Baron
that. So they brought into the market a liberal
supply of these empty honors, and actually sold
nearly enough of them — and largely among the
English — to build the road. The prices ranged
from three hundred to one thousand dollars, accord
ing to the degree of splendor conferred. Many a
plain Smith or Jones returned to his native land
as " ft Conte Smitto" or " fl Barone Giovanni,"
and all parties were satisfied.

134 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
The road is enclosed by high walls on either
hand, and, through open gateways, one now and
then catches a glimpse of handsome pleasure-
grounds. These belong principally to wealthy
Florentines and others, who here find in summer
a comparatively cool retreat from the burning at
mosphere of the city below. The highest point
of Fiesole was once occupied by a Roman citadel ;
this has given place to a Franciscan monastery,
which looks far and wide over the surrounding
country. A large part of the ancient walls of the
town still remain. The blocks which compose
them are of gigantic size and regular shape. The
front of the walls is smooth and well preserved,
showing few of the ravages of time, when we con
sider the ages that have passed over them. The
farming population who live near them surely
deserve great credit for leaving any part of them
standing, when we consider that they had at their
own doors such an enormous amount of building
material prepared for use.
In the middle of the town is the Duomo, or
Cathedral, which has reached the good old age of
eight hundred years ; and the massive solidity with
which it is built leads us to infer that it will stand
for as many centuries in the future. It appears
to have been erected from the pillars and stones
of an ancient Roman temple, which was deserted
by the votaries of Apollo when the dawn of a purer
faith enlightened the earth. The interior is wide,
but not unimposing. It is decorated with a few

THE ENVIRONS OF FLORENCE. 135
admirable works of Mino da Fiesole, one of which
is a bas-relief representing Christ and St. John,
with the Virgin and two saints. It is a miracle
of art. The heavenly purity of expression, the
graceful outlines and delicacy of the figures, unite
with their perfect finish to form one of the most
beautiful sculptures to be seen in Italy. It is uni
versally admired ; and a cast of it has been taken,
as a masterpiece of art, for the Crystal Palace at
Sydenham. Near it stands an antique altar, which the inscrip
tion upon it shows to have once belonged to Bac
chus. It use has now, however, been altered ; the
centre has been hollowed out, and a cover placed
over it. The Scripture miracle by which water
became wine has been reversed ; and the libations
offered to the god of the grape have been changed
into the holy water with which the children of
good Catholics are christened. From this spot
to the top of the neighboring eminence, where once
stood the Acropolis, I was followed by a large part
of the population, who invariably annoy every
stranger by their pertinacious begging. The leg
less and the armless, the blind and the deaf, and, in
fact, every one who had nothing else to do, made
a demonstration which was both vexatious and
noisy. Sonie of the females flourished bundles of
straw braid at twenty soldi apiece ; while others
Joudly recommended the merits of certain birds of
bright yellow straw, with blue eyes in their tails,
and of other nondescript monsters, which they dis-

136 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
played in every direction. One youngster, who
had somewhere picked up half a dozen words of
English, shouted repeatedly, " Good-bye," and
" How do you do ? " and one and all chattered and
screamed, till the uproar was almost loud enough
to wake the dead. I was not sorry to take refuge
in a neighboring church. And yet, in spite of
these annoyances, Fiesole is delightful. The view
from the front of the Franciscan monastery is
world-renowned, and deservedly so. It is gratify
ing both to the lover of nature and of art. The
sight of a distant city is always impressive ; but
when that city is both beautiful and famous, when
it is situated in a broad and fertile valley, rich in
many a scene of historic interest, when every
church and tower and palace suggests some lesson
from the past or artistic association, who can resist
its influence ?

ROME AND ITS RUINS. 137

CHAPTER X.
ROME AND ITS RUINS.
It is with no ordinary feelings that the traveller
looks for the first time upon distant Rome, cluster
ing round the dome of St. Peter's. He can well
appreciate the varied emotions of the artist, the
pilgrim, the poet, the scholar, men of every con
dition and rank in intellect and station, as they
gaze for the first time upon these sacred ruins, —
ruins glowing with the pure light with which art,
religion, learning, eloquence, have irradiated them.
One ceases to marvel that Luther threw himself
prostrate upon the ground at the sight, and ex
claimed with enthusiasm, " Hail, sacred Rome !
Thrice sacred for the blood of the martyrs here
shed ! " We can fully comprehend the feelings
which led the great scholars of the Middle Ages to
observe the natal day of the Imperial City, to lament
its departed greatness, to meditate "sadly among its
crumbling ruins, and shed over them many a tear
of pious sympathy. As she sits amidst her deserts,
like the lonely camp-fire of a past nation, who can
look without profound emotion upon her present
decay ? Who can repress a sigh for the fate of her
who was once the stupendous result of infinite

138 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
riches and genius, infinite power and splendor ?
Her past wins our respect and admiration ; her
present excites our sympathy and our love.
" Once the great queen of earth, Imperial Rome,
On whose o'ertrodden throne, lo ! yet abides
Pale desolation weeping o'er the wilds."
We all know how deep is the attraction with
which Rome has inspired the best minds of every
age. How intense were the yearnings of Michel
Angelo, Raphael, and Petrarch, and the whole band
of artists and poets. In more modern times, with
what undying affection did Winckelmann, Goethe,
Schlegel, Humboldt, De Stael, Verri, and a host
of other illustrious names, cling to her consecrated
precincts ! How eloquently have they recorded,
for the world's benefit, the emotions which she
excited in their souls ! They were translated, by
her influence, into a new life, and so it is with every
cultivated mind. Rome is still moored to the shores
of the past by adamantine chains which no force
can break. Within her walls we dwell apart from
the external world, as if in an enchanted palace.
She is our " serpent " of old Tiber ; and the charms
with which she draws us to her presence are no
less strong and powerful than the resistless wiles
with which she of Egypt seduced the conqueror
of the world. Says Winckelmann, — " All is
nought compared with Rome. Formerly, I thought
that I had thoroughly studied everything ; and be
hold, when I came hither, I saw that I knew noth
ing. Rome is, I believe, the high school of the

ROME AND ITS RUINS. 139
whole world, and I, too, have been tried and re
fined." In the language of Goethe, " Out of
Rome, no one can have an idea how one is schooled
in Rome. One must, so to speak, be new born.
He looks back on his earlier notions, as one does on
the little shoes which fitted him when a child.
The most ordinary man learns something here ; he
gains at least one uncommon idea, even though it
should never pass into his whole being."
Though Rome be now in humble estate, who
does not look forward with sanguine hope to her re
generation ? Yes ! we feel that it must be so. The
Niobe of nations shall yet cast aside the mourning
drapery with which she has so long striven to shield
her offspring from the shafts of decay ; she shall
yet smile through the stupefaction of her grief, and
fling from her that empty urn which betokens her
childless widowhood. We look earnestly for the
time when she shall stretch forth her all-embracing
arms, and welcome new children to her breast.
Then shall thrifty and happy sons rise up and call
her blessed, and her daughters be honored through
all the land.
Should the traveller receive no other impression
from the numerous Roman remains which he finds
around him, his mind will at least be profoundly
affected by their massive grandeur and stability.
The giant past of Rome may be to him but a cloud,
which once spread over the face of nature and then
vanished away ; the Scipios and the Gracchi, Cato
and the Caesars, may be only the heroes of a school-

140 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
boy's tale ; but he cannot resist the visible presence
of that solid masonry in which are embodied all
the power and haughtiness of its ancient builders.
These vast walls, these lofty arches and gigantic
blocks, seem to say, " We were built for eternity,
and nought but the dissolution of earth shall destroy
us<" It is to the days of the Empire that most
of these ruins belong, though there are yet a few
massive and imposing relics of the ancient kings.
During the five centuries of the Commonwealth
great public works were but rarely undertaken,
and these mostly 'military roads, like the Appian
Way, and aqueducts, which were absolutely nec
essary for the health and security of the citizens.
The consuls, of course, seldom had sufficient wealth
or power to enable them to construct buildings for
the people at their own expense ; and a government
in which the power is widely distributed, as it is in
a republic, is never favorable to great structures for
the national benefit. A few miles of the Appian
Way, which was begun b. c. 312, are yet pre
served and in use, and that is all of the consular
period except the tombs. These are numerous, and
many of them yet retain, to a certain extent, their
ancient form, though they can rarely be identified
with certainty. A few, however, have been recog
nized ; and pious affection and family pride have
thus secured for Cascilia Metella, for Bibulus, the
plebeian edile, and even for the baker, Eurysaces, a
fame which their own deeds would have denied them.
With the Emperor Augustus commenced a new

ROME AND ITS RUINS. . 141
era. In his political shrewdness, his eagerness for
distinction, both in war and literature, and his
magnificent architectural tastes, this ruler was the
Louis Napoleon of his day ; and the advantages
which he enjoyed for adorning his capital were
such as no sovereign had yet possessed. As is
always the lot of him who comes forth victorious
from the elements of revolution and anarchy, his
power was enormous and undisputed. And so was
that of his immediate successors. It was liberally
used for public works, both of utility and beauty.
Augustus " found Rome of brick, and left it of
marble ; " and they followed in the course which
he marked out. The labor necessary for building
these works was abundant. Millions of captives
were, from time to time, sent to the metropolis from
conquered nations, and the hands and brains of
these the emperors could use without limit. In our
days of steam and commerce, labor is money. The
Romans despised commerce, and lived upon the
plundered wealth of others. Hence these slaves
were of little or no value, unless employed upon
public structures. For these they were able both
to make the bricks and mortar, and to plan and
construct the walls and arches. Thus the Romans
could afford to devote to their structures an amount
of capital which no nation can employ at the pres
ent day.
It was on this account that the Romans were
able to build with a massive solidity which has de
fied in so many instances the ravages of time and

142 • EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
man. It is solely for this reason that any remains
of ancient Rome have been preserved to us. Who
can look without amazement upon the walls of the
Pantheon, of solid brickwork, in some parts twenty
feet thick, almost petrified by lapse of time, firm
as if founded on one of the ribs of earth, and rising
apparently more and more imperishable from every
devastation ? Who does not marvel at the sight of
the gigantic marble blocks of the Temple of Nep
tune, and the enormous pillars and arches of the
Baths of Caracalla, and the aqueducts which sup
plied them? Who can walk without awe under
the massive arcades of the Coliseum ?
Had not the foundations of these been so deeply
placed that floods of water could not undermine
them, nor earthquakes overthrow them ; had not
their masonry been so carefully and patiently laid
that they became solid as the living rock, so that
fire could not shatter them ; had they not been so
tenaciously cemented together that myriads of de
structive barbarians could not tear them apart ; had
they not been so thick and massive that gunpowder
could not demolish them, nor cannon-balls make
any impression upon them ; had they not been so
vast that scores of rapacious popes could not trans
mute them into churches and palaces, — for to all
these ravages have they been subjected, — the re
mains of ancient Rome would now be where those
of Babylon and Nineveh are, and where those of
Paris and London will one day be, if they shall ever
experience one half of what Rome has suffered.

ROME AND ITS RUINS. . 143
The grandest and most interesting remains out
side of the city walls are the aqueducts, whose
arches appear to move in long and stately proces
sions across the Campagna. Few views give a more
superb impression of Roman power and grandeur.
Many similar relics yet exist in other parts of Italy,
and are scattered here and there over Spain, France,
and the rest of the former domains of the Empire.
Along the face of towering precipices, spanning
broad rivers and deep ravines, or striding in long
lines across the level country, they bore their abun
dant streams to every city. Some are made of vast
blocks of peperino or travertine ; some of those thin,
broad bricks, which, united by the pozzolana, or Ro
man cement, became as hard and durable as stone.
Others are composed partly of each of these mate
rials. Those near Rome were of various lengths,
from five to sixty-two miles ; though in some cases
three, or even four aqueducts, from different sources,
were united, and followed the same course for long
distances. The remains of fourteen are yet visible,
to a greater or less extent, and ten have disappeared
entirely. During the consular period four aque
ducts were built, whose length amounted in all to
one hundred miles. The first was constructed b. c.
311, by Appius Claudius Csecus, who began the
Appian Way, and they were all subterranean. It
is probable that it was thought necessary thus to
build them, in order to protect them from future
calamity as much as possible, the city having been
burnt and sacked by the Gauls, b. c. 390. Few or

144 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
no vestiges of these structures are now to be seen,
their channels being probably filled up by dirt and
incrustations from the water.
With the Empire came increased national secu
rity, wealth, and luxury ; and the number of aque
ducts was gradually augmented, till finally twenty-
four poured whole rivers through the streets of the
imperial city. Three of these were built by Au
gustus, one of which supplied the water for his
nautical games and sea-fights. The grandest of all
was begun by Caligula, A-. D. 36, and completed
by his successor, Claudius, fourteen years after. It
was forty-six miles in length, and ten of them upon
arches. Six miles of these still exist, and form the
most imposing ruin outside the walls of Rome.
This aqueduct and two of those built by Augustus
'are yet in use ; and the three furnish an inexhaust
ible supply for the modern city, though not more
than one tenth of that which the ancient metropolis
enjoyed. They flow, however, from purer sources
than those of most of the ancient aqueducts.
It has been calculated that formerly fifty million
cubic feet of water daily passed into Rome from
these conduits. If we estimate its population at
three millions, this would amount to more than a
hundred gallons for each person, which is more than
twice the quantity used by Boston or New York.
A much greater supply, however, was necessary,
from the fact that in ancient Rome, as in modern,
the water flowed directly through its many channels
to the Tiber, and its delivery was not regulated or

ROME AND ITS RUINS. 145
economized by gates and reservoirs, as it is in our
cities. It was not then, nor is it now, introduced
by pipes into the houses ; but the people took it from
the public fountains, and from cisterns in their court
yards. The distribution of the water was facilitated
by the nature of the ground on which the city was
built ; for no one of its seven hills was two hundred
feet above the bed of the Tiber, and over their gen
tle slopes the streams passed freely.
From their sources these aqueducts everywhere
followed a slight incline towards the city, and at
times their route was very circuitous, so much so
that in some -places miles might have been saved
by taking a direct course from one height to an-
other. It has been a matter of great discussion as
to why they were conducted in this way over mas
sive and costly arches, when they might have been
built apparently with so much more economy and
security underground. Some writers have main
tained that it was because the Romans were igno
rant of the principle that water seeks its own level.
But in fact they both knew this and carried it
into practice, as is shown by their writings, and
by certain remains of ancient water-works which
still exist. The final result of the whole question
has been to admit that the Roman aqueducts were
made in the most useful, economical, and effective
manner possible. Modern engineering has followed
the plan of their construction in many instances.
The power of moving water is very great, especially
in large bodies. The channels of these aqueducts
10

146 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
were not unfrequently ten feet high and six wide.
Thus at the foot of any steep descent the accumu
lation of force would be so enormous that hardly
any masonry could be made strong enough to resist
it. This has been proved in modern water-works,
and they have always been built with as gradual a
descent as possible, that the strength of the current
may be equally distributed over the whole fabric.
In regard to the number of arches they used,
the Romans were hardly more extravagant than
our engineers of the present day, if we take into
account the great length of their aqueducts. Out
of three hundred miles only thirty were on arches,
and this is no more than the proportion used in the
Croton Water-Works. In fact, the whole description
of this structure applies perfectly to a Roman aque
duct. Mr. Tower describes it as " An artificial
channel built with square stones, supported on solid
masonry, carried over valleys, through rivers, under
hills, on arches and banks, or through tunnels and
bridges, these forty miles. Not a pipe, but a sort of
condensed river, arched over to keep it pure and
safe, is made to flow at the rate of a mile and a half
an hour towards New York."
There is another reason for the employment of
the enormous arches which are seen at the present
day near the city, and that is the gratification which
they afforded to the pride and tenacity of empire of
the Roman people. Their massive and imposing
architecture was admirably adapted to this, and
kept constantly before the citizens the magnificence

ROME AND ITS RUINS. 147
and "splendor of Rome. It might well seem to
them that no earthly power could overthrow a na
tion who could erect monuments so grand as these.
Their style was not elaborate or beautiful, but it
was imposing. A people rude and unrefined, like
the Romans, will always admire more strongly
enormous masses of building, than the most fin
ished and symmetrical labors of the architect.
Their grandeur and solidity affect even the most
uncultivated taste, as is shown by the Pyramids,
and the ancient monuments of the Aztecs and
Druids. And even in modern times, we see in the
Pitti Palace how impressive are great size and
little decoration upon every mind. These arches
offered a majestic spectacle to foreign princes who
came to Rome. They seemed to them fitting types
of that mighty power which drew forth Zenobia
from her City of Palms in the sandy deserts, Ca-
ractacus from his island forests, and Jugurtha from
the wilds of Africa. In their long array they sug
gested those triumphal processions in which broken
hearted and weeping kings had followed the car of
a haughty conqueror.
And still these rugged and stony giants press on
through the ages, calmly, irresistibly, inevitably.
Through barbarous hordes, through storm and
fire, through flood and earthquake, through all
the havoc of elemental warfare, they have marched
forward unscathed. Nature, who has vainly at
tempted to destroy them, has adorned them with
many an added grace. The laurel and the myrtle

148 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
cling around their brows ; the woodbine with ten
derness covers their shattered armor ; the ivy binds
up their gaping wounds. Even the lichen, with its
thousand hues of artistic and mellow coloring, seeks
to cover the deep furrows of time. And still they
falter not, but in low and solemn tones, while the
evening wind moans around them, they encourage
each other to maintain the departed grandeur of
Rome. The forlorn hope of a despairing and pros
trate empire, they yet bear forward its banner, de
spite the warfare of the elements and the assaults
of man.

THE COLISEUM. 149

CHAPTER XI.
THE COLISEUM AND THE OBELISKS.
Of all those " temples, palaces, and piles stupen
dous " whose massive ruins the traveller encounters
at Rome, the Coliseum makes the firmest and most
lasting impression upon the mind. There is none
which more completely fills up the measure of one's
admiration, both from the grandeur of the original
idea and the magnificence of the remains. Who would
not be startled at the bare suggestion of construct
ing an edifice at the present day in which a hun
dred thousand people could be seated so that each
one could observe what was taking place within its
walls ? Yet in the Coliseum we see that this was
an accomplished fact ; and even in its present at
tenuated state its grandeur astounds us. There
never was in Rome a more forcible illustration of
the power of her emperors. Their will alone could
thus condense the energies of thousands, and bring
them to bear upon a single object. This only
could mould into visible and majestic form the bone
and muscle of myriads.
In the prime of its beauty the Coliseum covered
nearly six acres. I may, perhaps, be pardoned for
entering the arid domain of statistics and present-

150 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
ing a few of its dimensions. It is in the shape
of an ellipse, one axis of which is 584, and the
other 468 feet. The height of the outer wall is
157 feet. The longer axis of the arena is 278,
and the shorter 177 feet. Of course its massive
arches have not escaped the ravages of time.
Lightning and storm, flood and earthquake, have
combined with the still more fearful spoliations of
man for their prostration. At this day not more
than one third of the original structure is left.
The fierce slogan of Childe Harold, " Arise, ye
Goths, and glut your ire ! " has been abundantly
responded to. If the spirits of those sad captives
who were " butchered to make a Roman holiday "
can now look down upon the scene of their suffer
ings, they must derive a gloomy satisfaction from
this battered monument, whose present condition is
so typical of the fall of their murderers. At dif
ferent periods, during the latter part of the Middle
Ages, and later than that, whole armies of workmen
were let loose upon it, and large palaces were built
from its stones. Yet enough still remains to sur
pass in grandeur every other Roman ruin.
The venerable Bede, the Herodotus of English
history, has informed us, that, during the Middle
Ages, those trains of weary pilgrims, who, footsore
and faint, marked their route to Rome by their
blood, alleviated the pains of the way by chanting
the glories of the Imperial City. The Coliseum
was not the least inspiring theme of their rude lays,
and they sang its praises in the language of those

THE COLISEUM. 151
who built it. The genius of Byron has translated
their rugged words into our own tongue, and in
vested them with the charm of metre. Childe
Harold, their fellow-pilgrim, has thus prolonged the
echoing voices of those who went before him : —
" While stands the Coliseum, Eome shall stand ;
When falls the Coliseum, Rome shall fall,
And when Eome falls, the world."
At that time the edifice was nearly complete ;
but now how . much of it has disappeared ! The
prophecy of the early wayfarers was not the dic
tation of Heaven ; and were it not for the dedica
tion of the amphitheatre to the memory of the
Christian martyrs who perished there, and the
erection of enormous buttresses of modern ma
sonry, it would be far more dilapidated than it
is at present. Its mutations have been extraor
dinary. Fights of wild beasts and gladiators, ex
ecutions of Christians' and felons, sea-fights and
contests of sea-monsters, bull-fights, mystery plays,
and theatrical spectacles, have all taken place
within its walls. At last, having served for a
woollen factory, and then as a fortress, Religion
secured- it for her use ; in 1750 it was conse
crated as a church, and now a cross, " towering
over sin and shame," rises in the centre of the
arena from an elevated platform. It supplanted
an altar of Diana, which in Roman days occu
pied the same site. Around it, the soil once dyed
with the blood of the martyrs is covered with
bright, fresh turf. Thus inanimate nature here sug-

152 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
gests vividly to the mind the ever-springing memory
of those first saints who here found through ' their
exceeding faith a speedy though fearful entrance
within the gates of heaven. The arena is encir
cled by a row of small and rudely painted taber
nacles. Each one illustrates some phase of Christ's
trial and death. Before these, on two days in every
week, a religious rite is performed. From the
neighboring church of Santa Francesca Romana
comes forth a procession of priests and nuns in
sable robes preceded by the cross. They are ac
companied by a numerous array of devotees clothed
in black. Not unfrequently, noble Roman ladies
seek by this act of penance to mortify the weakness
of sinful nature. Over the crumbling fragments
of the pillared Forum, under the arch of Titus,
past the gray remains of the temple of Venus and
Rome, along the Via Sacra, where once marched
triumphing armies and sorrowful captives, they
move with slowness and solemnity. Each chants
in low tones from the ritual the sofemn words of
their ancient church. Among the ruins which
rise on every side in the majesty of decay, —
" Eent palaces, crushed columns, rifled moles,
Panes rolled on fanes, and tombs on buried tombs," —
they pursue their way to the Coliseum. Beginning
at the cross in the centre, they prostrate themselves
humbly before it, and then before every shrine in
succession, repeating a short service at each. Then
silently and with downcast eyes, looking neither to
the right nor the left, they return to the place

THE COLISEUM. 153
whence they came. They seem a long funeral
train issuing from the graves of the past to lament
over the fallen glories around them.
At each of the two principal entrances there is
inserted in the masonry a marble tablet bearing
the figure of the cross. Under it are graven the
words, — " Baciando la Santa Croce
Si acquista un' anno
E XL giorni d' indulgenzia,"
" By kissing the holy cross one obtains a year
and forty days of indulgence." One can hardly
believe the evidence of his senses when looking
upon this desecration of so sacred a spot. Can
this be true ? I asked myself. By this slight ex
ertion can I indeed acquire the right to sin unpun
ished ? Can I repeat on this arena those murders
for which the Church of Rome has consecrated it ?
Has Heaven granted to any man the power of par
doning such offence ? I could only exclaim, in the
words with which Madame Roland apostrophized
Liberty, " O Religion ! what crimes are com-'
mitted in thy name ! "
The Coliseum is now strictly guarded by the
soldiers of Louis Napoleon. No one is allowed to
go there in the evening without a special permit
from the military authorities, though this is freely
granted to any stranger who applies for it. The
reason for this is the great fear of the Pope that
secret meetings will be held there of political so
cieties, formed with the object of delivering his

154 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
oppressed subjects from their present slavery. It
has thus in the course of events come to pass, that
this cenotaph of the ancient Romans is watched by
the descendants of those very Gauls whom they
regarded as slaves, and ruled with a rod of iron,
while the object of their vigils is to prevent the
heirs of that lordly nation from obtaining that
liberty of which their ancestors cruelly deprived
the Gauls. Truly, among all the vicissitudes of
centuries this is not the least remarkable. Among
the various instances of national retribution this is
by no means the least deserved.
In the long advance of decay many plants have
sprung up among the mouldering arches and crum
bling corridors of the Coliseum. It has been a
favorite pursuit of modern naturalists and ama
teurs to botanize here, and many large collections
have been made. In the work by Dr. Deakin
called " The Flora of the Colosseum of Rome " are
described no less than four hundred and twenty dif
ferent species which make here their habitat. This
will appear extraordinary to those who have not re
flected upon the cause of it. As the author says :
" It must be remembered, that, though the ground
occupied by the building is about six acres, the sur
face of the walls and lodgment on the ruins upon
which they grow is much more extensive, and the
variety of soil is much greater than would be sup
posed without examination ; for on the lower north
side it is damp, and favorable to the production of
many plants, while the upper walls and accumu-

THE COLISEUM. 155
lated mould are warmer and dryer, and conse
quently better suited for the development of others ;
and on the south side it is hot and dry, and suited
only for the growth of differently constructed
tribes." The flora changes from time to time.
Some plants have been destroyed by the cleaning
and restoration of the edifice in certain parts.
The seeds of new plants have been brought there
by birds, and in numerous other ways. Hence
specimens that were abundant fifty years ago have
now entirely disappeared, and their ranks are filled
by others, which at that date could not be found.
Here, sending their roots down deep into many
a crevice, the olive, the wild vine, and the long
pendent branches of the caper-tree mature their
fruit. Beneath and around them grow the pink
anemone, the larkspur, and the rose. Here the
maidenhair-fern droops the delicate green folds of
its drapery from the ruined walls and broken
arches, while many a crumbling pillar is crowned
by the wild luxuriance of waving, feathery grass.
The acanthus here clasps in close embrace the
prostrate Corinthian capital, as if it would gladly
protect the marble that has made its beauty im
mortal. In every direction, the herbage hangs
gracefully down from the summit, adorns the edge
of lofty buttresses, and covers the former site of
marble seats with the verdure of perpetual spring.
There is no rough crag of ruin or sequestered
nook that is not brightened by the airy foliage of
these children of the soil.

156 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
It is thus that Nature ever dulls the edge of ruin
and tempers the progress of decay. Following
close upon the footsteps of Time, the destroyer, she
fills his deep furrows with the seeds of perennial
flowers. Over the ruins of " cloud-capped towers
and gorgeous palaces " she causes to spring up
those " hermits of the- vale," the shadowy forms
whose sombre drapery dignifies, while it protects,
the wrecks of ages. Where once shone the golden
roofs of Nero's palace, now stand lofty pines, those
iEolian lyres at whose touch the deadly breeze from
the Campagna loses its mortal taint and melts
away in music. Kindly and beneficent Nature !
How abundantly and well, from her own exu
berant and " waste fertility," does she perform her
task ! When the earth was yet young ; when was
no sin, no death, no decay ; when the sons of God
shouted for joy over the revelation of a pure and
spotless world, — then was her duty assigned her,
and she went joyfully forth to her labor. Now the
noblest works of man smoulder in the dust ; yet
she is still the faithful servant. She still carries out
the high behests of her Maker. First at the birth
of the world, she will yet offer the last tribute at
its grave.
Amidst all the uncertainty of other Roman ruins,
one derives a peculiar pleasure from knowing that
there can be no doubt as to the identity of the Coli
seum. Nearly all the rest of Rome has been fought
over foot by foot with the greatest tenacity. For the
last two hundred years the antiquarians, the Dry-

THE COLISEUM. 157
asdusts and Oldbucks, German and French, Eng
lish and Italian, have here carried on a perpetual
tournament. Every temple has changed its name
and its site at least twenty times. And as its
name, so has its fame, like the crests at Flodden
Field, — " rose and stooped, and roSfe again,
Wild and disorderly."
The battle of the hill-throwing angels was as noth
ing to it. Temples and theatres have been tossed
about like shuttlecocks, from one side of the city
to the other. Forums and basilicas have been scat
tered around like the leaves of the Sibyl. Saturn
must have been greatly disgusted to find that it
needed more than ten centuries to discover the
former situation of his temple. Remus was prob
ably stupefied to see his shrine coolly taken from
him and given to Romulus. Jupiter Tonans was
doubtless no less affected, when, after being hustled
about from pillar to post for centuries, he was at
length, on one particularly rainy morning, turned
into the streets to shift for himself, with his bolts
under his arm and without any umbrella. Mi
nerva Chalcidica, on the contrary, who had finally
come to the conclusion that she did not own one
foot of real estate in Rome, awoke one morning to
find herself the proprietor of an eligible corner-lot
in the Forum, and has probably been flattered and
caressed by all the gods and envied by all the god
desses ever since.
It has finally been concluded that the only way

158 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
to examine the title to any one of these temples is
to dig for it. In this way much has been done of
late years to settle vigorous disputes and reconcile
contending interests. The claims of many of these
rivals, however, have been found to be so old or
so deep as to be past digging for, and they have
been left out in the cold. But in regard to the
Coliseum no doubt has ever existed, and it still
towers above all the other ruins, majestic and un
rivalled. Among the other abundant trophies which time
has won even from genius is the name of the ar
chitect who superintended the planning and con
struction of this edifice. The names of Vespasian,
Titus, and Domitian, whose fiat called it into exist
ence, are still recorded in inscriptions on marble
and bronze ; but he whose talents were the pride
of their empire is known no more among men.
It is one of the privileges of power thus to absorb
into itself the triumphs of genius. Who can tell
by whom the road over the Simplon was built ?
" Ask Fame," and she will not tell you. The world
will say, "Napoleon ; " and the great majority of peo
ple think that he was its engineer. Was it for this
that Ceard burned the midnight oil, and arose at
daybreak with aching head ? Was it for this that
he conducted a broad highway over trackless
masses of snow and ice ? Yet such are the decrees
of fate. The love of power, of pomp, of glory,
concentrates the energies of a nation, and enables
them -to make a deep and lasting furrow on the

THE COLISEUM. 159
shores of time, but posterity demands in vain the
name of him who guided the ploughshare. There
is a faint tradition of the Church, a feeble report
like the last tone of a dying echo, that the archi
tect of the Coliseum was a Christian named Gau-
dentius, and that his genius but served to light
his pathway to the grave. The bigotry and cruelty
of his imperial master caused his death ; and the
scene of his greatest earthly renown witnessed a
yet nobler triumph, when the death of a martyr in
the arena insured him an eternal glory, of which
despotic power could not deprive him. If this be
true, nothing could have been grander than his last
hour ; and not even the enthusiasm of a Christian
martyr could have desired a more imposing site
than this crowded amphitheatre in which to seal
his faith with his blood.
To the student of history the Coliseum is a
tragedy in stone. Before him are presented the
toiling agonies which tyranny extorted from the
thousands of captives who built it, free men torn
from their happy homes to minister to the pride
of savage Rome. We see the helpless gladiator,
striving by the meek appeal of an attitude of res
ignation to win from the spectators that mercy
which his antagonist will not grant. We see the
Emperor, in the garb of an athlete, descend into
the arena to gorge the already glutted sand with
the blood of yet one more helpless slave armed
only with a foil of lead ; we look upon the last
struggles of the aged Ignatius, casting off " this

160 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
muddy vesture of decay," amidst the howls of
infuriated wild beasts and the fierce cries of a yet
more brutal populace, yet perceiving with the clear
eye of faith only bright, angels with crowns of gold,
and hearing only the tones of heavenly harps.
Here athletes fought blindfolded, and men of
dwarfish stature prolonged their mortal agonies, —
the source of ignominious delight to a' bloodthirsty
populace. Here, with atrocious mirth, they ap
plauded those who died in graceful postures, and
abused the others with sarcasms and revilings.
But when could we let fall the veil, if we should
try to recall one half the cruel deeds which have
disgraced this temple of wickedness ? Let us be
thankful that those old days have passed never to
return, and that no Coliseum will again arise to
disgrace humanity.
The wonderful charm of Rome, says Madame
de Stael, arises not only from the intrinsic beauty
of its monuments, but from the interest they inspire
by exciting to reflection. This is especially true of
the obelisks, which terminate the long vista of the
main avenues, or in lonely grandeur form the cen
tre of the principal squares. They are eleven in
number and all of Egyptian granite. Four of them,
the largest and most interesting, were brought, in
the days of the Empire, from Heliopolis. Every
one except that in the square of St. Peter's has
been broken into either three or five pieces, hav
ing been thrown down in the destruction of Rome,
and buried under heaps of rubbish. That of St.

THE ROMAN OBELISKS. 161
Peter's alone remained erect. All, however, have
been skilfully restored, and placed on pedestals
more or less appropriate. Each is covered with
hieroglyphics, except three of the smaller ones.
The shaft which stands in the Piazza del Popolo is
probably the most ancient, and was first erected
before the Temple of the Sun, at Heliopolis, cer
tainly fifteen centuries before Christ, and some
antiquarians claim for it a much greater age.
This monument seems a stranger in a strange
land, and ever beckons us back into the past. A
faithful messenger, it has borne down to us, out of
the dim mists of early Egypt, the message which
its sovereigns inscribed upon it. Through fire and
flood and man's destruction, it has clung to it with
tenacity, to lay it proudly at the feet of modern sci
ence. It is, as it were, an oasis in the broad desert
of Egypt's history, a rocky island in her fathomless
sea. Though dead, it yet speaks eloquently in the
language of the past. Perchance, under its broad
shadow Joseph, once " a shepherd lad of small re
gard to see to," yet now the chosen servant of God
and the saviour of Egypt, wooed in quiet dignity
the daughter of the priest of On. It heard the
moans of the persecuted people of the Most High,
and the inspired pleadings of Moses in their behalf.
It looked down upon him as he walked in godlike
meditation upon the banks of the Nile at eventide.
It witnessed the triumphs of the great Sesostris, and
hstened to the exulting hymns and barbaric music
of his priests, as they bore in long array the em-
11

162 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
blems of their faith. Perhaps it gazed upon the
armed host of the haughty king, that funeral proces
sion, who followed him to his grave in the Red Sea,
and returned not, but remained to form the cost
liest sacrifice ever offered at the tomb of earthly
monarch. In later years, its lofty pinnacle pre
sented itself to the eyes of Herodotus and Plato,
Solon and Thales, as in the temples around it they
studied the wisdom of Egypt.
For ages after the decay of their country these
obelisks stood in lone grandeur and silent dignity,
and their forms were reflected in the eternal waters
of the Nile, like the milestones which marked the
path of Egypt to eternity. Many of them were
upreared in an age when philosophy was yet an
infant on the lap of superstition, and the arts and
sciences could not endure the light; when black
clouds almost concealed the rising sun ; when men
struggled in the dim dawn of their awakening, and
in the yearning of their mistaken minds, in the first
faint consciousness of God-given powers, though
uncertain how to direct them, built the obelisks
and the pyramids, that coming ages might at least
see that Egypt had once lived. Scattered here and
there amidst the apathy of modern Rome, they ap
pear to be its funeral monuments. Coming from
a land where one man, vampire-like, drained the
life-blood of millions, they quietly await the inev
itable fall of a modern despotism as blighting and
ruinous as that which erected them.

ST. PETER'S. 163

CHAPTER XII.

ST. PETER S.

Of all the forms in which the pride and power
of the Roman Catholic Church have permanently
presented themselves to the eyes of the world, the
Basilica of St. Peter's is the most imposing. Its
central dome, and the wide and lofty halls which
cluster around it, and proudly wear it as their
crown, seem a fitting emblem of the papacy itself,
invested with the tiara, and drawing to one com
mon centre the ecclesiastical power of many spa
cious lands. As a work of art, a grand architec
tural idea harmoniously carried out, this temple
surpasses all other existing edifices. Though the
original plan was but partly followed, though the
front is bad, though the interior is injured and the
effect of the aisles diminished by the piers which
support the dome, yet enough of grandeur and
beauty remains to justify the verdict of the world
in its favor. It is still unrivalled in that abound
ing harmony and unity which expand the soul
and enable it to comprehend its vastness. This
cannot be done at a glance, however. One must
slowly traverse the far-reaching aisles, must meas
ure the span of the soaring arches, and walk around

164 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
the massive piers, ere he can embrace the fulness of
the grand idea. This is owing partly to its admir
able proportions, and the absence of any standard
with which to compare their vastness, and partly
to the colossal size and great number of the statues
and other decorations. This profusion of ornament
detracts greatly from its simplicity, which is so im
portant an element both in architecture and in
sculpture, and which elevates and enlarges so am
ply that which is already great. Excessive embel
lishment, on the contrary, interrupts the full flow of
the outlines, and tends to greatly lessen their effect.
It is a maxim in architecture, the truth of which
has been often proved, that everything which we
must consider in separate pieces, or which we can
not survey at once from the number of its constitu
ent parts, loses thereby some portion of its great
ness. This' want of simplicity is a great defect in
all the Italian churches ; and were it not for the
vast size of St. Peter's, the consequence of such
abundant decoration would be still worse than it is.
How superior is the effect of the Gothic cathe
drals erected in the Middle Ages to that of St. Pe
ter's. In the most of these we perceive, on every
side, abundant evidences of piety and religion, ear
nest, self-denying, pure. From the great glow
ing window, the contribution of some pious saint,
through which we almost see the bright glories of
heaven beyond, to the tomb, whose simple and ex
pressive epitaph asks a prayer for the soul of the
humble sinner who sleeps within, and which seems

ST. PETER'S. 165
to denote the portals of eternal happiness, all is per
vaded with this spirit. The majority of these temples
were built by God-fearing and devoted men, whose
liberal contributions kept them in progress from age
to age, and really advanced the cause of religion.
They were not erected from motives of personal ag
grandizement. The workmen felt their hearts in the
work. They were free, active, intelligent men, and
were not driven to their labor by the scourge of a
tyrant of the church. The very ornaments which
their copious talents scattered over the stone yet
seem to shake with the vigorous blows of their chis
els. The flowers and foliage yet appear to vibrate
with the breath of these hardy sculptors, these
sturdy students of the woods and fields, as they
bent over their work, and with nervous strokes and
graphic tools elaborated every varied beauty. The
very monsters, grotesque and quaint, which their
minds impressed on the rugged stone, yet flash back
from their eyes the bright and animated glances of
their makers. These were works of piety and love,
which vivified and elevated the minds of those who
made them. These Gothic churches were the true
representatives of the religious spirit of the age.
They were the connecting link between nature and
religion. Never was Christianity more befittingly
enshrined than in these sanctuaries.
How different is the effect of St. Peter's ! For
the erection of this, the exactions of fifty pontiffs,
under pretence of saving souls, wrung from thou
sands of helpless sinners their hard-earned millions.

166 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
The history of this church is a long scroll of in
famy, to which every ornament and monument
within its walls contributes its record. To com
plete it, all Rome was plundered of its sacred and
time-honored ruins, from the bronze of the Pan
theon to the niarbles. of many an ancient temple.
The very baptismal font once covered the ashes
of the Emperor Hadrian, that most depraved and
vicious pagan. The Gothic cathedrals were the
work of free men, whose minds disdained to draw
the elements of beauty from any source but the
pure fountain-head of Nature herself. St. Peter's
was the work of slaves, urged only by the lash of
successive despots. Not more inexorably did the
ancient Pharaohs drive forward the Israelites when
building the Pyramids, not more relentlessly did
Diocletian goad on the Christian slaves who erected
his gigantic baths, than did the various popes ap
ply the scourge of religious terror to the minds of
those whose labors and contributions completed St.
Peter's. In an edifice built professedly for the uses of
religion, everything should be made subservient
to this object. If there be any adornments, they
should be such as will serve to remind each wor
shipper of his immortality, and strengthen and
encourage his mind for the performance of every
Christian duty. But there is no such influence as
this to be found in St. Peter's. On the contrary, it
has a fearful worldly taint, and its effect on the soul
is decidedly bad. No reflecting mind can look upon

ST. PETER'S. 167
the building itself or its decorations without encour
agement to evil from the repeated examples he sees
of audacious and successful wickedness winning
for itself power and fame. The church was built
through the repeated exactions and oppressions of
the papacy for more than three centuries. There
is not one single element of pure religion in the
whole structure. Apart from its architectural splen
dor it is merely a monument of worldly ambition,
pride, and corruption. The moral effect of the
whole is extremely debasing, as not only showing,
but forcing the mind to notice the results of bloated
ecclesiastical power, exercised in defiance of all the
decencies of religion.
On its front is emblazoned, in enormous letters,
the inscription placed there by Paul V., in whose
reign the nave was finished : " in honorem prin-
CIPIS APOST PAVLVS V BVRGHESIVS ROMANVS PONT
max an mdcxii pon vii." This, in English, would
read : fn honor of the chief Apostle, Paul V. Borghese,
Roman Pontiff in the year 1612, of his pontificate the
1th. It will be noticed that the name of " the chief
Apostle " is not mentioned, while that of the Pope
is recorded in the most conspicuous manner. The
words " Paulus V. Burghesius Romanus," in let
ters six feet high, are placed on the frieze of the
great central portico, exactly over the principal en
trance. Of course, any one who did not know the
truth of the matter would infer that the building
was erected in honor of Paul V., and not of the
Apostle Peter, which was probably the design of

168 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
that pontiff. If, in after ages, our remote descend
ants shall disinter the ruins of this church, they may
very naturally suppose that Paul V. was the illus
trious name to which it was dedicated.
This pope was a merciless bigot, and his murder
of Piccinardi excited a feeling of horror throughout
Europe, though in an age when deeds of lawless
ness were far more common, and attracted far less
attention than now. At a short distance from the
entrance is the costly and elaborate memorial of
Christina, the Queen of Sweden, who abjured the
faith of her fathers, and caused the assassination of
her secretary, Monaldeschi. On the opposite side
of the church is the costly and beautiful cenotaph
designed by Canova, and erected to the memory
of the self-styled James III., Charles III., and
Henry IX., the three pretenders to the throne
of England, whose bodies lie in the vaults below.
The first two were notorious for the indulgence
of every degrading vice, and died in a state of
intoxication. Yet on their monument is carved,
in golden letters, " Beati sunt, qui in Domino mori-
untnr." " Blessed are those who die in the Lord ! "
At the right side of the nave is the famous statue
of St. Peter, (nS Jupiter,) whose toes the ardor
of devotees has almost kissed and rubbed away.
An endless procession of the faithful are con
tinually passing before this image, each one of
whom takes a handkerchief from his pocket, care
fully rubs the sacred foot, that no harm may come
to him from contact with the lips of his predecessor,

ST. PETER'S. 169
kisses it devoutly, presses his forehead against it,
crosses himself, and moves away with the air of one
who has done a highly meritorious deed. This
statue, which formerly represented the chief god of
the Gentiles, has but little excellence as a work of
art, and is more valuable from its antiquity than
anything else. Though now appropriated to St.
Peter, it should have been more properly confis
cated to St. Paul, if to either of the apostles, since
it was he who won the triumphs of the cross from
the Gentiles, and not St. Peter. At the head of
the tribune are the four Latin Fathers in bronze,
supporting a canopy of the same material, in which
is said to be the original throne used by St. Peter,
when Bishop of Rome. This was exposed to view
by the French, who were holding possession of the
city in the time of the first Napoleon, and on it was
found the inscription in Arabic, " There is but one
God, and Mohammed is his prophet." This showed
that the first pope was much more tolerant than his
successors, though the Church of Rome has failed
to account for the manner in which the humble fish
erman obtained his seat from the Saracens, or other
followers of the prophet. This again should have
belonged to Paul, and is but another example of the
continued inversion at Rome of the reputed custom
of robbing Peter to pay Paul ; for the former, who,
to judge from the testimony of history, probably
never was at Rome, is honored with splendid tem
ples and altars, while the latter, who there gave
abundant testimony, both by word and deed, of the

170 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
faith that was in him, and finally suffered a cruel
death at the hands of Nero, has not a single church
within the walls.
There is yet another manner in which the Apostle
Peter has been victimized in bronze, in addition to
the second-hand chair and statue. Urban VIII.,
one of the most arrogant despots that ever sat on a
throne, appropriated to the apostle's use all the
sheets of that metal which had not been stripped
from the portico of the Pantheon by the barbarians
who preceded him. Of these he formed a vast can
opy over the tomb of the saint, directly under the
dome. It is entirely unnecessary, in bad taste, and
greatly injures the effect of the nave. It is pro
fusely covered with the three gilded bees which
were the arms of that pontiff. Can one find lan
guage sufficiently strong to express his indignation at
the conduct of a ruler, who, solely for his own personal
exaltation, thus robbed the noblest ancient temple"
which time has spared us, to disfigure the grandest
of modern cathedrals ? Yet this was but one result
of that overweening conceit that despised every
opinion but his own. He was accustomed to say
that " the judgment of a living pope was worth the
maxims of a hundred dead ones." He exacted a
statue from his subjects during his lifetime, — an
honor which they had resolved never to offer again
to a living pope. He decided the matter, and fin
ished all discussion, by quietly saying, " That reso
lution cannot apply to such a pope as I am."
In St. Peter's, we see on every side the mon-

ST. PETER'S. 171
uments of deceased popes. Under the church, in
the old basilica, are their numerous sarcophagi,
placed as near as possible to the tomb of the saint.
Here lie haughty popes and bigoted popes, despotic
popes and warlike popes, popes who tortured and
burnt, popes who sacrificed everything for the
wealth and power of their families, popes who were
noted for their licentiousness. Their place of sepul
ture is indeed magnificent beyond belief. Never
was a race of sovereigns honored with greater pomp
in death ; never was a race more unworthy of it.
History seeks in vain for a line of monarchs who
enjoyed better opportunities for benefiting the hu
man race, or who used such as they had with more
pernicious results to the world. It is fearful to
think how few out of three hundred pontiffs have
been noted for their Christian virtues ; and it is still
more fearful to contemplate how many there were
whom their high position served only to bring their
disreputable vices prominently before the world.

172 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.

CHAPTER XIII.
THE STATUE OF MOSES.
Among the three hundred churches of Rome,
whose open doors perpetually invite us to enter in
and enjoy the art treasures and the spoils of past
centuries which they contain in such profusion, one
of the most attractive is that of San Pietro in Vin-
coli (St. Peter in Chains). It is situated on the
Esquiline Hill, not far from its summit, and near the
site of the luxurious villa of Maecenas, where he
was wont to entertain Augustus, Horace, Virgil,
and the whole fraternity of his literary friends.
Just below it lie rent and craggy ruins of the Coli
seum, that "mountainous pile" so strongly resem
bling the crater of an extinct volcano. The origi-
nal church on this spot was built about the middle
of the fifth century, to form a fitting shrine for the
chain with which St. Peter was bound when im
prisoned at Jerusalem. It is said that this sacred
memento had, by some strange contingency, come
into the possession of the Empress Eudoxia, who,
thinking it too valuable (if not too heavy) to wear,
endowed this institution therewith. It is now en
closed in a large casket of bronze, whence it is

THE STATUE OF MOSES. 173
brought forth with much ceremony once a year, for
the benefit of the faithful.
Since the time of this donation of a number of
rusty iron links of dubious origin and somewhat dis
creditable workmanship, they have gradually en
larged themselves into the present ecclesiastical
establishment. Here monks and priests in glitter
ing robes, with the pretensions, if not the odor, of
sanctity, chant the praises of their foundress in a
building of admirable architecture, whose fluted
columns of white marble once rang with the sturdy
blows of Roman workmen. Here, at stated times,
the sound of solemn music is heard, and the fragrant
steam of incense, in " thick-coming fancies," creeps
sluggishly, with delicate and smoky tendrils, over
many a rare painting, and marble cunningly carved,
while the rusty germ of all this splendor is exhibited
to the gaping crowd of devotees. Surely, in all the
annals of philosophy no more pregnant example of
the successful transmutation of metals can be found
than this.
Among all the works of genius with which this
church is adorned, the most famous is the statue of
Moses by Michel Angelo, that great name which
has so brightly emblazoned itself upon the broad
brow of the Romish Church. In few of his labors
does his genius shine forth more clearly. Upon
none has he more deeply stamped his own fiery en
ergy. The figure is of colossal size, and was orig
inally designed to adorn a splendid sepulchral mon
ument for Pope Julius II. But " man proposes and

174 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
God disposes ; " the plan was never carried into
execution, and the statues which were to form a
part of it are scattered in every direction. The
ambitious pontiff rests (for even his tireless activity
at last found the repose of the grave) in St. Peter's,
under a plain marble slab. The great lawgiver is
represented in a sitting posture, as looking forth from
the heights of Sinai upon the hosts of the children
of Israel, as they came nigh him to receive from his
lips the commandment of the Lord. His mien is
dignified and majestic, while in his deep eyes, firm-
set lips, and stern brow, there appears an expression
of profound indignation. The thick masses of his
beard reach to his waist. From the upper part of his
forehead project two small horns, the effect of which,
however they might strike some persons in a descrip
tion, is by no means unimpressive. This feature is
in accordance with that erroneous translation of a
portion of the 34th chapter of Exodus, , which is
found in the Vulgate, or Roman Catholic version
of the Bible in Latin. The passage which in all
the Protestant Scriptures is rendered " Moses wist
not that the skin of his face shone," is there ren
dered, " Moses knew not that his face was horned." *
# This error arose from a restriction of the meaning of the
Hebrew word used in the original text, which ordinarily signifies
rayed. The correct understanding is, doubtless, that rays of
light shone from the face of Moses, as he came from the presence
of God, forming an aureole, such as we see around the heads of
saints in various paintings. The Bible tells us that this was after
his second interview with Jehovah, and not the first ; therefore it
is not probable that Michel Angelo intended to represent Moses

THE STATUE OF MOSES. 175
Under his right arm he holds the tables of the
law, graven with the writing of God, while, in deep
agitation, he grasps with the right hand his long and
as he looked upon the Israelites dancing around the golden calf,
as is asserted by some writers. In the first Latin translation by
St. Jerome, the passage is as follows: "Cumque descenderet
Moyses de monte Sinai tenebat duas tabulas testimonii et igno-
rabat quod cornuta esset facies sua ex consortio sermonis Dei."
Exodus xxxiv. 29. In the verses following this the rendering
is the same, wherever that appearance is referred to. This has
been continued in all the Eoman Catholic translations of the
Scriptures in every tongue down to the present day, but not in
those published without the sanction of that church. The near
est approach I can find to this rendering in Protestant Bibles is
in that of Cranmer, printed in 1562, of which the language is :
" And Moses wist not that the skyn of his face shone in maner
of an home, whyle he talked with him."
It would be somewhat remarkable, were it not for the claims
to infallibility repeatedly put forward by the Eomish Church,
that this error should be retained in a translation which has been
revised by its ablest scholars for fourteen centuries. It is inter
esting to notice, that, while in certain Latin translations of the
Bible not published under the auspices of the Church the ren
dering of the above passage is correct, it was thought best not
to give too great a shock to the feelings of people born and
brought up in the belief that Moses was horned. Therefore, an
attempt was made to compromise the matter by pictures, in which
he is represented with bunches of rays projecting from each tem
ple, somewhat in the form of horns. At sight of this spectacle,
one can hardly avoid the profane exclamation of Quince, on see
ing a somewhat similar transformation : " Bless thee, Bottom !
thou art translated ! " Examples of this appear in the edition
published at Amsterdam, iu 1651, translated into Latin by Im.
Tremellius and Fr. Junius, and in many others, some of which
are to be found in the admirable collection of Bibles belonging
to George Livermore, Esq.
In regard to the horns of Moses, I think few will be unwilling
to admit that they are much more impressive and appropriate
than the row of gilded spikes which Canova placed on the brow

176 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
silky beard. This arm and hand are among the
noblest specimens of anatomy and correct propor
tion which the art of the sculptor, whether ancient
or modern, has ever modelled. Had Michel An
gelo done nothing else, these alone might well serve
as his passport to fame. The nervous, life-like grasp
of the hand seems to thrill along the arm and vital
ize it ; their full, undulating veins and sinewy mus
cles have hardly ever been surpassed by the works
of any artist. His form is of colossal size, stal
wart and robust ; and the swollen sinews of both
arms testify to the athletic vigor, which, doubtless,
he possessed, who in his youth slew the Egyptian,
and afterwards, in the deserts of Midian, guarded
the flocks of Jethro from the spoiler. The effect
of the whole figure is exceedingly grand, and fully
equals our idea of him who alone might see God
and live. " Simple, erect, severe, austere, sublime,"
like one exalted above every passion save righteous
anger, the first poet and judge, the great leader and
high priest of the chosen people, appears before us
in all his attributes.
In the history of Moses, all the associations»which
of Eeligion, as her statue appears on the tomb of Clement XIII.
in St. Peter's.
I desire to call the attention of my readers to the fact that
there is in this country one, and only one, cast of this statue of
Moses. It was presented to the American Antiquarian Society,
in 1859, together with a cast of Michel Angelo's statue of Christ,
by its president, Hon. Stephen Salisbury. They are both now
to be seen at the rooms of this society in Worcester. We can
hardly be sufficiently grateful for the liberality and devotion to
the interests of art, which have thus brought to our own homes
these two masterpieces of genius.

THE STATUE OF MOSES. 177
surround him are colossal, even from his earliest
days. We read of his mysterious appearance
amidst the waters of the beneficent river, seem
ingly the offspring of that god of the Egyptians ;
his education at the court of the great Sesostris,
" the Child of the Sun," the Napoleon of that age ;
his youthful growth among those gigantic monu
ments whose forms he saw day by day expanding
through the toilsome labors of his countrymen, —
thus, as it were, son of the Nile and brother of the
Pyramids ; his interviews with God, and his mis
sion to the court of Pharoah, as His envoy, to de
mand the liberation of His people, and to bring
down plagues upon their cruel oppressors ; his pas
sage of the Red Sea as captain of the host of Is
rael ; his leading their strong-voiced chorus with
winged and mighty words in the hour of their tri
umph ; his reception of the law on Sinai, amidst
the thunders and lightnings of Jehovah ; his death
and burial on Mount Nebo, — a death so solemn
that none but Almighty power might witness it, and
comfort the inevitable anguish of that parting, —
funeral rites so imposing- that only the hosts of
heaven amongst the everlasting hills might perform
them ; and that final scene, whose terrific grandeur
no pen has dared to describe nor pencil to portray,
when the Prince of Darkness strove with the Arch
angel Michael for the possession of the body of the
aged saint ; — surely, reflecting on all these more
than human accessories, the greatest genius might
well pause ere he attempted to present their marble
12

178 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
embodiment to his fellow-men ; and no one but
Michel Angelo has done it with success.
Few works of art have been criticised with more
pungent severity than this, and perhaps the more
so from the very boldness of the design. The
brows, the beard, the figure, the drapery, the ex
pression, have all been mercilessly ridiculed, and
yet they seem to have stood the test. We have
every reason to believe, both from the Bible and the
old Jewish traditions, that Moses was a man of im
posing presence, of majestic mien, and great bodily
vigor. When he died, at the age of a hundred and
twenty years, " his eye was not dim nor his natural
force abated." According to the church belief,
which the Italian artists almost invariably followed
with reverence, the horns were as necessary a feat
ure of Moses as they were of Jupiter Amnion
among the Greeks. Any one who has seen the
famous head of that deity in the Capitoline Mu
seum will admit that they could be employed, even
when of large size, in such a manner as not to detract
from the expression of an otherwise majestic face.
In the statue of Moses they are not very prominent,
and they would not be at all so in the elevated
position which it was designed to occupy. The
solemnity of scriptural associations adds not a little
to their -effect ; and, while looking upon them, one
finds himself unconsciously repeating the words,
" The horns of the righteous shall be exalted."
The beard is finished with great skill and deli
cacy, and its arrangement is unique. No other

THE STATUE OF MOSES. 179
statue presents this feature more abundantly or
with more dignified effect. The drapery is some
what scanty, which is to be regretted, since the
legs are angular in their posture, and the garments,
by clinging closely to them, make this too conspicu
ous. A more copious and flowing robe, like that
of a high priest, for example, would conceal these
limbs, and thus give additional dignity to the whole
figure. The left arm, which stretches across the
body near the middle, might doubtless be improved.
Its present position is certainly not significant, its
anatomy is somewhat defective, and its proportions
are not so admirable as those of the other arm. It
is too long and slender, and the bones do not appear
properly placed. Yet where could another artist
be found who could model an arm even as well
as this ? It is possible that both this and the dra
pery may have been affected by the shape and size
of the block of marble from which they were
carved, as was the case with certain other statues
by the same artist.
As to the frown which clouds the forehead of
Moses, critics would naturally differ, according to
the view they took of the character of the law
giver, and the circumstances which surrounded
him. To the fervid imagination of the artist he
probably appeared, at the end of the long vista of
the past, like some grand and supernatural form,
invested with almost the attributes of divinity.
Yet, though he was the prime minister of God on
earth, and received all counsel from Deity itself,

180 EUROPEAN MOSAIC. •
and advised not with any man, he was mortal in
his nature and subject to mortal passions. It is not
therefore strange, that, though dwelling as it were
in the calm serenity of a heavenly life, a certain
contempt for the people of his charge should at
times affect him ; that, though feeling himself in
finitely above them, their obstinacy, ignorance, and
folly should not unseldom cause an angry frown to
furrow his brow. The perpetual annoyances to
which we know he was exposed, doubtless were
the cause why, though " the man Moses was very
meek," he had not at eighty years of age learned
to control his temper, nor did he to the day of his
death. It is not remarkable that his wrath could
not be repressed, when he who had seen the inner
mysteries of Deity, and had enjoyed a foretaste of
those plans which He was to carry out for the good
of His people, perceived their utter incapacity,
their want of judgment, and of every moral faculty.
It is not strange that his anger waxed hot as he
descended Sinai and saw the idolatrous people, or
that he cast the tables of the law out of his hands
and brake them beneath the mount. Conscious
that he was, notwithstanding his humanity, more
nearly allied to God than to the creatures around
him, it is not to be wondered at that he afterwards
exclaimed, " Hear now, ye rebels ; must we fetch
you water out of this rock ? " or that, in his last
parting " song" to the congregation, he said, " They
are a nation void of counsel, neither is there any
understanding in them."

THE STATUE OF MOSES. 181
It is probable that thoughts like these suggested
themselves to the mind of the sculptor, and in por
traying Moses with a darkened brow he but pre
sented him as he appeared to his own imagination,
and, it would seem, correctly. He did not intend
to offer a mere artistic ideal of what he ought to
be, as a great lawgiver and the minister of God,
but his image as its leading features might be sup
posed to appear. He certainly followed out the
principles of Greek art, in giving the greatest possi
ble grandeur and elevation to the figure, and yet
preserving the expression and bearing suited to the
circumstances in which he was placed. Notwith
standing the sublimity of Moses' character, as I
have said before, he was not a God, but a man ; and
it was the design of the artist to represent him as
such, " a little lower than the angels, and crowned
with glory and honor." Had he intended to por
tray him with the attributes of divinity, he would
probably have given him an air of placid majesty,
with no mortal taint of passion, and no more expres
sion of feeling than the Apollo, whose elevated lip
and dilated nostril are the only indications of the
contemptuous anger of his soul. He has presented
him to us as a man, majestic in mien and conscious
of that majesty. Fresh from his intercourse with
God, his countenance yet glows with the radiance
of heaven. Coming forth from the bright glare
of the lightning and the loud blasts of the thunder,
yet unscathed ; with the portentous darkness of
thick clouds yet clinging to his awful presence ; his

182 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
brow still clouded with the traces of that righteous
anger with which he had before seen the children
of Israel dancing around the golden calf and in
sulting their Deliverer; thus did he appear to'them,
ere he veiled his face and hid that fearful splendor
on which they dared not look.
Michel Angelo must have labored on this work
con amore. One can well believe the story, that
when the great sculptor had finished it he struck
it energetically on the thigh with his chisel, and
exclaimed, " Parla dunque ; tu sai ! " " Speak
now ; thou canst ! " There was much in the tem
perament of his own mind to establish a strong
bond of sympathy between him and his subject.
The grandeur of his soul and the greatness of his
conceptions raised him, like Moses, high above the
minds of his own age ; and thus their spiritual union
was strong and deep, as it must ever be between
those who dwell in the highest heaven of human
genius. His grasp of the subject was thus power
ful and complete, for it lay in the depths of his own
heart. His own stormy career enabled him to
well appreciate the difficulties of the lawgiver, and
the God-given energy which empowered him to
strive against and overcome them. We may be
sure that as Milton labored to infuse his own in
domitable vigor and burning eloquence into the
character of Satan, so did Michel Angelo ply his
chisel with redoubled zeal, and bring out new linea
ments of power, when he felt the influence of those
mysterious bonds which united them even across

THE STATUE OF MOSES. 183
the dissevered ages. Fresh vigor must have nerved
his arm, as he thought of the perseverance and
sturdy energy of his own early youth, — while he
saw how his own divine genius was hampered and
annoyed by groundlings who knew not its force, —
while he felt within himself the glow of deep poet
ical and religious fervor, and, with the conscious
ness of mighty talents, felt that he too was a chosen
minister to impart to the world a new revelation.*
It is from such triumphs of genius as this statue
that the Romish Church derives a large part of its
power over the minds of its votaries. A hierarchy
which can press into its service the greatest artists
of every age to give visible illustrations of the Ma
donna and her Son, of the saints, the prophets, and
" the mighty angels," — which can avail itself of the
genius and devotion of the greatest minds in every
department of human progress, — will never want
followers. , While these can pray to the Madonnas
of Raphael and Murillo, to the Christ and the
Moses of Michel Angelo ; while its dead are bur
ied to the solemn strains of Mozart's Requiem ;
while " the Pantheon in air " shows its past glo
ries, and the frescos of the Sistine Chapel portray
its future ; while its annals make known to us a
Columbus discovering a new world, solely for the
extension of its dominion, a Wolsey craving " a
* " C'est Michel Ange lui-meme qu'on voit dans Mo'ise : c'est
son esprit, captif dans le marbre et faisant effort pour sortir, qui
frappe le spectateur de surprise et de respect." — Phidias, sa Vie
et ses Ouvrages, par Louis de Eonchaud.

184 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
little earth for charity " that he might lie in its
consecrated soil, a Bayard praying his soul away
on the field of battle, and dying the death of a hero
and a Christian within its pale ; while the once si
lent recesses of the unbounded East yet echo to the
bell of St. Francis Xavier, worn, fainting, yet en
thusiastic, and calling upon all men to unite with
the only true and infallible church, — so long will
the large class of those from whom the show and
glitter hide the substance fall down and worship
this so imposing, yet, as far as a pure religion is
concerned, dead past. So long as the sun in his
setting is accompanied by such resplendent clouds,
so long will they prostrate themselves before these
fading splendors till the last ray of glory has passed
away.

THE DYING GLADIATOR. 185

CHAPTER XIV.
THE DYING GLADIATOR AND THE CAPITOLINE
ANTINOUS.
In the Vatican and the Capitoline Museum are
preserved the two most complete collections of an
cient works of art now remaining. All these pre
serve some lineaments of their former beauty, though
showing abundant traces of the desolation through
which they have passed. Rent and shattered, leg
less and armless, yet, even in this forlorn condition,
how precious ! they have been brought here with
care from the uncertain abodes which they occupied
for ages. Out of the depths of the earth, from the
precincts of gray, mouldering temples and baths,
from the villas of ancient luxury and taste, where
Cicero, Horace, C»sar, Hadrian, were wont to gaze
upon them with • rapture, they come to offer their
peerless attractions to the present age. Shattered
tombs have reluctantly yielded up their richly
carved sarcophagi ; trembling towers and porticos
have looked on in mute despair, as they were rifled
of the bright adornments which they had worn
through fire and tempest ; even Father Tiber from
his watery recesses has held forth, with unwilling
hands, a portion of the treasures so long garnered
there.

186 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
Madame de Stael has well described the Museum
of the Vatican, as " that palace of statues where we
see the human form deified by Paganism, as are
now the thoughts of the soul by Christianity." In
the eternal repose of its silent halls are contained
many of those statues which their world-wide rep
utation has made familiar to every one. Who has
not heard of the Laocoon and the Apollo Belve
dere ? — works whose surpassing beauties the elo
quence of poetical genius has further ennobled with
breathing thoughts and burning words. Extend
ing through long galleries, magnificently decorated,
we see the deities of Greece as they stood before
their worshippers ; here are her ancient heroes,
philosophers, and statesmen, as if in act to speak ;
here Augustus, who was beautiful at every period
of his life, still wins our admiration with the form
and features of youthful or manly grace ; in these
classic alcoves Pompey, Cassar, and desponding
Brutus, " solicitous and sad," in stony rivalry look
down upon us from their pedestals ; through miles
of porticos, rotundas, and lofty halls are ranged ex
amples of all that ancient sculpture has bequeathed
to us of the excellence of spotless marble. To
all these splendors modern art has contributed its
share'; and frescos and paintings by Raphael, in
cluding the Transfiguration, his last and greatest
work, appear side by side with the chefs-d'oeuvre of
Domenichino, Guido, and Titian. These paintings
are arranged in a gallery by themselves. For their
presence in this collection we have to thank the

THE DYING GLADIATOR. ; 187
\
first Napoleon, who collected them from the various >.,
churches where they once were placed, and tffefev^LKcsi
ported them to Paris. On their restoration, in
1815, Pius- VII. thought fit to retain them in the
Vatican, and thus was formed this incomparable
gallery. Under the same roof with these and the
statues is the magnificent Library of the Vatican,
containing nearly twenty-four thousand manuscripts,
two museums of Egyptian and Etruscan antiquities,
and the papal manufactory of mosaic. All these
occupy a vast space, and the size of the palace al
most exceeds belief. The number of rooms, includ
ing the Pope's apartments and the various chapels,
is over forty-five hundred ; and the visitor is fairly
bewildered as he traverses one after another in un
ending succession, and sees the wealth which in
the course of ages has been accumulated there by
the various pontiffs.
The Museum of the Capitol is not so extensive
as that of the Vatican, yet it contains many choice
works, and among them some which are world-
renowned. Of these there are two statues which, both from
their great artistic merit and their extended fame,
fix the attention of every visitor. They are the
Dying Gladiator and the Antinoiis. The appella
tion which was bestowed upon the former of these
at the time of its discovery in the Gardens of Sal-
lust, a century and a half ago, has been shown by
the researches of the ablest modern critics to be
incorrect. The truth of this view is obvious, from

188 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
the fact that the figure possesses none of the char
acteristics of a gladiator as ordinarily portrayed by
the ancient artists. As it appears to our eyes, it is
the undraped form of a man dying from a sword-
thrust in the chest, and gasping for breath on ac
count of the loss of blood. His moustache, the
arrangement of his hair, and his profile show him
to be a barbarian. The cord around his neck
proves him to be a Gaul. From the peculiar cast
of his features one would infer, and, doubtless, cor
rectly, that the face was intended for a portrait. He
evidently was a man of humble condition, and a
life of labor had deformed the hands and hardened
the feet. Under his body is a semicircular trumpet,
called cornu by the Romans, which is broken in
two pieces. This is considered a sufficient proof
that he was a herald, as we know from Athenasus
that certain barbarous nations were accustomed to
send their heralds with such instruments to their
enemies. The figure is then shown, with some
certainty, to be that of a dying Gaulish herald. He
rests on his right thigh upon a shield. By leaning
forward upon both hands, he supports his sinking
form, and tries to find relief from impending suf
focation. The principal weight is borne by his
right hand and arm, while his left presses upon the
inner surface of his right leg at the knee.
There are two ancient statues in bronze of which
this is claimed to be a copy. One is a work men
tioned by Pliny as representing a wounded man
dying, in whom might be seen " how much of life

THE DYING GLADIATOR. 189
remained." It was sculptured by Cresilas, the
contemporary of Phidias, who lived nearly five
centuries before Christ. This claim might be
correct, had we not good reasons for the belief that
it was not till more than a century after the death
of Cresilas that his countrymen had any intercourse
with the Gauls, or knew anything of them. It is,
therefore, very improbable that this artist could have
modelled the portrait-statue of one of that race.
The other work of which this is alleged by
some to be a copy is a famous statue mentioned
by Pausanias as having been seen by him at Athens.
It represented Diitrephes pierced with arrows, and
dying. It is asserted that the pedestal which this
once occupied has lately been discovered among the
ruins of the Parthenon, bearing the inscription,
" Hermolycus began, Cresilas finished Diitrephes."
This latter fact may be true, but the statue which we
have before us does not represent a man pierced
with arrows. It is probable that these two works
were really one and the same ; and there does not
appear to be anything in the descriptions given by
Pliny and Pausanias inconsistent with this opinion.
The most natural solution of the question re
garding the Dying Gladiator seems to be as follows.
During the second and third centuries before Christ,
the kingdom of Pergamos, in Asia Minor, had two
able sovereigns, Attalus I. and Eumenes II. The
latter was a liberal patron of the arts and sciences.
This country bordered on Bithynia and Galatia,
which were then under the control of certain tribes

190 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
of Gauls, who had crossed the Bosphorus 278 b. c.
These ravaged and plundered throughout the centre
of Asia Minor, and were extending their conquests
in every direction when Attalus first gained a vic
tory over them. He and his son, Eumenes II.,
confirmed this success by other triumphs, and finally
compelled these barbarians to cease from their havoc
and settle peacefully in Galatia, which was once a
part of Bithynia. Eumenes employed the most skil
ful sculptors to perpetuate the glories of his reign in
bronze and marble. Among those whose talents
thus embellished his capital Pyromachus was the
most able, and his statues and groups in bronze
were famous throughout the then known world.
He was everywhere distinguished for the impres
sive and affecting character of his works. It is
very probable that he was the author of the original
of the Dying Gladiator, so called, and that this
wounded and fainting Gaul was actually modelled
by him from a scene which he had himself wit
nessed in the Gallic wars of his sovereign. From
the general outline of its form it would seem to
have once occupied the extreme end of the tym
panum of a temple, and doubtless formed one of a
large group.
So great are the excellencies of this work, and so
abundant are the traces of the hand of genius which
it offers, that one can hardly believe it to be a copy.
If Pyromachus was so famous for his triumphs in
bronze, is it not reasonable to suppose that he was
great in marble also ? Why may not this be the

THE DYING GLADIATOR. 191
original from his own hand ? If a copy, it is
certainly the most perfect of all the copies which
have reached us from antiquity. Even the Apollo
Belvedere, that crowning glory of Art, which is
now generally thought, in accordance with the
opinion of Canova, to be a copy of an earlier
work in bronze, has the left leg a little longer than
the right. In the Florentine Hermaphrodite and
the exquisite winged Genius in the Borghese col
lection, — two of the most noble antiques in their
essential attributes, — one finds a certain merely
mechanical skill in some parts, and a coarse and
hasty finish in others, which show them to be ap
parently but repetitions of masterly originals. In
the work before us, however, we find no such de
fects, and if a copy, it must have been made by an
artist of genius, who thoroughly understood and
enjoyed the matchless perfections of the original.
Visconti thinks it may have been done by an artist
in the time of the Roman Empire, for the embel
lishment of a monument erected to some conqueror
of the Gauls or Germans, such as Julius or German-
icus Caesar ; but this is at best doubtful, both from
the locality in which it was found and other cir
cumstances. Heinrich Meyer * says that whoever
the sculptor of the original may have been, he must
have had in view, at the time of his design, the
well-known and able work of Cresilas, and used it for
his model, which seems very natural, judging from
Pliny's description of it. This makes it at least
# Geschichte der Bildhauerhmst bei den Griechen.

192 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
possible that the present statue is, in fact, the work
of three great artists: Cresilas, who modelled the
the first type ; Pyromachus, who, to a certain ex
tent, imitated it ; and the unknown copyist, who
perhaps improved upon both.*
Notwithstanding all the criticism of later days,
however, this statue still bears, and is likely to bear
forever, among all who read or speak the English
language, the name under which the genius of
Byron has eternized it in the well-known lines be
ginning, " I see before me the Gladiator lie." It
matters not that the poet's description has been
rendered incorrect, and does not apply to the
thoughts or expression of the figure before us.
What care we that he is not hearing, as he dies
in the arena, " the inhuman shouts " of the Roman
populace ; that he is not thinking of " the Dacian
mother" of " his young barbarians ; " that he was
not " butchered to make a Roman holiday ; " that
he is nothing but a Gaulish marauder, suffering
a richly deserved death ? The peerless genius of
the poet has elevated the work of the sculptor high
above all such trivial considerations, and, by descend
ing deep into the recesses of the human heart, has
touched the feelings of our common nature which
lay dormant there, and has established a bond of
* I say nothing in regard to the wonderful anatomy of this
statue, since so much has been written upon it that its perfec
tions must be, to a certain extent, familiar to all. Those who
wish to inform themselves on this matter from English works
can consult the writings of those able anatomists, John and Sir
Charles Bell.

THE CAPITOLINE ANTINOUS. 193
sympathy between us and the mind of the artist,
which the latter never thought to develop. To us
the statue will always be the Dying Gladiator, the
murdered husband and father. It is in this man
ner that the poet vivifies with his own life-blood
the senseless marble ; that he animates with his
own soul the unprocreant brain. Thus this statue
offers another proof that both the poet and the
sculptor find the most touching subjects for their
genius in the great elementary principles of thought
and feeling, of enjoyment and suffering, common to
all our race. In this way it has happened that a
poor, naked, toil-worn Gaul, fainting in the agonies
of death, has been endowed by sculpture and poetry
with an earthly immortality, such as power, glory,
and wealth often seek in vain to acquire.
At the side of the Dying Gladiator, upon
which it looks down as it were like the evening
star above the setting moon, stands the statue of
Antinoiis. This, too, is a portrait-statue, and rep
resents the young and beautiful favorite of Hadrian,
who in the reign of that Emperor left the city of
his birth to become a page in his palace. His
family were of humble position, and not even the
fame of their son has been able to rescue their name
from oblivion. They lived in Bithynium, a city
founded by Greek colonists in the interior of
Bithynia, and not far from the borders of Galatia.
Thus the originals of both these statues came from
the same country ; and it is at least possible, if not
probable, that the ancestors of Antinoiis, in defence
13

194 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
of their homes, inflicted upon the dying Gaul his
deadly wound. Though widely separated by time
and in social position, the vicissitudes of ages and
the art of the sculptor have brought them together
in death, and secured them an equal fame. An
tinoiis was of most rare beauty ; and the ancient
artists have presented to us, in many different
forms, his harmonious and graceful limbs, his
broadly swelling chest, the crisp and closely curl
ing hair, the head crowned with the lotos, and
that incomparable expression of tender melancholy
which droops from his down-turned eyebrows. The
contrast offered by these two figures is very strik
ing, and few can look unaffected upon this symbol
of beauty, health, opulence, and power, regarding
with tender compassion the woes of an uncouth
and poverty-stricken fellow-countryman on the
borders of the grave.*
This statue, known as the Antinoiis of the
Capitol, was found among the ruins of Hadrian's
Villa many years ago. It had lost the nose, the
left arm from the elbow, the right leg, as well as
both feet, and two fingers of the right hand. The
head, though found near the statue, had been
separated from the body. Yet even these muti
lations could not conceal the traces of genius, and
it was at once felt that one of the great master-
* Eor the facts in the history of Antinoiis, and his influence
upon Art in the time of Hadrian, I am largely indebted to the
able and comprehensive work of Konrad Levezow, Ueber den
Antinous dargeslellt in den Kunstdenkmalern des Alterthums.

THE CAPITOLINE ANTINOUS. 195
pieces of antiquity had been brought to light.
From the moment of its discovery it has claimed
the admiration of every one capable of appreciat
ing the beauties of ancient Art. It has been praised
in impartial and eloquent terms by many skilful
writers, who dwell with rapture upon its admira
ble proportions and the gently flowing outlines of
its form, though, strangely enough, Winckelmann,
the ablest of them all, has nowhere referred to it.
The peculiar features and languishing expression
proved it to be undoubtedly a refined, idealized
portrait of Antinoiis, but in what character was
for a long time undecided. It is a full-length nude
figure. Resting on his right foot, he looks thought
fully down, with head slightly inclined. Hence it
was considered by some as the image of Narcissus,
regarding his own beauty in the placid surface of
the fountain. In support of this opinion they
quoted two lines of Ovid, which seemed to intimate
precisely its attitude and expression : —
" Adstupet ipse sibi, vultuque immotus eodem
Hasret, ut e Eario formatum marmore signum."
But this view has not found many supporters, and
it is now generally thought that this statue was
designed to represent Antinoiis as a Hero, that is,
a man to whom antiquity attributed the highest ex
cellence, both in mind and body, of which human
nature is capable.
The parts which were missing at the time of its
discovery have been admirably restored by some
unknown artist, perhaps Francesco Flamand. Dur-

196 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
ing the French occupation of Rome, this figure,
with many other antiques, was sent to Paris for
the embellishment of the Louvre. Fortunately, it
was returned uninjured to its former position. In
regard to its anatomy, artists can never find suf
ficient praise to bestow. Mr. John Bell, the dis
tinguished surgeon, a most skilful judge of the
proportions of the human form, has so well describ
ed the Antinoiis that I give his language in full,
as the words of an excellent authority on such a
subject : —
" In the Antinoiis the anatomist would look in
vain to detect even the slightest mistake or mis
conception ; yet such is the simplicity of the whole
composition, so fine and undulating the forms, that
a trifling error would appear as a gross fault.
Every part is equally perfect : the bend of the
'head and declining of the neck most graceful ;
the shoulders manly and large, without clumsiness ;
the belly long and flat, yet not disfigured by lean
ness ; the swell of the broad chest under the arm
admirable ; the limbs finely tapered, the ease and
play of the disengaged leg wonderful, having a
serpentine curve, arising from an accurate observ
ance of the gentle bendings of the knee, the half
turning of the ankle, and elastic yielding natural to
the relaxed state in that position from the many
joints of those parts."
" The fine proportions and elegant forms of this
most exquisite statue are rendered still more strik
ing from the splendor of its beautiful marble."

THE CAPITOLINE ANTINOUS. 197
Antinoiis, as I have before remarked, was the
favorite of Hadrian, who, charmed by his beauty,
appointed him first his page, and afterwards his
atriensis, or overseer of the court of his palace
and guardian of the statues of his ancestors. The
affection of his imperial master surpassed all bounds,
and he was ever in his society. When Hadrian
went to Egypt, probably in the year 122 of our
era, Antinoiis accompanied him, and thence he
never returned. The Emperor was taken ill, and
the oracles of that most superstitious country de
clared that he could be saved from impending fate
only by the voluntary sacrifice of some human life.
Urged by love strong as the grave, Antinoiis did
not hesitate to throw himself into the Nile, and
thus avert the evil omens by an heroic death.
Nothing could equal the grief of Hadrian for the
loss of his favorite, except admiration for his devot-
edness. But it was not sufficient that he broke
out into womanly tears and lamentations ; that he
gave himself up entirely to his sorrow. No ; the
whole Roman Empire must take an equal share
in his longing for the lost, in the worship and re
membrance which he would devote to his name.
He resolved to make known to all the world this
instance of more than mortal heroism, in every way
possible to imperial power ; to secure for his faith
ful friend an undying fame through the influences
of religion and the genius of the most famous ar
tists. Antinoiis was deified and worshipped as a
god ; the old city of Beza, near which he perished,

198 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
was rebuilt and beautified by Hadrian, who also
caused it to be settled by a new colony, and changed
its name to Antinob'polis, or City of Antinoiis ; as
Apollo, Bacchus, Mercury, the features of the
handsome youth, melancholy as the dying day,
beamed down upon crowds of worshippers ; as Har-
pocrates, he presided oyer the sacred mysteries of
silence ; as Ganymede, he offered the cup of nec
tar to Jove. Yearly at Mantinea were celebrated
the rites of Antinoiis-Bacchus. Festal games were
established, to be held every five years. Oracular
responses were given to those who inquired at his
sanctuary. To flatter Hadrian, the Egyptians adored An
tinoiis as Osiris. Medals and coins, busts and
paintings, bore his lineaments to the remotest parts
of the Empire. The greatest sculptors sought the
favor of their sovereign by moulding his statue in
every attitude of grace and beauty which their
genius could invent. No kind of monument with
which the ancients had ever sought to perpetuate
the memory of their heroes, their benefactors, and
their greatest men, was passed over in order to pre
serve his name to posterity. His graceful form
and features are still to be seen in the retinue of
Trajan, on one of the great round bas-reliefs once
adorning the triumphal arch of that monarch, but
afterwards transferred to the arch of Constantine.
Finally, the spirit of Antinoiis was transformed into
a star, which, seen between the Eagle and the Zo
diac, still bears his name ; and the mild light which

THE CAPITOLINE ANTINOUS. 199
it ever wept from its sad eyes into the moaning sea
drew the mariner on to his desired haven.
The double incentive of imperial power and per
sonal advantage stimulated the artists of that day
to great exertions, and hence arose some of the
greatest triumphs of sculpture which have been
preserved to us. The colossal head in the Louvre,
called the Borghese Antinoiis, is considered by
Winckelmann " the most beautiful head left us
from antiquity after the Vatican Apollo and the
Laocoon ; " and this and the exquisite bas-relief
now in the Villa Albani (which, though wrongly
restored, formerly represented Antinoiis adorned
with the lotos, and borne as a god in a triumphal
chariot) are said by Visconti to be " the most sub
lime result to which Art attained in the times of
Hadrian." In looking upon the pensive features of Antinoiis,
with their "sad, leaden, downward cast," and think
ing of his untimely fate, one can hardly avoid the
reflection that the accompaniments of his death
were eminently happy. It was fitting that he
should slowly journey on, like the evening twilight,
to meet his fate in the dim lands of Egypt ; that he
should be crowned with the lotos ; that he should so
journ for a season with " the mild-eyed, melancholy "
eaters of that Lethean fruit in a region in which
" it seemed always afternoon ; " that he should
" return no more ; " that the Nile, moving slowly
and majestically from its mysterious sources, should
at length receive his languid form, should bear it

200 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
tenderly in the long procession of its waters, under
the shadow of the pyramids and the sepulchres of
" the dim, discrowned kings of old," till the sea
welcomed it with gentle murmurs and mingled its
beauty with its own.
The worship of Antinoiis, though his sculptured
charms were so great, was not elevating or improv
ing, but, on the contrary, more injurious in its effect
even than that of the Grecian gods. In their re
ligion the Greeks had no guide. Of neither the
divine mind nor bodily form did they know any
thing. The Christian religion had not made known
to them the divine attributes, nor had it revealed
to them the fact that man was made in the image
of God. In their search for the former, they
groped sadly out of the way ; as to the latter, their
own superior intellect taught them the truth. They
did not adore human-headed bulls, like the Assyr
ians, nor monsters like those of Egypt. Their
culture led them to see that the human form was
more beautiful than aught else ; that nothing could
express so clearly the visible perfections of divinity.
This was subsequently proved, when it was the will
of God that his Son should present himself to the
eyes of man. The serene and majestic beauty of
his form showed the human body to be no unwor
thy tabernacle for a God. He not only dignified
his earthly shape, but was dignified by it. His
was a beauty in which there was nothing sensual,*
* " And when we shall see him, there is no beauty that we should
desire him." — Isaiah liii. 2.

THE CAPITOLINE ANTINOUS. 201
but which elevated the mind, and, by the serenity
of its all-pervading presence, prepared it for the
reception of those pure truths which flowed from
his lips. " The Divine "Vision still was seen,
Still was the human form divine ;
Weeping, in weak and mortal clay,
0 Jesus ! still the form was Thine."
It would have been better for the Greeks and
Romans had they recognized only human beauty
in those forms of ideal excellence which the genius
of their sculptors offered them as the gods personi
fied. So far as these were models of a perfect
human shape, their worship was to a certain extent
elevating, since the beauty of man approaches near
est to that of God, and thoughts of a perfect manly
form are in a degree thoughts of God himself, and
hence tend to draw our souls above the grossness
of earth. But the ancients went farther than this.
They degraded themselves and disgraced the god
like forms of their divinities by attributing to them
the gross passions of humanity. Hence every re
ligious effect of their majestic presence was worse
than lost. But the worship of Antinoiis was in
finitely more debasing than any other. He had
been a man, like his adorers, and of an effeminate
and voluptuous race. His beauty was merely sen
sual, with the most degrading attributes. It had,
morally, no purifying quality ; and his worshippers
reverenced him only from motives of worldly and
personal advantage. He was only the medium

202 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
through which they worshipped, and thus flattered,
imperial power. The Romans of that day could
not be elevated into a love for the really beautiful
in art merely for its own sake. As Dion Chrysos
tom says, " To them manly beauty had already
ceased to be an object of regard, and they no
longer knew how to prize it." Hence, the beauty
of Antinoiis only served to make his vices the more
conspicuous. His deification, and the constant pres
ence of his perfect form and worthless nature ev
erywhere held up before them, were thus entirely
demoralizing both to mind and body. In view of
the prevalence of his worship in all parts of the
Roman Empire, it would hardly be speaking , too
strongly to term it one prominent accessory, among
others, to its final ruin.
There are few statues at Rome which excite
deeper feelings of genuine admiration than the An
tinoiis of the Capitol. No one with the least love
for abstract beauty can look without interest on
those sad features so placidly reposing in the atmos
phere of their own simplicity, harmony, and unity.
They remind one of the flickering embers of the
dying year. Their expression is like the melan
choly of an autumnal eve, when the misty gates
of the west have already closed upon the setting
sun, and dim shadows creep athwart the landscape ;
when brown leaves drop quietly into their graves,
and the evening star comes out, and the voice of
the solemn bird of night is heard mournfully steal
ing through sighing pines. With what grace are

THE CAPITOLINE ANTINOUS. .203
presented to us those lineaments and that form
which were to exist for a thousand years, afed sur
vive the wreck of ages as a type of undying beauty,
— that gem of purest ray serene, which the ocean '
of the past was to engulf, only to cast upon the
shores of the present for our adornment, — that hid
den treasure which was quietly to bide its time while
" cloud-capped towers and gorgeous palaces " were
overthrown in the dust, and rude hordes held wild
orgies over its grave, unconscious of the wealth
beneath, — that entombed fruit, which, like the
bulb in the hand of the dead, was to burst forth in
fresh and abounding beauty after ages of rest.
The body of Antinoiis has passed into new ele
ments of beauty whereof we wot not, but with his
sculptured mementos Time has ever dealt gently,
and has preserved them in numberless forms.* He
has regarded them as a precious legacy of the past.
And now their melancholy grace commends itself
to the traveller in many a distant and lonely land.
Everywhere it shines upon him with the cheerful
lustre of a star beyond many clouds. Like the
Southern Cross, it sheds a glow of comfort over all
the sky, piercing the shadows of the rising tempest,
glowing like the beacon of hope through the dark
ness, and ever soothing the anxieties of the solitary
exile. It lessens the woes of the past and gives
* " La nature prudente et sage
Force le temps a respecter
Les charmes de ce beau visage
Qu'elle n'aurait pu repe'ter." — Madame d'Houdetot.

204 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
comfort for the future, while over the present it
pours forth the radiance of pure enjoyment. It
scatters everywhere the rays of that beauty which
never dies.
In the presence of this all-perfect casket one longs
to possess the power of discovering if there be not
a gem within. One yearns to invigorate the lifeless
marble, and address it with words of power. To
say, " Let l;hy form quicken with all the evidences
of mortality, and the vigorous tide of life flush those
pallid cheeks, and ebb and flow in that ample chest ;
let those full eyes glow with the rays of intellect,
and that stony brow beam with the gentle dews of
life ; let those graceful limbs bear thee from thy ped
estal. Is it not time that the silence whose leaves
thou hast so long watched expand should bear some
fruit ? Part, marble lips, and unfold to us the long
secrets of thy existence ! Who was thy maker ?
Why hast thou so long escaped the wrath of time
and the ravages of man ? Art thou not some dis
ciple of Pythagoras, whose brain is teeming with
giant mysteries of the past, confided to thee for the
world's enlightenment ? Speak, thou who from the
first wast present, and calmly, from the creation of
the world, awaited in thy prison-house of stone the
approach of him whose genius was to lead thee forth ;
break the charm of thy majestic silence, and impart
to us those secrets of the womb of time, those ' chief
things of the ancient mountains,' ' those precious
things of the lasting hills.' Wilt thou not speak ? Yet
perchance, sad spirit, thou art the work of no sculp-

THE CAPITOLINE ANTINOUS. 205
tor, and in the heyday of youth thy mournful frame
forgot itself to marble. Canst thou not answer ? "
Ah, no ! In vain we call. Still that form of beauty
rests upon its pedestal, calm " as Nature when she
builds," silent as the polar night. Behind it stretch
the broad regions of the past ; before it the waves of
the future swell and surge at its feet. From its
form still radiates the light of mysterious, charmed,
silent beauty.

206 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.

CHAPTER XV.
THE PROTESTANT CEMETERY AT ROME.
Near the pyramid of Caius Cestius, and close to
the Aurelian wall, is the Protestant Cemetery of
Rome. It is divided into two parts, the old and
the new. The former, situated directly under the
pyramid, is surrounded by a deep fosse. The latter
is well protected from intrusion by a high wall, and
tastefully adorned with trees. The monuments,
which are generally unpretending, are for the most
part in good taste. Here are buried many of those
strangers who have died at Rome, out of the pale of
the Roman Catholic Church. A large majority of
them are English, though quite a number of Amer
icans, Russians, and Germans are also here interred.
It is a beautiful and tranquil spot, and so far from
the centre of the city that the faintest murmur of
active life seldom intrudes. Its interest is greatly
increased by the burial here of Keats and Shelley.
In the old cemetery were buried the remains of the
former ; in the new were deposited the ashes of his
brother poet, and his heart, which was not con
sumed when his body was burnt on the shores of
the Mediterranean. In allusion to this fact, his sim
ple monument bears the inscription, " Cor cordium"

THE PROTESTANT CEMETERY. - 207
("Heart of hearts"). It is appropriately shaded
by a group of the cypress-tree, whose spire of foliage
the ancients placed over their dead, as the image of
the soaring flame of the funeral pile.
The grave of Keats is marked by a plain slab.
At its foot grow a few of those flowers which he
already felt growing over him, when, prostrate by the
arrows of sarcasm, he lay near the gates of death.
Their roots tenderly clasp his remains, and no roses
ever gave forth a purer fragrance or glowed with a
deeper blush than these. The poet himself has thus
become " a thing of beauty, a joy forever." The
stone bears the inscription : " This grave contains
all that was mortal of a young English poet, who
on his death-bed, in the bitterness of his heart at
the malicious power of his enemies, desired these
words to be engraven on his tombstone : ' Here lies
one whose name was writ in water.' " And why
should not his name be writ in water ? — all-pervad
ing, gladsome, ever youthful water ; fit emblem of
the poet's own undying fame ; twin-brother of light ;
ancient as the everlasting hills ; scattering over all
the earth, with copious largess, its images of immortal
beauty ; the happiness of every created thing. Yes !
write his name in the mountain-torrent, that this
may bear it to the river, and the river to the sea, —
that the glad waves may carry the precious burden
to the uttermost parts of the earth, and all may
know that the poet is the honored friend and com
panion of Nature.
It may well be said of Keats, as of the gracious

208 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
Duncan, " After life's fitful fever he sleeps well ; "
" nothing can touch him further." On the shores
of the Tiber, the river of the world, under the sky
of Italy, beneath that ancient pyramid (fit sym
bol of the eternity of his genius) whose shadow the
rising moon casts over his grave, amidst the love
liest aspects of nature, beyond the arrow-flight of
carping criticism, he has found under the greenness
of thick turf the end of his rugged way. To him
the grave is doubly peaceful, its quiet doubly deep.
From such a spot the poet's soul, like Shelley's
lark, might well mount to a higher sphere, its pure
melody still more and more faintly falling on the
ear till it is lost in the songs of the angels that sur
round the throne.
How sleep the poets ? Some on the shores of
ocean ; some on the banks of gentle rivers ; some
in the tranquillity of rural church -yards ; others
within the consecrated walls of religion. From the
deeps of the sea, from the heights of lofty moun
tains, from serene and lonely islands, their bodies
shall one day leave this dim vestibule of earth for
the vast and unnumbered halls of eternity. The
" sightless man of stony Chios" sleeps by the loud
resounding sea ; " the sweet Swan of Avon " is on
the banks of his own golden-breasted river ; the
" Wizard of the North " rests under eternal granite,
amidst the fallen shrines of religion ; the Bard of
Heaven reposes where the record of his holy life
meets the eye of the worshipper by the side of the
Pater Noster and the Decalogue. Thus the poet's

THE PROTESTANT CEMETERY. 209
dust, disdaining royal burial, everywhere mingles
with our own. And so it should always be.
The poet is to us the interpreter of Nature. To
his gentle influence she yields up the secrets of her
empire. To him she confides " the precious things
of heaven, and of the deep that coucheth beneath."
To all these mute mysteries of nature the poet lends
a voice like " that large utterance of the early
gods." The deep bass of ocean's surges, the moon
walking in brightness, the singing stars, the raven
down of darkness, the empty-vaulted night, the
moaning pines, the lonely mountains, the sun's
burning censer swinging high in heaven amidst
clouds of golden incense, have each and all found
" the lord of their utterance." Many of these have
waited long and patiently for the approach of him
who was to give them a voice of meaning. Many
are yearning now, with mighty hearts almost burst
ing under the dead sea of their enforced silence,
for him who is to unfold to us their inner life, and
make it part of our own. •
It is well, then, that we should tenderly cherish
the poets while they are with us, and when they
depart from among us that we should reverently
place their remains amidst the scenes they sang so
well. Let placid rivers give back their epitaphs,
and the pilgrim waves murmur an eternal requiem
at their tombs ; let falling waters hymn them
to their rest, while the stars shine benignantly
upon them ; let lofty mountains extend over them
their protection ; let the music of the wind through
14

210 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
many trees sigh over their honored remains, and
abundant flowers spring forth, that they may
" smell sweet and blossom in the dust." While
over all, and through all, and around all is heard
" the deep music of the rolling earth," as it sings
through space, fulfilling no less than the poet, who
added to its grandeur a deeper meaning, the high
behests of Him who made it. Then, when " the
pilgrim gray," in the dim mists of early morning
or the quiet of evening's dusk, seeks the ashes of
one of these children of Nature, and anxiously asks,
" Is it well with the child ? " his own heart will
quickly respond, " It is well ! "
ITALIAN PHOTOGRAPHY.
There is no one of the modern sciences to which
the Italians adapt themselves more kindly than td
photography. They are extremely successful in
producing clear and elegant impressions of the
beauties of nature and art among which they live.
In all their principal cities numberless specimens
of their work are to be met with, which would
excite admiration in any country. Nothing can be
more perfectly finished than the large photographs
of the Forum, the Coliseum, and other buildings
and views of interest in and around Rome. And
equal justice is done to all, from the mightiest ruin
to the friezes of the smallest temple, from the co
lossal statue to the most delicate bas-relief. The
climate of Italy is well suited to this science, and
the sun seems to work con amore in imprinting

ITALIAN PHOTOGRAPHY. 211
for other lands the images of beauty upon which
he shines so brightly. Both natural scenery and
antique statues are especially well photographed at
Rome and Naples. This is, of course, a great advan
tage for those students of Art who have not the
privilege of visiting Italy. It is all-important to
have accurate copies of antique works, since their
excellences are in most cases so delicate. The
genuineness of a statue or its identification may
depend on a thousand slight touches, which pho
tography alone can copy. The finish of the hair,
the outline of the eyes, a dimple in the chin, a
more or less elevated expression, the greater or less
prominence and activity of the muscles, (though
these last are sometimes so minutely rippled as to
be perceptible only to the touch,) may serve to
distinguish a god from a goddess or a hero, a por
trait from an ideal statue, or a modern restoration
from the masterly touch of ancient genius.
It is unfortunate for the interests of Art that pho
tographic impressions cannot be taken successfully
from oil-paintings. The result of such an attempt,
however, is generally a mere blotch, especially when
made upon the works of the old masters. The sun,
who copies with accuracy the beauties which the
light and shade of his own delicate rays develop,
disdains to reproduce an imitation of his effects done
by the coarse brush of a painter.
In thus diffusing all over the world the works of
ancient sculptors, and bringing their exquisite forms
to every hearth-side, chemistry has added a new

212 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
link to that chain which every day draws the arts
and sciences more and more closely together. It
is thus that the investigators of natural laws lead
the human intellect higher and higher above its
low estate. The workings of each mind, and every
science and art, converge towards one great focus,
as the many solar systems are impelled towards the
central sun, the nucleus of the universe. Humanity
ever moves forward towards its divine source. It
is truth which beckons us onward, — eternal, sure,
and spotless truth, whose radiant features shine upon
us at intervals from beyond the dim mists of earth.
Thus, confident of her attainment, we wait in full
assurance for the time, when, rich in the accumu
lated wisdom of ages, patient, though chastened by
long trials, pure and childlike, devout and hopeful
in the near prospect of full fruition, the human
intellect may worthily appear before that great
Mind of which it is an emanation, and with which
it shall again unite. Then shall we not " see
through a glass darkly." Then shall the deeper
mysteries of creative power be unfolded to us.
We shall see our God face to face ; we shall look
upon " his holy of holies, nor be blasted by his
brow." THE P1NCIAN HILL.
The favorite, and in fact almost only promenade
in Rome is that on the Pincian Hill. This emi
nence, situated close to the old city wall and risino-
above the Piazza del Popolo, is approached by two

THE PINCIAN HILL. 213
easy carriage-ways. It is adorned with marble busts
and statues, and the trees and shrubs of every
clime. Altogether, it is as gratifying an offering
as any pope could make to the genius of pleasure.
In the days of the Roman Empire this was the site
of the gardens of the voluptuous Lucullus, which
afterwards came into the possession of Messalina.
The scene presented on this site at the present
day is far different from what it was when those
princely Sybarites, " in the high Roman fashion,"
swept through its shady avenues in graceful drapery
and flowing robes, with their long retinues of syco
phants. Here, on a bright afternoon in winter, — and there
are many such, — the display is animating beyond
description. In an open space, at the side of the
main avenue, is a band of French or Italian mu
sicians, who play every fair afternoon. They are
always surrounded by a frame of French soldiers,
in their fed trousers and white gloves and gaiters,
who place themselves as near the music as possible.
The stream of carriages and the throng of prom-
enaders from all the nations under heaven is in
cessant. The walkers do as they list ; the riders
are kept in motion by the papal dragoons, whose
helmets are seen towering over the crowd in the
distance. At times they spur forward their horses,
to bring order out of some confusion of carriages,
or turn some deviating driver into the right path.
Fringing the main route, or strolling along the nu
merous cross- ways, are Roman zouaves and gendar-

214 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
merie, with their two-cornered hats and St. Peter's
cross ; French captains and lieutenants, in black
frock-coats and epaulettes ; chasseurs a pied in blue ;
hussars in their braided jackets ; sergeants-niajeurs,
tall and handsome, with the true military chic, and
brave in medals. There, a long train of priests or
neophytes, in their shovel-hats and long robes of
black and red, or white and yellow, glide by in their
ghostly Roman way, as if they were merely passing
on to another world. Here are long-haired French
and German artists, (picturesque and irrepressible,)
pompous Spaniards, and befrogged Austrians. The
far greater number, however, are English. Their
tourists are everywhere visible, in clothes of pepper-
and-salt, and dubious hats of no particular order of
architecture, with the inevitable lorgnette, and
leather bag slung under the arm, and Murray peep
ing out to find " summut " for the next edition.
Here are groups of stylish young Britons come
for the season, chatting and smoking, and evi
dently considering it quite the thing to spend the
"whole winter under the protection of St. Peter.
If you ask them for a description of the Pantheon,
they will tell you it is round, and so is the castle
of St. Angelo, and so are the Coliseum and the
tomb of Augustus ; and then they will wonder, " By
Jove ! " why the Romans built everything round :
and then they will leave you for a ride or a fox-
chase on the Campagna, where their horses will
throw over them the dust of Caesars, martyrs, and
pagans alike, as they scamper in red coats across

THE P1NCIAN HILL. 215
that great necropolis. The elegant equipages one
sees are mostly English, and everything about them
calls to mind the " tight little island." As I looked
upon paterfamilias and his spouse driving by, up
right as a monument and with a solemn expression
of integrity, while a row of their offspring adorned
the front seat, — to wit, sundry sweet little Eng
enders redolent of cold cream and Windsor soap,
as fair as floss-silk, with their hair in corkscrew
curls, wearing blue capes, green parasols, and red
flowers in their hats, — I wondered what Lucullus
and Messalina would think of this edifying spec
tacle of domestic felicity, and what is their present
opinion of Roman virtue and the progress of civil
ization. At times the sovereign Pontiff himself
appears on the Pincio, and then it is an edifying
and suggestive spectacle. The coach rich with
scarlet and gold, the gay uniforms of the carbineers
and dragoons, the costly trappings of the four black
horses, the priestly attendants, the splendid robes of
the master-fisherman, very naturally cause one to
ask himself if the Pope would bow to St. Peter,
if he were to pass that way. I am inclined to be
lieve he would not.
Near the centre of the promenade is a fountain,
surrounded by green turf and clumps of the tall
feathery grass of the pampas. Beyond is the lofty
obelisk dedicated by Hadrian to the memory of
Antinoiis. Here are the vegetable glories of every
land. The Virginia creeper climbs the straight
trunk of the palm of the desert ; the Norfolk Island

216 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
pine and the arbor-vitse look down upon the Eng
lish holly with its scarlet berries ; the fan-palm min
gles its leaves with the elegant and classic acanthus ;
the American century-plant (and even that seems
young in Rome) sends up its towering candelabrum
of blossoms higher than the myrtle ; the pome
granate, the orange, the lemon, and the laurusti-
nus of purest fragrance fill up the scene, — and all
combine to form the green bounds around us. It is
thus that in modern times, as in ancient, all lands
and all climates have contributed to adorn the Im
perial City. The ever-shifting kaleidoscope moves
incessantly on before us, and the long rays of the
setting sun, as they stream across the landscape,
" warm every cheek and dance in every eye."
They flash from sword, helmet, and epaulette, and
light up many a gayly colored uniform and rich
and elegant toilet. The blue sky and buoyant
air cheer every heart, and excite the bright smiles
and sparkling words of many a fair signora, whose
presence animates a picture which pleases the
dullest eye.
At intervals along the principal paths, under the
trees and shrubs, are many marble busts of the
great men of Italy. The laurel here forms a per
petual wreath ajound the head of Petrarch, and the
pedestal of Tasso's bust is half-hidden by the ivy
and the acanthus. Here, side by side, in friendly
alliance, are Julius Ca3sar and Caius Marius, Scipio
and Marco Polo, Columbus arid Tacitus, Pompey
and Dante, Colonna and Dandolo, and the long

THE PINCIAN HILL. 217
bead-roll of illustrious names, which, in time past,
have enlightened with their genius the land of their
birth. Here they are gathered in glorious union,
and in Rome alone, the universal capital, does
such a union not seem unmeet. Here it is fit
that they should unite in a bright cycle, like the
broad rays of light, which, streaming from every part
of the firmament, converge in that central sun
which illumines the world. Italy is honored of
her children. Her great names are the crown of
her old age. Thus her glory extends in long pro
cession through the ages, and voice calling to voice
across the hollow deeps of time forms that seven
fold chorus which sounds her praises in an eternal
paean. From the balcony, which looks down from the
Pincian Hill upon the Piazza del Popolo and its
venerable obelisk, (twin-brother of the one which
now alone denotes the burial-place of Heliopolis,)
the view is extensive and varied. Before us lies
spread out the broad sea of houses which occupy
the site of the former Campus Martius and the
Flaminian Way. Beyond these, and directly across
the valley, rise the massive walls of the Mausoleum
of Hadrian, behind which towers the Vatican Hill,
crowned with the dome of St. Peter's and the papal
palace. To the left is the Janiculum, with the
church and monastery of St. Onofrio and Tasso's
garden. In the latter is still preserved the oak
under which the poet, in the evening of life, medi
tated on his own immortality ; here he " found out

218 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
the peaceful hermitage " whence the hand of death
gently led him away from the hard warfare of the
world. In yonder sanctuary is the place of his
repose. Not far from there is the church of San
Pietro in Montorio, near the summit of the Janicu
lum, where St. Peter is said to have been cruci
fied. The eye thus ranges from the grave of the
Apostle to the scene of his death. Below, on the
road to Ostia, if we may believe tradition, is the spot
where the aged saint took his last farewell of Paul,
when both were on their way to the golden gates of
martyrdom, — when, trembling with hope almost be
come full fruition, yet desiring to be spared a little
longer, " if by all means they might save some," faint
with age and the exceeding sorrows of life, almost
worn out with their long, sad pilgrimage, yet brave
ly held up by the spirit within them, the last
tribute of weak humanity moistening their furrowed
cheeks, yet each seeing in the other's eyes the flash
ing of that soul's fire which never dies, their last
embrace given, they calmly went their way, already
enjoying a foretaste of that abundant peace which
was prepared for them above.
High above the Janiculum is the long row of
flat-topped pines which adorn the grounds of the
Villa Pamphili. Their tall forms appear to stride
along the brow of the hill, like sturdy warriors
holding aloft their green bucklers to protect them
from the arrows of the sun. Farther down the
broad valley rises the steep Capitoline. Once the
Gibraltar of Rome, it is now its Mecca. Beyond it,

THE PINCIAN HILL. 219
on the site of old Rome, are the Forum, the triumphal
arches of Septimius Severus, of Titus, and of Con-
stantine, the Coliseum, and the ruins of many an
ancient temple, which the care of man alone pre
serves from annihilation. Beyond these, the wide,
green sea of the Campagna, undulating with the
gales of death, " the seat of desolation, void of life,"
extends to the verge of the horizon.
But now the sun sinks lower and lower, and all
the splendors of an Italian sky close around him,
and accompany him to his rest. Already his broad
disk has disappeared behind the glorious dome of
St. Peter's, and his rays, forming a saintly aureole
above and around it, dart through the windows at
its base, and appear to raise it high in air, a symbol
of that eternal temple which we hope one day to
see enshrined in living light. The pines on the
Janiculum look calmly upon the scene, and their
sombre armor glows in the bright effulgence.
Floods of yellow radiance now cover the west of
the zenith, while here and there a few orange and
purple islands float calmly over it. Soon it is shot
across with broad rays of orange, which pass slowly
into green, and then into the deep blue of the east.
The sun sinks lower and lower, and at length the
whole west glows with deep orange, which gradu
ally changes into dark red, and finally scarlet.
And now waves of shadow and deep pulsations and
many throbbings flicker across the whole face of
the west, the scarlet blood suddenly rushes to the
great central heart, and the dim drapery of evening

220 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
is drawn around it. Twilight and darkness are seen
wrestling together in close embrace upon the hill
tops for the possession of the sun's domain ; twilight
is soon driven away after her lord and master, and
the swarthy battalions of darkness press on over the
field. High above their tents flashes the evening
star, and the Pincian Hill is tranquil and solitary
as the countless sands of the desert at moonrise.

THE FRENCH ARMY AT ROME. 221

CHAPTER XVI.
THE FRENCH ARMY AT ROME.
Of late years the attractions of Rome have been
increased by the presence of the French army
which is stationed there for the protection of the
master-fisherman, the beloved head of the church
on earth, against his own people. Whatever may
be said of this French occupation politically, how
ever displeasing it may be to the friends of Italian
unity, no one can deny that, as a choice of evils, the
French soldiers are very much the least, and they
certainly are the most gentlemanly and agreeable
men of their class anywhere to be found. Any
traveller who has encountered the brusqueness and
incivility of Italian, Austrian, and German troops,
will feel grateful that none of these are placed at
Rome. The French, on the contrary, are so ex
tremely kind to every stranger that the pleasures
of a residence at Rome would be greatly lessened
by their absence. Their neat and picturesque uni
form and soldierly bearing in the streets give the
city a certain appearance of animation and vitality,
which at present it sadly needs, while they contrib
ute greatly to its safety from violence and robbery.
And though not entirely secure now, when one

222 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
thinks how utterly unprotected he would be at
Rome without them, he should feel very grateful.
The French government has managed very judi
ciously at Rome : though firm in maintaining their
position, they have almost invariably avoided any
collision with the people, while they have used
every means to conciliate them. Hence their rule
has so far been extremely peaceful, and one never
hears of those violent, and not unfrequently san
guinary quarrels, which so often occur in other
garrisoned towns between the soldiers and the cit
izens. Yet in case of any threatened outbreak on
the part of the Liberals, the iron hand of power is
instantly stretched forth, and forests of bayonets
and hundreds of schahos gleam in every piazza and
side-street, sufficient to put down any uprising.
The French have been the cause of the few im
provements which papal intolerance has permitted
at Rome, and thus are equally disliked by the
representative of the Prince of Peace and the Lib
erals : by the former because they are too tolerant,
by the latter because they are not enough so. Yet
the Pope finds it necessary to keep on good terms
with the soldiers and their imperial master, by in
viting the former to the Vatican in small numbers,
occasionally, and presenting them with little bronze
medals bearing the inverted cross of St. Peter, which
cost about one fifth of a cent apiece. He also be
stows upon them many mild and beneficent, not to
say hypocritical words, which cost still less.
It is owing to the French that a regular system

THE FRENCH ARMY AT ROME. 223
of cab-fares has during the past spring been estab
lished at Rome for the first time. They have thus
secured the eternal gratitude of residents in that
city, who have ever found the violent wrangling and
extortions of the vetturini one of the great annoy
ances of their stay. At present, the rates of fare
are printed on a card which every coachman is
obliged to carry, and thus a vast amount of discus
sion is saved. It is also due to French influence
that even beggary has received a blow from the
authorities, who have suddenly swept thousands of
ragged and whining vagabonds from the streets.
Even Beppo, who, from the summit of a lofty flight
of steps predominated over the Piazza di Spagna,
and seemed as much a fixture at Rome as St. Peter's
itself, has been torn from his throne. This sover
eign of the beggars, an inheritor of noble blood,
(as he is said to be,) this King JDolce-far-niente so
far forgot his royal attributes as to throw mud and
make faces and insulting remarks at a lady, who,
in passing up the steps, had refused to contribute
to his revenues. " The power behind the throne "
was therefore appealed to, his majesty was carried
off to prison and deprived of his prerogatives, and
many of his " lean, rent, and beggared " race fol
lowed him.
The French have tried to obtain the management
of the police of Rome, and thus render life and
property as secure in that city as at Paris. But
this is something that the Pope never will intrust to
other hands than his own. Though constrained to

224 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
allow to Louis Napoleon a certain share in the reg
ulation of public affairs, he never will grant him
any control over what is termed the administration
of justice at Rome, nor any of the rights which he
claims of interfering at any and all times in the
private interests of his subjects. He must know
everything that they do or say, eat or drink ;
where they go and when they go ; how often they
present themselves at confession, and where their
children attend school, if at all ; what books they
read, and what personal property they own ; he
must open their letters at the post-office, and discover
who their friends are and the nature of their corre
spondence ; his police must make domiciliary visits
at dead of night ; his spies must overhear and re
port all they say in cafS or restaurant, on the public
streets or in the privacy of domestic life. And this
is all reduced to writing, and stored away for future
use among the records of the police. These are
extremely voluminous, and their cost enormous ;
any respectable citizen of Rome can find at the
police-office a biography of himself, written by this
" wise, paternal, and just " government, almost as
complete and extensive as Boswell's " Life of John
son," though not perhaps so entertaining. This
power the shepherd of souls will never surrender
till he is compelled to do so, since it is what he
calls " providing for the eternal welfare of his
flock." During the past year there have been in Rome
itself from five to seven thousand French troops,

THE FRENCH ARMY AT ROME. 225
and about the same number distributed among
the towns and villages of the Papal States. These
numbers vary, however, from time to time, ac
cording to the course of political events. Those
quartered in the city occupy for the most part the
vacant rooms of monasteries, and watch over the
city gates and public buildings ; while a " guard
of honor," with their regimental standard and a
military band, are always stationed on the Piazza di
San Pietro, for the protection of the Pope and the
Vatican. The troops were composed of one regi
ment of hussars, embracing about 1200 men, six
batteries of artillery, one regiment of chasseurs a
pied, and one of infanterie de la ligne. The two
latter regiments were extremely large, and consisted
of nearly 2800 men each, though ordinarily of
2500. This was in consequence of the numerous
new recruits sent from France and attached to these
regiments for instruction, but not permanently.
All the men wear the schaJco, or leather hat with a
pompon bearing the number of their regiment, and
whose color indicates their bataillon, a blue cotton
cravat, blue tunic, loose, baggy trousers, (those of
the chasseurs de la ligne, blue, of the infanterie, red,)
leggings, gaiters, and shoes. The leggings, or jam-
bieres, are made of orange-colored leather, and cover
the calf of the leg. They are strapped around the
bottoms of the trousers, which hang over and partly
cover them ; while they are fastened down the leg
by a series of leather loops ingeniously arranged so
as to link into each other. In winter they wear
15

226 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
leather gaiters ; at other seasons, and always on fite
days, they are of stout white cotton. On the
breast, fastened to a short chain, is borne an Spin-
glette, or long brass pin, for clearing the vent of
the gun. But the men, with their natural percep
tion of the fitness of things, oftener use it as a tooth
pick, or to clean their pipes, thus making it their
cure-dent, cure-fusil, and cure-pipe. Their stockings
are generally of white cotton, and government re
quires them for their health to wear woollen drawers
and under-shirts. They also have for cold weather
a long overcoat of light blue cloth. A belt, with
cartouche-box, bayonet, and sabre (or short sword)
attached, is worn by all the men except the sentres,
(the lowest grade,) who do not carry the latter.
When in marching order, they bear, besides their
musket with its supply of heavy minie cartridges
weighing over an ounce apiece, a knapsack of
undressed leather containing their rations and often
a bottle of wine, with their great-coat and blanket
strapped over it, and a small tent. The weight of
the whole is not far from seventy pounds. As they
are generally men of short stature, seldom over
five and a half feet, this is rather a heavy bur
den for them to bear, and for the first few days
of a march tells very severely upon them. This,
however, is not so much as the Roman soldiers used
to carry, who bore about sixty pounds in addition
to their arms.
Each regiment contains three bataillons, in each
of which there are one company of grenadiers, one

THE FRENCH ARMY AT ROME. 227
of voltigeurs, and six companies of sentres. The
first-mentioned have the figure of a grenade on their
tunics, the second, a hunting-horn, and the last, a
star. There are in each regiment 26 sergeantona-
jeurs, 25 fourriers, who are charged with the distri
bution of rations and equipments among the various
companies, 150 sergeants, and 210 corporals. There
is also in each bataillon a separate company (styled
out-of -ranks') of workmen, such as carpenters, tail
ors, masons, and others. There are also 13 sapeurs,
or pioneers, who march at the head of the regiment,
with their long black beards, and axes, and white
leather aprons. After them comes the band, gen
erally of at least fifty musicians, preceded by their
timbre-majeur, or drum-major. He is a fierce-look
ing giant, with a tall bearskin cap and bearing a long
staff, which he flourishes with great dexterity, so as
to guide ^the musicians. Sometimes, however, his
excitement leads him to use it in ways hardly ortho
dox ; and I was told of one of these musical enthu
siasts, who threw his bdton over a triumphal arch
under which his regiment were passing, and caught
it before it reached the ground on the other side.
The pay of the common soldiers in money is but
small, being only seven centimes per day, which
is equal to one cent and two fifths of our currency.
The grenadiers and voltigeurs have twelve centimes
daily ; those who have served seven years, and the
corporals, a little more ; and so on with a grad
ual increase up to the officers, who receive about
half as much as purs. But this deficiency in money

228 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
is made up, to a certain extent, by their rations,
which are more abundant and of greater variety
than those of any other troops. The allowance
of bread is a pound and a half per day, and every
ten days they receive a pound of fine tobacco
and a small quantity of wine. From five to six
o'clock in the morning each man has a pint of cof
fee. They breakfast at nine, on bread and soup ;
and dine at from four to five, on soup, two or three
kinds of vegetables, and fresh meat, roast or boiled.
All these articles are of the best quality, and ex
tremely well cooked. The soups are very nutri
tious, and the coffee and bread excellent, especially
to those who have eaten them as they are prepared
at the cafSs and restaurants of Rome. The bread
is made by their own cooks, in the regimental baker
ies, and their coffee is sent from France by the gov
ernment. Great care is taken in regard to the meat
provided for the troops, that it may not be in any
way unsound ; and none is allowed to be bought un
less it has first been examined and marked by an
officer, whose duty it is for this purpose daily to visit
the various butchers' shops. The wine and tobacco
are not of great amount, certainly, but they are
regarded by the men as little luxuries, which they
appreciate, and are very thankful for. This is a
shrewd measure of government, as it makes the
soldiers better satisfied with their pay. If they do
not wish to consume their wine and tobacco, they
can exchange them for a money equivalent, or sell
them, and all their surplus rations, as they please.

THE FRENCH ARMY AT ROME. 229
Thus they have a strong motive for economizing
their food. They always appear to be well sup
plied with money, enough certainly for their sim
ple wants, which are generally limited to a cigar,
or a cup of cafe, or a thimbleful of Cognac. Their
supply of bread is very abundant, but never thrown
away, since they never find any difficulty in dis
posing of the residue, as the Romans are very glad
to buy it. It is very light and white, and infinitely
better than the solidified essence of sourness, tough
ness, and blackness that emerges from the ovens of
the Roman bakers, which bears no more resemblance
to good bread than does Pio Nono to St. Peter.
The rooms in which the French troops are quar
tered are, in general, large and airy. They are usu
ally situated near some spacious square, where sev
eral companies could be easily manoeuvred in case
of an emeute, which is constantly dreaded. The
barracks are well provided with the conveniences of
life ; and each soldier has an iron bedstead and a
good mattress, with sheets, pillow, and thick blanket.
I had an excellent opportunity, while at Rome,
of seeing the French soldiers, both in their barracks
and elsewhere, and often partook of their rations.
I could not help admiring the perfect regularity and
completeness of the system under which they live,
the care which is taken of their health and well-
being, and the consequent good effects upon them.
All the resources of government have for years
been employed to secure for their soldiers the dress,
food, and equipments which will afford them the

230 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
greatest degree of comfort and happiness consistent
with the exact performance of their duties, and thus
be most promotive of their bodily vigor. Years of
experience have taught the French government the
advantage of economizing military force ; and every
soldier, from the buttons which ventilate his schako
to his shoestrings, is a little nucleus of inventive
genius directed from many sources towards one ob
ject. The government understands well that every
contrivance for the relief of a soldier, though it may
be small in itself, is of value in a mass ; and that
slight forces when saved may produce results of the
greatest importance. These serve not only in the
prevention of evils, but in active operations against
them. Every additional favor granted to the troops
tends to promote their cheerfulness ; every gratifica
tion, however slight, has a certain good effect on
their health. Hence their esprit de corps is kept
unimpaired, and a supply of force is accumulated
for the future.
The health of the troops is ordinarily excellent,
and their full, ruddy cheeks and happy expression
are a good proof of it. At Rome they have suffered
more from fevers than from any other disease, and
in this respect and some others have not found
its climate so healthy as that of Algiers. They
are required to keep themselves perfectly neat, and
employ much of their time in cleaning and pol
ishing their dress and accoutrements. And cer
tainly one of these grenadiers or voltigeurs, with his
erect figure and military carriage, with everything

THE FRENCH ARMY AT ROME. 231
about him bright and clean, from his white gaiters
and gloves to his shining shoes and the glistening
number on his pompon, is as attractive a model of a
soldier as one could wish to see. He can be nowhere
seen but in the French army, for in no other coun
try have so much skill, science, and ingenuity been
employed to form a soldier. To his other attrac
tions must be added his happy and satisfied look,
arising from his perfect health and freedom from
care. He knows that the government will do
everything for his support. The past history of
the army shows him, that, though arduous services
are frequently required of him, he will be rewarded
according to his merit ; that he will be advanced
in proportion to his talents, will be cared for if
wounded, and provided with a comfortable home
in his old age.
These soldiers are always in sight at Rome, and
one sees them in the Coliseum and other ruins, at
the various museums and galleries, apparently en
joying what they find around them in a quiet, gen
tlemanly way, — in the cafes, taking their after-din
ner coffee, or eau de vie, — strolling along the Corso
in groups or couples, looking into the windows and
examining the engravings and other objects, and
always chatting and joking according to their cus
tom, but they are never excited by liquor. Now
and then a company moves by at a quick pace, al
ways to the sound of good music, at least drums or
bugles, invariably well played ; with their military
air and neat uniforms, they add still another attrac-

232 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
tion to the many delights of Rome. Seeing them
thus continually in contrast to the Roman troops,
dirty and" uncivil, ill-bred and ill-fed, pompous and
impudent, I could not help thinking that the French
are the real representatives of the ancient Romans,
and that the present inhabitants of the Imperial
City are no more the successors of its former den
izens than are the bats and owls which infest an
abandoned castle the worthy inheritors of its for
mer lords, who held high festival within its walls,
or sent forth armies from its gates.
I found the French soldiers extremely pleasant
company. They are polite, intelligent, and respect
ful, and always gay. They are very thankful for
any little civility, like a cigar or cafe, and eager to
give all the information in their power. Many of
them had been in the Crimea and at Solferino,
while not a few had visited Algiers, Madagascar,
China, and other lands where the all-grasping power
of Napoleon had sent them. The stories they told
were extremely interesting, and were well set off
by that lively manner which characterizes the
French, whose language has so many neat and fin
ished expressions. There were no zouaves at Rome.
These form a distinct class by themselves, and are
somewhat less scrupulous in their manners and con
versation than the rest of the army. They are
looked upon with great admiration for their deeds
of daring, and each one feels himself quite a power.
When one did occasionally make his appearance,
he was regarded as a little demi-god in turban

THE FRENCH ARMY AT ROME. 233
and trousers, and feted accordingly. He was al
ways followed by a crowd of admirers, who fre
quently requested " le plaisir de prendre la goutte "
with him ; so that if he had been anything but a
" zouzou," the little tasselled Mars would certainly
have become unduly excited. They are all citizens
of the world, however, invariably suit themselves to
affairs around them, and receive .every tribute of
their admirers as if it belonged to them.
Every French soldier has his " camarade de lit,"
or boon-companion, whose bed is placed beside his
own, and with whom he takes his meals, walks, and
fraternizes generally. This arrangement is indis
pensable in the army ; and no soldier, even if his
social nature did not prompt him to follow it, would
dare to break through it. If he did attempt to in
dulge in any of his cynical ideas, he would be rid
iculed arid abused by the whole regiment. It is a
rule generally understood that no man shall be al
lowed to take his cafe alone ; and if any soldiers find
any one of their comrades in the act of so doing, it
is perfectly proper to upset his cup, or drink off the
contents, and drive the offender into the street. I
saw this done one evening in a cafe at Rome, by
two soldiers, who afterwards came to my table and
explained the reason. They said they had only fol
lowed a good old custom, which required that the
laws of good fellowship among brothers-in-arms
should not be broken.

234 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.

CHAPTER XVII.
THE FRENCH ARMY.
It may appear somewhat strange to many to be
informed that most of the French soldiers spoke
very good French, but it will hardly appear so to
those who know how few of them, comparatively,
can speak that language at all when they join the
army. The recruits come from every part of the
Empire indiscriminately, and pure French is the
tongue of very few of them. There are in France
four different languages besides that of Paris, and
the inhabitants on the German, Flemish, Spanish,
and Italian frontiers speak those tongues, or a modi
fication of them. There are also over thirty dialects
and uncouth patois, which are understood by no one
but those of the district where they are spoken, such
as Bretagne, Gascony, the Basque provinces, Poitou,
and others. These sound strangely harsh when con
trasted with Parisian French. Thus the first duty
of many of the recruits is to learn a new language ;
and as they are at least twenty years old, this is not
a very easy task. They come frequently from the
most uncivilized parts of France, where there is but
little intercourse among the inhabitants themselves,
or with other districts ; where there are no educa-

THE FRENCH ARMY. 235
tional advantages, and no railroad or telegraph, or
any of the enlightening influences of modern times,
has yet penetrated. (There are still many such
regions in France.) Hence they are often extremely
ignorant and awkward, not knowing how to read or
write, or even able to tell the right hand from the
left. It is thus necessary to take immense pains in
order to make good soldiers of them, and the difficul
ties are greatly increased by the age of these military
neophytes. I presume no one who has not under
taken the task of teaching the difference between
his right hand and his left to a pupil who has not
acquired that elegant accomplishment before reach
ing his twentieth year, can appreciate its laborious-
ness. The same is true in regard to teaching them
their letters. These men come out of the woods and
fields, where many of them have earned their liv
ing by ploughing with a burnt stick, or making char
coal, or tending sheep, into an entirely new world.
And it is safe to say that their new position is about ,
as strange and unnatural as it would be for an intel
ligent American to be transferred at once to the
planet Saturn. But the examples they see around
them, the education they receive, and their natural
military spirit as Frenchmen, are strong incentives.
Hence, but a comparatively short time is required
to change the awkward, shambling plough-boy, who
knows not A from Z, and who knocks off his schako
with his own musket a dozen times a day, into a
neat and clever chasseur, who can read and write
decently well, handles his musket with precision,

236 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
and is eager for promotion. At Rome one often sees
the new recruits of a few months' standing going
through their drill in the Forum and its vicinity, and
it is interesting to notice the patient and persevering
way in which their sergeants instruct them.
For many years the French government has seen
the good policy of developing military talent among
their people wherever and whenever they can find
it. Hence, in their preparatory schools the new re
cruits are taught thoroughly everything which may
tend to this result. This is the more necessary from
the fact that in their army there is no buying or
selling, but every one has the same advantages, and
is promoted according to his merit. All is fair
competition ; and the laws of war provide that any
soldier can have a vacant office, if he can, by a rig
orous examination, prove that he is more competent
to perform the duties of it than any other applicant.
Hence it is extremely desirable to give the conscripts
such an education as will enable them to become
efficient officers, should they prove to have the ne
cessary talents. They are taught reading and writ
ing, and the simple rules of arithmetic. They also
learn to swim and dive, to practice many gymnastic
exercises, and to dance, the object of the two latter
being to give them ease of carriage and agility.
They are also taught fencing. They are inured to
fatigue and hardened by exercise. " They are
drilled to walk at a quick pace, carrying heavy bur
dens, to climb steep acclivities, and creep along the
sides of precipices. They are early taught that sue-

THE FRENCH ARMY. 237
cess in warfare is a more constant attendant on bold
ness, intelligence, address, and audacity, than on
mere numbers and brute force. They also learn
to cook simple dishes, and to prepare a well-flavored
and nutritious soup. They can bake and roast and
stew, and prepare omelettes in a score of different
ways. They are excellent marchers and foragers.
The French private can darn his own stockings,
patch his own coat, wash his shirt in a running
brook, or cobble his shoes in the shade of a tree.
He can hut himself with the ingenuity of a beaver,
pitch his tent in a salubrious spot, and sing and
dance with real light-heartedness." His is the real
sans souci spirit, which brightens all around it. He
can subsist upon much less than would satisfy any
other soldier. He is by nature and disposition a
campaigner. He is of an eager and adventurous
disposition ; gay, jocund, and disposed to make the
best of everything in this world. No man more
easily accommodates himself to circumstances, or
makes himself more at home in a strange land.
The French soldier receives also a certain amount
of moral training. He is taught that in order to
command one must first learn to obey. He learns
to speak the truth, and that implicit confidence will
be placed in his word as a soldier, till he is found to
have broken it. He is made to understand that it
is disgraceful to get drunk, to quarrel, or use violent
and coarse language ; that he is regarded as a
gentleman, and should bear himself as such. Hence
he acquires a feeling of self-respect, and a certain

238 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
degree of contempt for those Who are not so well-
mannered as himself. The effect of this is every
where apparent. The French soldiers are treated
as gentlemen, and are gentlemen in manners and
feeling. Austrian and Italian privates are treated
like brutes, and generally are brutes, as many a
traveller can testify from experience. There is a
certain feeling of cordiality between the French
soldiers and their officers, arising partly from their
education and partly from the latter having risen
from the ranks. It is regarded as a great military
crime for an officer to strike a private, and is pun
ished with stringent severity. The standard of
education is much higher, and the anxiety for im
provement much more earnest, in their army, than
in any other. " There is scarcely a regiment which
does not contain, among both officers and men,
volunteer societies established for a daily review of
their progress in military and strategical knowledge.
They discuss and question each other, and enter
upon particular illustrations most interesting in
a military sense. Tactics, fortification, military
geography and maxims, are in turn handled, so
that any man with ordinary intelligence and in
dustry may become a most competent soldier." It
is thus that the military art is practised and devel
oped among the French. It is with them a national
and patriotic sentiment, and every feeling, thought,
and inspiration of the soldier is bound up in the
service of his country. Thus it is not unnatural
that they should be vain of their military successes.

THE FRENCH ARMY. 239
It is the pardonable complacency of a patriot who
has contributed his best abilities to his country's
glory. Both from a conviction of its general benefit to
the troops, and from the necessity of conciliating the
priesthood in a country where the church and the
state are so closely connected, the government takes
a certain care of the religion of the troops. The
church and the army work together, and the spirit
of religion mitigates, to a certain extent, the ter
rors and hardships of war. Both officers and men
are required to attend mass at certain periods.
There is naturally a considerable degree of religious
feeling among the troops, especially those from the
country towns. Hence they are frequently seen in
the churches of Rome. They are always well-
behaved and devout. Though their religion sits
lightly upon most of them, as it does generally upon
Frenchmen, yet for the moment the influence is
strong and beneficial, like that of everything which
teaches one to live more in the future and less in
the past.
In the matter of worship the example is set by
the higher officers. During the past winter the
Comte de Montebello, son of Marshal Lannes, (the
friend of Napoleon who was killed at Essling,) was
Commander-in-Chief at Rome, and he and all his
staff attended high mass in the Church of San
Luigi de' Francesi every Sunday morning at nine
o'clock. The nave of the church was lined by a
large body of troops, hussars or infanterie de la ligne,

240 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
who extended from the entrance to the steps of the
altar. Behind them was their military band and a
crowd of soldiers, quiet and attentive. The com
mander made his appearance with great punctuality,
in all the pomp of gold lace and uniform, his breast
covered with stars and medals. He was followed
by a numerous and brilliant staff, decorated with
the honors won on many a field of battle. They
all proceeded up the body of the church to the
sound of trumpets or drums. The mass was always
a military one, and the band played continually
during its progress. This edifice is the French
church at Rome, and its floor is covered with the
monumental tablets of French officers who have
died there. Over the ashes of these their comrades
in arms might well perform with solemnity the
duties of religion.
From what I have said above it will be seen that
military service has not upon French soldiers that
debasing effect which it has upon those of most
other nations, arising from the absence of all social
restraint, and the want of the mollifying influence
of female society. Had it not been for these plans
for educating and improving the troops, the influ
ence on them and on the nation in the long course
of years would have been disastrous in the extreme,
and the consequences of past misfortunes would
have been infinitely greater than they have been.
This is well illustrated by the present condition of
Russia and Austria, the influence of whose vast
armies has always been entirely bad. The result

THE FRENCH ARMY. 241
of military life upon the French, on the contrary,
is to elevate and improve their higher faculties,
mental, moral, and social. It is not too much to
say, that, in respect to these two last, the French
privates are superior to the officers of most other
countries. Hence, to the nation at large the army
is in many ways a great blessing, and benefits the
minds, manners, and morals of the people. These
soldiers return to their native wilds like missionaries
of good, and diffuse over their villages the advan
tages which the army has bestowed upon them. If
it were not for them, these benighted districts would
not receive any enlightenment whatever. Thus the
army is, to a certain extent, a liberalizing institution,
and the more military power, as it is managed at
present, predominates in France, the more widely
instruction is extended, and the more intelligent the
people become. The warlike reign of Napoleon
III. has in this way bestowed upon the people
infinitely greater advantages than the peaceful ad
ministration of Louis Philippe, and its effects on
their minds and manners will be still more powerful
hereafter. Frequently the returned soldier is the only gen
tleman in the village, and the only person of
education, except the priest. He is the " guide,
philosopher, and friend " of the villagers. He is
not only their great authority in military matters,
but their school-teacher, their " chef de la cuisine"
and able to give them lessons in dancing, swim
ming, and fencing, if they wish them. In the lit
is

242 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
tie circle of the village guinguette he utters from
behind the smoke of his pipe, like Apollo from his
shrine, words of oracular wisdom, which are law
and gospel to his hearers. At his nod great repu
tations are overthrown, former idols bite the dust,
and men of slight esteem are placed on high amid
the tuneful choir. Thus the Gamaliel at whose
feet sit Jeannette and Jeannot and their callow
young is often clad in red, baggy pantaloons and
white gaiters ; and while many thoughts of greater
inspiration fall from his lips, they learn also that
Waterloo was a mistake, that Voltaire is infinitely
superior to Shakspeare, and that " ces Anglais-ld
sont des betes."
That the warlike spirit of France carries its own
renovating and vitalizing influences with it may be
seen from the vigor with which the nation has
recovered from past disasters, and from the pressure
of calamity which she has borne uncrushed. From
1791 to 1815, France furnished, for the wars of
Napoleon and the Republic, over four and a half
millions of men, all of whom died, mostly in Spain
and Russia, of wounds, privation, and imprisonment.
Her debt was increased by an amount of two thou
sand millions of francs, and her territory was less at
the end than at the beginning. Could any other
nation have borne this without at least a century
of prostration and decay ?
There is a striking resemblance between the
management and instruction of the French troops
and those of ancient Rome. As we are informed

THE FRENCH ARMY. 243
by Vegetius, whose works Gibbon has quoted,
" The Roman exercises comprehended whatever
could add strength to the body, activity to the limbs,
or grace to the motions. The soldiers were dili
gently instructed to march, to run, to leap, to swim,
to carry heavy burdens, to handle any species of arms
that were used either for offence or for defence,
either in a distant engagement or in a closer onset,
to perform a variety of evolutions, and to move to
the sound of flutes in the Pyrrhic or martial dance.
In the midst of peace, the Roman troops familiarized
themselves with the practice of war. Regular pay,
occasional donatives, and a stated recompense after
the appointed time of service, alleviated the hard
ships of military life, whilst, on the other hand, it
was impossible for cowardice or disobedience to
escape the severest punishment. Their attachment
to their standard was inspired by the united influ
ence of religion and honor. The golden eagle,
which glittered in the front of the legion, was the
object of their fondest devotion ; nor was it esteem
ed less impious than it was ignominious to abandon
that sacred ensign in the hour of danger. The
peasant or mechanic imbibed the useful prejudice
that he was advanced to the more dignified profes
sion of arms, in which his rank and reputation
would depend on his own valor ; and that, although
the prowess of the private soldier must often escape
the notice of fame, his own behavior might some
times confer glory or disgrace on the company, the
legion, or even the army, to whose honors he was
associated."

244 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
This was the discipline which made the Roman
soldiers the first in the world ; and a similar train
ing, with added excellences, has led the French to
the same proud position. And thus it seems becom
ing that these, having followed the steps of the
former to fame, should watch over their ashes for a
time ; and that they who have borne the standard
of France to the remotest parts of the earth should
guard the scene of " the trebly hundred triumphs "
of Rome.

THE LETHARGY OF ROME. 245

CHAPTER XVIII.
THE LETHARGY OP ROME.
Rome is the city of silence. It is the eldest of
cities in the embrace of the eldest of things. In the
midst of its broad and desolate Campagna, it bears
the aspect of a necropolis in the desert. Its people,
in their deep tranquillity and apathy, seem like
dwellers amongst the tombs. Not more oppressive
are the waves of the Dead Sea, as they enshroud the
cities of the plain, than are the billows of silence
which envelop every hour of Rome, and heavily roll
over the soul of the solitary stranger ; the Pyramids
are not more quiet in the majesty of their repose
amid the usurping sands of Egypt, than are the Pan.
theon and the Baths of Caracalla. Within its walls
there is no hum of industry, — no lively accents of
busy voices. All the natural vivacity of Italy has
fled ; and not even a street-cry breaks upon the ear,
unless, perhaps, at long intervals, one hears the sad
tones of some wandering Jew, whose voice sounds
like a lost echo strayed from a distant land. Even
the mirth of the Carnival appears forced and unnat
ural ; the afternoon animation of the Pincian Hill
seems a roving revel, where each acts an incongruous
part. Both fade away, like the laugh of a spectre,

246 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
and everything is ten times more ghostly from the
contrast. The dead of ancient Rome were not so
inanimate as are its living of to-day, for 't is said
that even they,
" A little ere the mightiest Julius fell,
Did squeak and gibber in the Koman streets."
Humboldt wrote of the Romans of this age as
" pilgrims amidst ruins." They act like denizens
of another land, mere sojourners, who momently
expect the signal to depart. They glide from one
dim recess to another, like watchers summoned
from afar to minister around the bed of the dying.
Long trains of priests move from ruin to ruin in
their quiet, sombre way, as if they came forth from
the graves of the past, and then mysteriously disap
pear. No one knows whence they come, or whither
they go.
To the friends of Roman liberty this silence is
sad and disheartening. It is the sign of mental
death. It is the result of ages of oppression,
of a religious and temporal tyranny which stiffens
the very heartstrings and sears the brain ; which
with its iron grasp wrings out 'the last drop of life-
blood, and deadens every active and honorable pur
pose ; which, unsatisfied with preying upon the
body, follows the soul to the gates of death, and ex
torts from the dying agonies of the parting spirit
the means of further crushing those it leaves be
hind. The only profitable or important business done at
Rome consists in supplying the various wants of

THE LETHARGY OF ROME. 247
foreigners. So entirely, in fact, do most of the
tradespeople depend upon this class of customers,
that after Easter, when J;he great majority of stran
gers leave the city, many of the stores are closed
till the fall. It is very difficult for any foreign fam
ily which is obliged to remain after that time to ob
tain even the necessary supplies for the table. Most
of their custom comes from English and Americans,
since these are not only more numerous than any
other class of tourists, but for the most part better
provided with money, and therefore more liberal in
their expenditure. So thoroughly convinced are the
Roman people generally of their dependence upon
these forestieri, as they term them, that a few years
ago, when, on account of some political disturbance,
travellers did not begin to arrive till very late in the
season, they crowded eagerly around the first Eng
lish travelling-carriage that drew up in the Piazza di
Spagna, crying, " Ecco nostra salvazione! " " Here
is our salvation."
It would seem that an element so important as
this to the prosperity of the city, which brings to it
so much wealth, and is, in fact, all that keeps many
of the people from starvation, would be conciliated
by every possible means, or at least would be un
molested. But the contrary is the fact. Every
obstacle which can be devised is thrown in the way
of strangers, on their arrival, during their stay, and
at their departure. There is no country in the
world where foreigners are subjected to greater
vexations, in the matter of passports and other

248 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
restrictions, than in the Roman territories. The
tradesmen who supply them are persecuted by the
police. Their newspapers .are either not delivered
at all from the post-office, or so mangled by the
cutting out of articles which the authorities regard
as heretical and dangerous that they can hardly be
read. The proprietors of the reading-rooms to
which they resort are annoyed by the detention of
their journals, and once in a while are visited by
the censor, who has removed and destroyed, within
a few years, hundreds of books whose doctrines are
considered pernicious. For months after the rail
road to Naples was finished, the Papal govern
ment refused to allow the trains to run, though
hundreds of travellers were inconvenienced by it,
and the company were losing thousands of dollars
every day. For this there was no reason except
the bigoted opposition of the Pope to every liberal
and useful improvement. He knows full well that
steam is the herald of human progress ; that,
wherever its shrill trumpet is heard, it is, like the
crow of the morning cock, the signal for the flight
of all " extravagant and erring spirits of darkness."
Steam is the peaceful locomotive of principles ; and
the sound of its whistle across the Campagna shakes
the Vatican to its centre, and makes the Pope
tremble in his seat.
Not only does the government thus annoy
foreigners, but the people themselves, who are de
pendent upon them, subject them to all sorts of
petty vexations. They are compelled, to pay the

THE LETHARGY OF ROME. 249
most exorbitant prices for everything, and are
cheated and robbed in every possible way. The
people have a natural preference for doing a thing
in a tricky manner. It requires a little mental
exertion, a certain degree of manoeuvring, to de
fraud cleverly ; and when they have done this neatly
and without discovery, they flatter themselves and
think it a matter of congratulation. They have
not the slightest moral sense as to any rights of
property, and all the more so from the fact that
overreaching a heretic is winked at by both Church
and State. A forestiero in Rome has no rights
which a Roman is bound to respect ; and when he is
robbed, there is no redress. No degree of kindness
to these people will excite any feeling of gratitude,
as that is a virtue they do not possess ; but they
think if by any means, fair or foul, they can possess
themselves of the property of those who have more
than they, it is perfectly right to do so. This is
done in a thousand mean and artful ways, which
they have learned by years of experience, and which
have become, as it were, heirlooms in the families
of those who have the most dealings with foreigners.
Illegal charges, collusion of domestics with trades
men, and of tradesmen with domestics, bribing of
couriers, cheating in weight, demands for goods
never sent, are a few among their many rascalities.
They are a hard people to deal with, though much
allowance must be made for the degrading and
demoralizing influence of the government which has
so long trampled upon them.

250 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
The present decay of Rome has penetrated more
deeply and inevitably on account of the debasement
of the rural population around her. Ordinarily,
the city is rejuvenated by the country. The latter
is the fountain from which flow health, beauty,
morality, energy, and not unfrequently genius.
Its streams quicken the curdling blood of enfee
bled communities. They infuse fresher and nobler
impulses into old societies, by whose rough fric
tion the fine edge of morality is blunted, while in
the hard struggle for money and power, and often
for life, many of the less honorable qualities of our
minds are developed. In the country these baser
feelings are moderated by quiet seclusion and com
munion with Nature. All her aspects woo us to
reflection, and expand our higher qualities. Her
cheerful music sinks deep into our souls, and even
inspires us to mount that ladder which reaches to
the stars. Like Antaeus, we derive fresh strength
from every embrace of mother-earth, till the Her
cules of worldly ambition tears us from her breast,
and gradually strangles our better aspirations.
This supply from the green hills and fertile valleys
is pure and abundant in proportion to the morality
and intelligence diffused among the rural popula
tion. In our own New England the broad and
invigorating stream flows full and free from thou
sands of happy hearths, where all the fruitful virtues
of rural life cluster like bees around their queen.
From thence the sons of her farmers penetrate
through every avenue to an honorable advance-

THE LETHARGY OF ROME. 251
ment, and, by a worthy and successful life, do credit
to the land that bore them.
But from such a source as this Rome can look for
no rejuvenation. She is surrounded by no happy vil
lages, " where peace and plenty bless the laboring
swain." Here is no' stream of vigorous health flow
ing into her veins, nor, were there such a stream, is
there anything to turn its course thither. Like
some poisonous furnace, whose vapors blacken
every green thing, and make the air heavy with
death for miles around, and whose malignant breath
penetrates the very soil, so has the Papal govern
ment spread lasting devastation and ruin over the
once fertile lands around the capital. The only
signs of rural life that now appear in the streets of
Rome are the wan, half-dead victims of the malaria,
who beg and die in the streets, and those " poor crea
tures of earth" the contadini, or Roman peasantry,
who, in coarse blue homespun, leather leggings, and
hob-nailed shoes, bask in the sun on their backs, or
scrape the mud of the Campagna from each other,
as they wait in the Piazza della Rotonda to be hired
for the labors of the country. They are a living
testimony of the hard fate of that land whose
people are afflicted with both bodily and mental
decay, and to whom ruin of both body and soul
gives even in life a foretaste of eternal death.
Throughout those broad and solitary wastes
which surround the Imperial City the dead are so
numerous that there appears no room for the living.
Here the prpgress of time has mingled in one com-

252 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
mon charnel-house the dust of all ages and nations,
of all ranks and conditions. Who can now dis
tinguish the remains of Caesar from those of his
lowest slave, — the bones of the Empress from those
of her favorite dog, — the Patrician from his client,
— the Consul from the gladiator, — the ashes of the
humble Christian martyr from those of the haughty
magistrate who doomed him to the stake ? Whose
dust dost thou tread under foot, that of the con
queror Hadrian, or his still more haughty captive
Zenobia ? Dost thou hold in thy hand the ashes
of Sylla or of Marius ? or are they both joined
together in the fraternity of death ? Under those
cypresses we may, perchance, exhume the remains of
the murdered Tully and of his brutal murderer
Antony ; here Tarquin and Lucretia, Virginia and
her tyrannical oppressor, have found a common
grave, and await the day of general doom. Like
the sea, the Campagna is one vast cemetery, and in
its dark depths there is no distinction.
In traversing this grave of a nation one cannot
avoid a feeling of pity for the unfortunates whose
hard fate it is to remain in its precincts, and allow
the seeds of death to be sown deep in their frames.
While watching the cattle or sheep, or driving on
horseback their herds of buffaloes, the very air they
breathe, every gale that blows across the country,
instead of invigorating the system with the ruddy
glow of health, is laden with malaria, and draws
from the hapless victim some portion of his former
vitality. He can thus, like one doomed to death

THE LETHARGY OF ROME. 253
by slow poison, trace with accuracy the gradual sink
ing of his spirits, and foresee with certainty the ap
proach of the day which shall relieve him from a
life of woe. Once the Campagna was a fertile plain,
covered with thrifty hamlets, whose inhabitants
basked in the fulness of prosperity ; but with the
long procession of ages, instead of increased pros
perity have come fire, famine, and slaughter, and
now only a desert is left. The cause of the plague
which now ravages it is uncertain. By some it is
attributed to the great stagnant pools of water
which, in times past, has flowed, and in some cases
still flows from broken aqueducts upon the land, and
finds no outlet. By others it is supposed to arise
from the decayed remains, both animal and vege
table, which have accumulated here for ages, and
impregnated the very earth with disease. This
trouble is daily increasing. The only means of
diminishing it is universally allowed to be by
ploughing the land, draining it, and cultivating it
assiduously. Thus the pernicious influence would
gradually escape from the soil, and the district
would again become habitable, as in the days of
ancient Rome. But this is not the course pursued
by Prince Torlonia and the other great proprietors.
These are continually buying additional farms and
vineyards, which are destroyed, the barns and
granaries pulled down, the fruit-trees and vines
rooted up, and all is changed to pasturage, over
which the miasma and herds of lowering, shaggy,
ferocious buffaloes roam uncontrolled. Thus the

254 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
evil is perpetuated, and year after year the Campagna
becomes vaster and vaster, and the pestilence more
and more destructive. Now and then one sees a
large village entirely deserted by its inhabitants,
who have felt, day after day, the hand of death press
ing silently, remorselessly, irresistibly upon them,
till, panic-struck, they have abandoned all and fled.
Is it not possible that the malaria may gradually
close around Rome, and drive its people to other
lands ? that the papacy may, in its turn, be blighted,
and go forth a Wanderer over the world ? that St.
i Peter's and the Vatican may rest unvisited, and in
ruins, under a shroud of death ?
The abject victims of the malaria are among the
most distressing objects which one meets in the
streets of Rome. There are thousands of beggars
who importune us at every corner and every turn,
but the sorrows of these surpass them all. Gaunt,
sallow, the lineaments of death plainly visible in
their faces, they feebly drag one step after another.
As they present themselves before us, too weak,
apparently, to speak, who can avoid bestowing upon
them the small coin which only serves to smooth
their short pathway to the grave ?
It is remarkable that the two cities once most
celebrated as centres of the Christian faith are now
the most degraded. Mighty Rome once looked
forth from its seven hills over as fair a prospect of
industry and happiness as ever gladdened the eye of
man. The heights which now wall around the Queen
City of God once blossomed like the stars of heaven

THE LETHARGY OF ROME. 255
with every delightful sign of human wealth and
prosperity. Where are those peaceful abodes now,
and what is the condition of these chosen cities ?
The Christian religion has departed from both. Mo
hammed reigns in Jerusalem ; the Pope at Rome.
Which has buried his talent most deeply in the
earth ? Rome stiffens daily with the poison which
bigotry and tyranny have infused into her veins.
Jerusalem, under the pall of Mohammedanism, gives
no sign of life but when, once a year, at Easter, the
professors of Christianity meet at the tomb of their
great leader, to fight and wrangle like wild beasts
for admission to the spot, to curse and swear, and
trample each other to death. At the same time a
similar scene is transpiring at the tomb of St. Peter
for admission to the Sistine Chapel, though it is
somewhat moderated by the greater refinement of
the contestants. Is it the blood of such martyrs
that is the seed of the Church ?

256 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.

CHAPTER XIX.
ART IN ROME.
Once the conqueror of the world by force of
arms, still later its religious metropolis, it is now as
the home of ancient Art that Rome exerts her in
fluence over the more cultivated and liberal part of
mankind. In this respect, notwithstanding her de
cay, she is still the centre whence flow a thousand
precious streams for the mental culture and refine
ment of our race. Looking upon the numberless
beautiful monuments of antiquity that yet remain
within her walls, we cannot avoid a deep feeling of
gratitude that so many have been preserved to us,
especially when we think of the fearful ravages,
both of man and the elements, to which they have
been subjected. In the palmy days of the Empire
the number of these must have been enormous, of
those brought from subject Greece, as well as those
done by Greek artists in the Imperial City. This
does not seem strange, when we reflect how deeply
seated was the love of Art in the hearts of that
people. Admiration for the beautiful was their all-
pervading passion ; and in their delicious and equable
climate models of manly beauty were always before
them. The mild temperature they enjoyed also

ART IN ROME. 257
promoted the development of the kindly natures,
the gentle hearts, and joyous dispositions for which
they were distinguished, and these again favored
their artistic culture. They could imagine no more
fitting reward for worthy deeds than the figure of
the hero done in imperishable marble by a skilful
artist. This was placed in a public spot, that it
might serve not only as an incentive to others, but
as a model of beauty. This honor was granted not
only to the gods, to successful generals, and the vic
tors at their games, but to those who were noted for
their virtue, or for talent in any position. Suc
cessful inventors and workmen were not unfre-
quently thus dignified. iElian informs us that
even a dog who had distinguished himself at the
Battle of Marathon was honored with a portrait-
statue at the public expense. These tributes were
as common in Greece as the cross of the Legion
of Honor is in France at the present day. It
was in their temples that the perfection of sculp
ture was seen ; for there the gods, in the fulness
of divine effulgence, fascinated the minds of their
worshippers. The Greeks believed that every
sacred statue was filled with the godhead which
it represented. There the people enjoyed the
/visible presence of that ever youthful, tranquil,
perfect beauty which they attributed to their
deities. Though many of these images still remain
to us, they are but few compared with the number
less works which once existed, and, perhaps, even
now are waiting to be discovered. It is at Rome
17

258 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
that the relics of Grecian sculpture are to be seen in
the largest number and the greatest perfection. Here
modern Art must flourish, if at all. Here our ar
tists, dwelling in the light which radiates from the
matchless perfections of these ancient trophies, can
gild with its beams the results of their own labors.
Transient are these, perhaps, compared with the un
dying sculptures of antiquity, like the colors of the
rainbow befora the eternal brightness of the sun.
Yet these are glorious to those who cannot look
upon the great source of beauty himself ; and
the charms of the Orpheus may well delight those
who have never seen the divine splendors of the
Apollo. Among the numberless artists of all nations
whom one meets at Rome it is not a little gratify
ing to an American to find so large a number of
his own countrymen ; and it is still more a matter of
pride to see how high a rank they hold, and how
meritorious are many of their works.* Crawford
has passed away in the height of his reputation ;
but Story and Rogers, Mozier and Reinhardt, are
following in his steps to fame. Besides these there
are many others who labor earnestly in their pro
fession, and have executed numerous sculptures
* The American artists and their families at Rome combine
with the other residents from our own country to form quite a
numerous and attractive society. In this our patriotic country
woman, Miss Charlotte Cushman, takes that prominent position
which her great talents deserve, and nothing can be more agree
able than the refined and abundant hospitalities which are dis
pensed at her salons.

ART IN ROME. 259
which do them great credit. They are invari
ably kind and attentive to strangers, and their
rooms are open to the public with much liberality.
" Doing the studios," is the elegant and classic
phrase which is commonly used to express one of
the delights of Rome. In most of these the stran
ger finds a polite attendant ready to describe the dif
ferent statues, and in some cases printed placards
are provided for this purpose. Among so large
a number of works one is not surprised to find a
considerable degree pf mediocrity. This, however,
is not so annoying as the conceit by which it is
often accompanied. An American artist whose
labors are not much known beyond the walls of his
own studio said in my presence that he regarded
his busts as " superior to any, either of ancient or
modern times." It was impossible to avoid think
ing of the distress of Praxiteles or Agesander, if
they heard this sweeping remark. Of course it is
well to have a certain professional pride, but there
is, or should be, a limit even to this. It struck me
that the sculptor was raising his standard a little
too high.
There is at Rome much of the professional
jealousy for which artists are always distinguished,
whatever else they may be famous for. This is
to a stranger extremely disagreeable. In fact, it
quite shocks one who hitherto has seen in the fol
lowers of Art only a noble band of brothers, dis
pensing beauty to mankind, and full of generous
favors to each other. Artists newly arrived in Italy

/•'

260 \ EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
have to ifight for a position, and that with consider
able 'vigor. No assistance from their fellow-students
is ta'/be looked for ; on the contrary, they may be
thankful if active and ignoble efforts are not exerted
against them. By these means men of real talent
and ability have been driven away, and forced to
return home to their own country. Some of our
fellow-countrymen have enjoyed the privilege of
studying in Italy through the kind aid of certain of
our wealthy and eminent citizens. This was grant
ed them, not only for the purpose of enabling them
to develop their own talents, but with the ultimate
object of diffusing a taste for Art in our country.
It was a tacit condition of this aid, (at least, the
grantors considered them in honor bound to this,)
that, if the recipients should obtain wealth and repu
tation in their profession, they should use them for
the liberal aid of other young men who needed
similar advantages. But it is disgraceful that these
should, on the contrary, be employed, as they have
been, to prevent deserving artists from obtaining a
foothold in Italy.
This jealousy is every way bad for the interests
of Art, and creates elements of discord which are
the source of great trouble. Surely, few men of
wealth and power would become the patrons of this
pursuit, if they knew how many of the baser qual
ities of humanity they would thereby serve to pro
mote. It is frequently quite offensive to a stranger
to hear the malicious criticisms of a sculptor upon
the works of a brother-artist at Rome. Is moral

ART IN ROME. 261
beauty, at the present day, incompatible wiftMove
for the beautiful in Art ? We should, undoTOedly,
take into consideration the fact that ever|$frtist
has his own models of excellence, and his&^wn
peculiar mental temperament, and is thus, to a
certain degree, rendered incapable of appreciating
the labors of his associates. The same is true in
literature, where one great humorist, for example,
so often fails to enjoy, or to estimate at their proper
value, the writings of another. . Yet how much
greater is the interest we feel in the works of
Canova and Thorwaldsen, of Raphael and Murillo,
of Leonardo and Fra Angelico, when we think of
their amiable dispositions, their generosity to those
students not so favored as themselves, and their
want of envy. Their own pure minds seem to
beam upon us from their works. Like the Greek
sculptors, they prayed for immortality, and their
prayers were answered, for
" He prayeth well, who loveth well
Both man and bird and beast."
A really noble and devoted love for the beautiful,
such as the ancient sculptors possessed, would swal
low up every base feeling. Sneers at this one's
sitting figure, or that one's colored statue, or the
bust of a third, would cease, and they all would
be permitted to await the verdict of posterity.
" Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil,
Nor in the glistering foil
Set off to the world, nor in broad rumor lies,

262 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyes
And perfect witness of all-judging Jove.
As he pronounces lastly on each deed,
Of so much fame in heaven expect thy meed."
Doubtless much allowance is to be made for the
peculiar life of an artist, and in many cases it is a
hard one. He is naturally sensitive, and his fre
quent trials can be appreciated only by himself.
Many have to struggle with want for years ; and
the plastic clay often bears the lineaments of the
sculptor's own sorrows, — not unfrequently it is
moistened with his tears. As the poets "learn in
suffering what they teach in song," so does the dull,
cold marble, cunningly wrought for our profit,
often remind the sculptor of the many bitter strug
gles of which it was the offspring. A living must
be earned. The capriciousness and ignorance of
wealthy patrons must often be endured without a
murmur, and not only that, but too frequently con
ciliated. The vexations of an artist of sensitive
temperament are very numerous, and difficult to
bear with equanimity ; nothing can surpass the
annoyance to which the folly of others often sub
jects him.
Some time since an eminent American sculptor at
Rome was requested to model the bust of a young
lady who had lately died. The father asked what
sum the artist generally received for a work of that
description. On being informed, he remarked, " I
presume as that is the amount you receive from
adults, you will, of course, make a deduction for

ART IN ROME. 263
the bust of my daughter, whose age was only four
teen." And this is only one of many such in
stances. Their troubles, however, are at times more ludi
crous than annoying. Three elderly ladies sud
denly appeared one morning at the studio of an
American artist. Their style of dress and features
were not especially attractive, and they bore a
much greater resemblance to the Fates than to the
Graces. Clotho wore green goggles, Lachesis
proved to be quite deaf, and Atropos combined the
charms of both her sisters. They roamed about
quite freely for a time, ogling one statue, fingering
another, and criticising a third ad infinitum.
Finally, said she of the green glasses, " What
work is this ? " punching it, as she spoke, with her
blue umbrella. " That, madam, is Nyddia, the
blind girl of Pompeii." " What did he say ? "
shouted the deaf one. " Nubia, the blind girl of
Bombay ! " screamed the third, anxious to be civil.
Having acquired this scrap of information, the in
evitable sisters disappeared.
The most distinguished sculptor at Rome is the
English artist Gibson, and his studio is one of the
most attractive resorts in the city. It is a great
delight to a cultivated mind to see this lover of the
beautiful, surrounded by the children of his brain,
to whom his life has been devoted. Here the
thousand varied charms of Venus rise before us in
a new image of beauty, and justify the choice of
Paris, who, in shepherd's garb, transports us to

264 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
" woody Ida," whose breezes nourished his athletic
and graceful form. Here Hylas fascinates again in
marble, as if the sculptor's art had drawn him forth
from the deep and treacherous fountain. Here we
look upon the delicately rounded limbs and potent
loveliness of Bacchus, not as " the roaring god of
sprightly wine," but " ever fair and young," the
type of eternal youth and joy, blending the beauty
of the Graces with that of Adonis. Here the fas
cinations of celestial love fall gently from the face
of Maia upon the butterfly which rests upon her
breast, as if it had found its home.
The talented artist has just completed a Hebe as
another example of that theory of colored statues
to which he has devoted himself with so much
perseverance and enthusiasm. Ancient figures of
this goddess are rarer than those of any other.
She is, however, generally represented with her
dress gathered up high, to denote her office as
attendant at the banquets of the gods. Pindar calls
her the " beautiful-legged " and " diadem-crowned "
Hebe. As portrayed by Gibson, she wears a gold
diadem, while her hair is confined by a bandeau of
white ornamented with gold stars. In her left
hand is a cup ; in the right she bears a pitcher, of
classic model. Behind her left foot is a vase of
gold, which is partly covered with drapery slightly
tinted. The flesh is delicately colored. Her robe,
which reaches to the knees, is neatly fringed with
red and blue, and girdled at the waist with a fine
blue cord. The folds are exquisitely done. Her

ART IN ROME. 265
hair is light yellow, and on each arm she wears a
golden bracelet. The expression is that of simple,
modest, unaffected beauty, with sufficient character
to distinguish her from other goddesses. The color
ing matter is composed of an indelible mixture of
paint and wax, such as the Greeks are thought to
have used.
The effect of such a variety of colors would seem
to be very unsuitable to a marble statue ; but they
are laid on with so much taste and delicacy that
the whole is not disagreeable to the eye. The
Hebe has excited great discussion among the artists
at Rome, and has been, like the tinted Venus of
the same sculptor, the talk of the whole city. Mr.
Gibson justifies himself by the fact, which modern
researches have proved, that the Greeks colored
their statues and placed them in suitably painted
rooms. To him a white statue seems cold and
inharmonious. Upon a subject where the most
talented modern artists are so much at variance it
is difficult to decide.
At the risk of being tedious, I will endeavor to
offer a few reasons why the theory of tinted statues
might be deemed injurious to the best interests
of Art. Mr. Gibson may have been as successful
as any other artist, perhaps the only successful one
in this respect. He has, doubtless, worked con
amore, and with a desire to improve the condition of
Art. But the difficulties in the way appear to be
insurmountable in our day, and he can hardly hope
to succeed.

266 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
Of the two sources of beauty, shape and color,
any pleasing shade of the latter, considered merely
by itself, without regard to tasteful combination with
other hues, requires less elevated mental faculties
for its appreciation and enjoyment than the former.
Tints bright and pure delight the eyes of every one
from his earliest years, though few understand their
harmonious and artistic arrangement. As Goethe
says, " Man in a state of nature, uncivilized nations,
and children have a great fondness for colors in their
utmost brightness, and especially for yellow and red ;
they are also pleased with motley hues." From this
source arises the pleasure with which uncultivated
minds, who see no beauty in an exquisite statue of
white marble, regard the ruddy smoothness of a
wax figure. But with those whose tastes have
been educated and refined it is different; and not
only do they find no gratification in such a spec
tacle, but living fascinations often lose their hold
upon them. In the words of Winckelmann, " When
men have studied beauty in the perfect statues of
the ancients, they do not find in the beautiful
women of a proud and wise nation those charms
which are generally so much prized, because they
are not dazzled by the fairness of their skin." The
cause of this is, that " beauty is felt by sense, but is
recognized and comprehended by the understanding,
which generally renders, and ought to render, sense
less susceptible, but more correct." The essential
of beauty is shape ; and as our minds are developed
and purified we learn to appreciate beauty of form,

ART IN ROME. 267
and color becomes a mere accessory. The harmony
of colors, separately considered, is doubtless the
source of pure and elevating enjoyment, but not
the noblest source of all. Some minds mount no
higher than this ; and it is with nations as with in
dividuals. Some, like the French, surpass merely in
the harmonious arrangement of colors ; others, as
our own and the English, excel rather in compre
hension of the beauty of form, and their artists evince
capacity as sculptors ; others, again, like the Ital
ians, display great talent in both these.
In our estimate of beauty in sculpture, therefore,
color should have no share ; and the addition of
flesh-tints or other hues to a marble statue serves
only to distract the attention of the majority of
people from those traits which constitute, or should
constitute, the real merits of the work. It degrades
the art, by an appeal to a lower order of intellect
for admiration. It is as injurious in its effect as the
style of ^Bernini's works, or such as Puck in
modern times by one of our own artists, — sculptures
which do not properly come within the range of the
beautiful in Art. Though they are not colored, yet
their style is bad, as the result of an attempt to re
duce the art to a level with the comprehension of
those who cannot appreciate the beauties of ancient
sculpture, and flatter their tastes ; and so far they
are debasing. A tinted statue loses much of that
pure simplicity which is so important an attribute
of elevated beauty. On most men it would act as
a promoter of the coarser and more sensual ele-

268 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
ments of their nature. A painted nude statue is
more injurious to the public morals than one of
white marble, for the same reason that the Venus
of Titian is more contaminating than the Venus
de' Medici. We know that the Greeks colored their
statues with certain tints ; but that can be no safe
example for us. Elevated and intellectual as they
were, they had a perception of the beauties of form
and the harmonies of color, as well as of the artistic
combination of both these, such as we can never
attain to. At all events, they mounted high above
any sensual debasement from such a source. There
can be no more reason why we should color our
statues because the Greeks did so, than that we
should paint our buildings red, blue, and yellow, as
they did the Parthenon.
A beautiful body is more beautiful the whiter it is.
This hue reflects the most rays of light, and con
sequently brings out with greater distinctness the
delicate outlines of sculpture. We find the har
monious beauty of the Greek statues at the present
day, which have all lost their original tints, greatly
increased by the soft blendings of light and shade
which arise from their want of color. The effect
of this is like that of the heavenly rays of which
the poet speaks, when
" From that high mount of God whence light and shade
Spring forth, the face of brightest heaven had changed
To grateful twilight."
White light being the combined effect of the three
primaries, red, blue, and yellow, it would seem

ART IN ROME. 269
natural that it should be a more prolific medium of
beauty than any one of these, each of which is a
degree of darkness.
As far as regards beauty of form we have a
sufficient guide and model in the masterpieces of
the ancients. To be sure, we do not know accord
ing to what laws they proceeded. Perhaps these
were, as Goethe suggests, the same that Nature
works by. At any rate, we have the results before
us, and so far are safe. But in the matter of color
we have no such guide, and the judgment of one
artist is as good as that of another. Who shall
decide, where the knowledge of its laws is so slight
as at present ? As we stand before the statue of
Niobe, its perfect beauty exerts a charmed influence
over us, we know not why. As is finely expressed
by Michel Angelo, in his 7th Sonnet, —
" Non so se e' s' e 1' immaginata luce
Del suo primo fattor, che 1' alma sente,
0 se dalla memoria o dalla mente
Alcuna altra belta nel cuor traluce,
O se nell' alma ancor risplende e luce
Del suo primiero stato un raggio ardente."
It fills up the measure of our content, and we " sit
in its shadow with great delight." Our minds find
repose in its placid perfection. It is to them what
perfect health is to the body, or a full draught of
water to the palate. No element of beauty is want
ing to it. The addition of color would no more
improve it than would rhyme elevate the majestic
cadences of " Paradise Lost," or than water would

270 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
more completely satisfy the thirst by a tinge of red.
It would be gilding refined gold or painting the lily
in either case. The same is true of other branches
of sculpture. The wreath of hawthorn, for ex
ample, over the doorway of Bourges Cathedral, is
carved with cunning and elaborate art, and seems
almost a petrifaction of Nature's handiwork. But
does any one think the sculptor improved it by the
coating of vivid green which he thought fit to
apply ?
This encroachment of the sculptor on the painter's
art cannot be beneficial to either. Perhaps it orig
inated from the fact that many of the Greek
sculptors were also painters. In many respects the
Greeks in this matter would seem to have gone
from bad to worse. In the earlier ages of Art the
eyeball, for example, was left smooth and white, and
its light unexpressed. In the first century of the
Roman Empire, the sculptors began to hollow out
the eyeball, until at length it was not only exca
vated but colored, and gems were inserted, as in
the head of the Borghese Antinoiis. All this would
seem to show a steady progress towards decay.
Shall our age follow in these footsteps ? Why
should we not, as in other matters, let well enough
alone ? Is anything to be gained for the interests
of Art by coloring statues in our day ? The spirit
of our age is mercantile, and the tendency of man
kind is rather towards physical than mental gratifi
cations. It also brings men more and more closely
together, so that any evil is redoubled. Art can

ART IN ROME. 271
hope to prosper in the end only by using the purest
and most elevating forms. It can never succeed
by catering to the tastes of the illiterate.
In Greece, the poets and sculptors worked to
gether. The images which the latter created, the
former endowed with lofty and heroic attributes,
which the latter again essayed to render visible to
the eyes of their worshippers, in spotless /marble,
with increased grace and majesty. The most suc
cessful artists were those who drew their forms
from the simplest and purest sources. They resem
bled the poet, to whom, in the depth of his sympathy
with nature, •
" the meanest flower that blows can give
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears."
The sculptor of the Dying Gladiator struck a
chord, simple it is true, but which yet resounds
with sad music through the heart of our common
humanity. Homer represented Jupiter as shaking
Olympus by the bending of his eyebrows. Phidias
read this, and forth from his brain came the peerless
majesty of Jove himself, to be enthroned for ages
among his worshippers. The Grecian sculptors
yearned to portray the deathless graces of their
gods, and thought with ever fresh zeal of their un
dying attributes, till then, if ever, it might be said
with truth, —
" That oft converse with heavenly habitants
Began to cast a beam on the outward shape,
The unpolluted temple of the mind,
And turned it by degrees to the soul's essence,
Till all was made immortal."

272 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
Among the other attractions in Mr. Gibson's
studio are some of the works of his former pupil,
Miss Hosmer. Here is her figure of Puck, which
is almost as pleasing in marble as was the original
in Sir Joshua Reynolds's painting, from which, with
some slight alterations and additions, it is obviously
taken. I was informed that it had been repeated by
the artist no less than eight times. It is quite a
clever conceit, and is in sculpture very much what a
pun is in literature. It is what M. Quatremere de
Quincy calls " un badinage de Vart." Miss Hos
mer is very fortunate in thus hitting the popular
fancy, and bewitching the eyes of the masses at the
commencement of her career ; for she has secured
an immediate celebrity, for which other and abler
artists are often obliged to wait a lifetime. She
has shown great tact in her choice of subjects, and
the recumbent figure of Miss Falconet, on her tomb
in the Church of Sant' Andrea delle Frate, and
her Zenobia, as might have been expected, have
obtained great popularity. Without possessing
much of that appreciation of the wondrous excel
lences of ancient Art which arises from deep study,
and of which we see such abundant traces in the
works of her master, and with but slight skill in
anatomy, this artist, by an adroit use of the talent
she possesses, has managed to obtain an extended
reputation. She is among artists what the author
of the " Rape of the Lock" is among poets, and Cris-
pissa, Momentilla, or Umbriel would afford her
new opportunities for success.

ART IN ROME. 273
Among the artists at Rome few give better
promise for the future, or show a deeper love for
and devotion to art, than our countrywoman, Miss
Stebbins, .whose works have begun to be well known
and appreciated. The persevering industry with
which she has modelled from nature, and her study
of the principles of ancient sculpture, have enabled
her to produce results, which, though few, display
great .ability. A small bust by her, called the
Lotos-Eater, is very beautiful, and seems the exact
embodiment of Tennyson's description. In his
dreamy languor, the head seems to droop under the
sleepy weight of the rosy blossoms of fbrgetfulness.
Her Joseph and her Autumn, both of which are
partially draped youthful forms, the delineation of
whose outlines is more difficult than of any other,
are done with admirable skill and knowledge of
anatomy. Her statue of Columbus must commend
itself to every one. It represents the great dis
coverer watching for the birth of that new world
which with the dawn of day was to spring forth
' from the sea like the morning star of liberty to
man. His face expresses the anxiety which he feels,
and its lineaments seem to shadow forth the deep
thoughts which are rushing through his brain.
Sleepless from care and solicitude, he has taken the
helm, and his eyes gaze earnestly into the gloom to
discover that reward of years of toil and sorrow
which has already become a visible reality to his
faith. Never did saintly martyr express a deeper
longing for his crown than does he for the coming
18

274 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
day. He grasps the tiller with a tenacity and' en
ergy which seem to invigorate even the fierce
glare of the monster that decorates it. And yet
nothing is exaggerated. The pose is admirable, the
proportions of the figure excellent. He presses his
left hand upon his heart to repress its deep surgings,
and watches silently, thoughtfully, but oh how wist
fully ! for the morning.
This statue would be an honor to any artist,
and no one can look upon it without the conviction
that it is a work of extraordinary talent. Miss
Stebbins is a sculptor whose labors her countrymen
will one day be proud of. We shall soon have in our
own city of Boston a work from her hand ; and in
her admirable statue of Horace Mann we shall find
fresh reason to be satisfied with the progress which
our country is making in the fine arts. Her genius
has taken the right direction, and is capable of high
development. It is gratifying to see an earnest,
persevering, faithful study of art, which does not
condescend to cater for popular applause, but works
quietly on, and, foreseeing the rich reward to come, is
willing " to scorn delights and live laborious days.."
Such sculptors do not, like Bernini, degrade their
art by bringing it down to the level of the ignorant,
but seek to draw them up to it. Let our artists
think and toil as Leonardo and Raphael did, who, as
Sir Joshua Reynolds says, " did not possess their
art from nature, but by long study." Let them
labor like the ancients, who devoted themselves
to their cherished pursuit till .images of perfect

ART IN ROME. 275
beauty presented themselves to their eager longing,
and they wept that they could not portray those
matchless charms to their fellow-men. Then will
our sculptors imprint their minds deeply upon the
age, and their works will become heirlooms of
time. Then will they rejoice in the rich rewards
which are gladly bestowed upon the faithful and
self-denying exertions of genius.

276 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.

CHAPTER XX.

MOUNT VESUVIUS.

I left Naples at half-past six in the morning, by
the first train for Resina, in order from that place
to make the ascent of Vesuvius. The railroad
runs along the shore of the bay, in and out among
the long line of white houses that fringe it as far
as Castellamare. In half an hour I was at Por-
tici, the nearest station to'Resina, which is only one
mile from it. I descended amongst the usual crowd
and the din which invariably arises when more
than one Neapolitan is present, like the tumult of a
village school after the master has fallen asleep. I
was at once set upon by the vagabonds who always
lie in wait at this place for tourists proposing to
ascend the mountain. As it was unusually early,
I found myself the only one of that fraternity
present, and therefore had to bear the onset alone.
With a great many " vias " and much gesticula
tion and many distinct intimations that I did not
consider them a pleasant feature in the landscape,
and liked not the idea of meeting any of them on
the top of the volcano, I at length shook off all but
one, who clung to me with pertinacity. With him
following, therefore, I walked towards the village.

MOUNT VESUVIUS. 277
As Pilone and his merciless banditti were said to
be in the vicinity, and occasionally committing out
rages on travellers who were so unfortunate as to
fall into their hands, I did not think it exactly safe
to venture any farther without a guide. One Goz-
zolino had been recommended to me as an excellent
man in this capacity, and of the strictest integrity.
Therefore I decided to apply to him. In order to
do this, I stopped the first respectable-looking man I
met, politely raised my hat, and asked him to show
me the residence of this virtuous pioneer, this Kit
Carson of Mount Vesuvius. To my surprise, he
said he was Gozzolino himself; but I was astounded
when my rear-guard stepped forward and said, with
confidence, that he too was the original Gozzolino.
I went on, they following, and each, with much
volubility, presenting his claims for the privilege of
introducing " il nobilissimo signore " to the volcano.
I thought to decide this question of mistaken iden
tity by asking another dignified-looking person who
approached which was the genuine Gozzolino. He
replied, " I am Gozzolino." " Ah," thought I to
myself, " what a wealth of virtuous and brave Goz-
zolini this place possesses ! What a paradise Resina
must be ! The cardinal virtues must blossom on
every tree."
By this time the object of my expedition was
pretty well noised abroad, and I was surrounded by
what seemed to me the larger part of the popula
tion. All were chattering and gesticulating with
great vivacity, every man, woman, and child

278 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
claiming that he or she was the genuine Gozzolino,
inherited all the virtues of the age of gold, would
not impose upon a traveller for worlds, and would
like to see me safely up the mountain. I soon
began to suspect that perhaps from motives of per
sonal interest some of these good people might
have changed their names, with no authority but
their own sweet wills. As I farther advanced into
the heart of the village I was convinced of the
probability of this by seeing a sign on which was
the great name of the patriarch of all the Gozzolini,
with an intimation, in very good English, that he
was the only person in the universe fit to show any
body the way to it monte. I went towards it,
and the crowd at once fell back. " They knew
his mounted sign, and fled." I subsequently learned
that some of them, on a former occasion, having
approached so near this abode of the virtues as to
interfere with the business of its occupant, had been
treated to a few doses of hot water, which la Sig-
nora Gozzolino, with virtuous indignation and nim
ble dexterity, threw from the window. They now
kept at a distance, therefore, and I entered alone.
The high-souled Gozzolino received me with
great affability, and was quite willing to go up the
mountain. Yet, in spite of his blameless antece
dents, I did not care to start without knowing the
amount of his charges. He proved to have " an
itching palm ; " for he did not scruple to ask just
double the amount usually paid for the trip. He
demanded twenty -four carlini, the ordinary fee

MOUNT VESUVIUS. 279
being twelve. However, I told him that in con
sideration of his being the real Gozzolino, whose
name adorned the pages of Murray, I would give
him eighteen carlini. We started, and in the course
of five minutes had attained to as great a height as
could reasonably be expected, when he suddenly
turned round and said, " Here comes my brother,
who is just as good a guide as myself. He will go
with you ; but I can't, as I am engaged to an Eng
lish family." Here was a dilemma ! Could any
thing make one more disgusted with human nature
than thus to find it veritabile Gozzolino sud
denly appear in his true character, — that he was
only what the Spaniards term a bouli cougi, a
veritable humbug, an unfigleafed delusion, a de
ceitful snare with all his tricks exposed to view, a
guide-post with the direction gone, a monument
with the virtuous epitaph erased ? I told him I was
now going on alone. I had agreed to pay him well,
but was not going to take any of his cast-off relatives
as substitutes. Then arose a great clamor ; but
I started off resolutely, though followed by the
second-hand Gozzolino, who obstinately refused to
go back. At length I reflected that the result was
rather uncertain if I went guideless, and after some
bargaining I agreed to give the man twelve carlini,
if he saw me safe to the summit. This he finally
consented to, with a look of despair, as if he felt like
the fifth act and last scene of some soul-heaving
tragedy. Turning round to the original G., who
yet lingered in the background, and throwing up

280 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
his arms above his head, he twice exclaimed, with
a sort of helpless expression, " Buodieci carlini
solamente ! " Having relieved his mind in this way
he went doggedly on, and spoke not a word for at
least half an hour.
Our way led over the debris of past eruptions,
of which we saw at first only faint traces, in the
form of lava cropping out here and there, or piled
up in walls on either side of the path. The land
around us, barren as it was, yet abounded in vine
yards, whiph spread out their vines to the sun as
far up the side of the mountain as their roots could
find any foothold. They here mature their fruit
under the vivid rays of an Italian summer, while
their roots are warmed by the subterranean fires
which still heat the lava that was poured forth years
ago. The grapes have a peculiar flavor, and their
juice is known far and wide as " Lachryma Christi."
The view from this part of the volcano is peculiarly
impressive. Far above rise its precipices, black with
tortuous masses of rough and craggy lava, while
part-way down, and on the edge of former erup
tions, is the observatory which modern science has
established on this spot. It appears to diffuse the
pure light of mind over the scene of majestic deso
lation around it. Before it are the long and in
tricate windings of former streams of lava, extend
ing over the surface in every direction. The site
seems a great battle-field of giant pythons, the black
ened bodies of whose dead yet remain petrified upon
it ; whose wounded, covered with " many a scaly

MOUNT VESUVIUS. 281
fold, voluminous and vast," and yet retaining every
form of serpent agony, suddenly stiffened with the
pangs of death while, in many an attitude of fierce
and writhing contortion, they coiled around the
forms of prostrate enemies, or painfully struggled
in the angry ernbraces and swollen muscles of those
stronger than themselves, and the fiery shower and
molten hail suddenly descended on them from
above. Far below extended a prospect whose beauty
offered the strongest possible contrast to the sterile
grandeur around me, and which almost seemed to
justify the language of Chateaubriand, who said of
it, " Cestle paradis vu de Verifier." The broad blue
plain of the Bay of Naples lay outspread before us,
stretching far away to the misty cliffs of Capri on
the edge of the horizon. All its surface flickered
with infinite points of gold as the sun's rays smote
upon it here and there, and seemed covered with a
delicate net-work, which rose and fell at intervals
with the swell of its waters. Over all was the sky
of Italy, not so vividly clear and spotless as our
own, but as it were a filmy ocean of excessive
tenuity, whose invisible waves vibrate between us
and the sun ; they mitigate the fervor of his rays,
tone down every sharp outline, and almost seem to
ripple, in gentle undulations, from the wings of the
birds as they float along. On the right, the grace
ful curve of the shore sweeps round to Naples, which,
from its queenly site on steep hills, crowned by the
Castle of St. Elmo, appears what Lamartine calls

282 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
Constantinople, " a predestinated capital." On
the left are seen, fading away into the blue distance,
Castellamare and Sorrento, graceful with groves of
abounding olive and orange trees, which hold forth
forever their stores of ripe fruit, while their blossoms
scent the air. White houses nestle amongst them ;
the massy walls of hoary old monasteries look forth
from lofty crags over " the wrinkled sea ; " giant
promontories stride into the waves, covered with
myrtle and pomegranate, while from their summits
vine-covered chapels hold out the cross to the sailors
whose boats go flitting by. This is a view which
blesses the soul, and removes every clog from the
wheels of time.
But how does the fierce and uncompromising
sterility of Vesuvius contrast with all this ! Here
desolation has its throne, and reigns aloft far from
all the gracious influences of nature. Once it was
fruitful of every green and health-giving thing ;
woods and groves adorned its fertile slopes, and
welcomed the showers which bore life to the valley
below. But this is past. The fruit of its own
womb has brought it to perfect barrenness ; no rain
falls there ; no quickening dews descend from its
sides ; like Niobe, in the fulness of its bereavement
it cannot shed a tear ; no beneficent herbage adorns
it ; no stream, leaping from rock to rock, nourishes
the olive and the oak, the ivy and the fern ; not
even a lichen presents its dim and tawny form to
save the scene from the perfect image of death.
No living thing dwells there. The eagle does not

MOUNT VESUVIUS. 283
scream over its jagged precipices, black as when
they were hurled up from the solid darkness of
Erebus, nor does the vulture watch from its crags
for the banquet of death below ; no creeping thing
drags its parched and gaunt form over the ashy
slopes around its base. Neither the icy shield of
earth, bossed by the polar star, nor her sparkling
breastplate of Sahara, is more utterly bare and un
fruitful. The mission of Vesuvius is one of destruc
tion. It dwells apart in unrelenting savagery, only
at times, with many a throe, its womb disgorges the
monsters that kennel there to ravage at will o'er all
the scene around. And there it shall remain, the
symbol and the source of desolating ruin, till the
day when the world shall be unpeopled, and it shall
stoop from its throne to ally itself with a havoc
more fearful than its own.
The first recorded eruption of this volcano was
in the year 79 of our era. Before that time it had
been long idle, perhaps ever since the gray dawn of
earth's morning. Nature had done her best to
cover it with trees and herbage to its summit,
while the crater itself was overgrown with wild
vines. In the year 79 occurred the destruction of
Pompeii ; and since that time there have been fifty-
five eruptions, which, of course, have prevented any
restoration of its ancient fertility. In the days of
its beauty a temple was built on its lofty top, whose
white walls shone far and wide over the landscape.
This was in accordance with that attractive feature
of the Roman mythology, that the mysterious in-

284 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
fluence of some divinity pervaded every part of the
broad domain of Nature, and, when properly con
ciliated, became propitious to man. On the highest
point of Alpine passes the temple of Jupiter cheered
the weary traveller from afar, and the god at times
stretched forth a helping hand for his encourage
ment and aid. In the lonely woods the wanderer
confided in the chaste Diana, the Madonna of the
groves, whose white drapery seemed to glide by him
in the dim twilight. The hill-tops were the heritage
of Pan, — " the bright-haired god of pastoral,
Who yet is lean and loveless, and doth owe
By lot all loftiest mountains crowned with snow."
As the faint smoke curled away over a distant
grove, it might be that there the god, in the dim
light of some sylvan minster, around some rustic
altar, led on the Graces and the Hours in dance.
Zephyr and Aurora, with clasped hands, soared over
the landscape, and diffused their kindly favors.
Flora and Pomona, and the goddess who distils
gentle dew upon the herbage, were all-bounteous
with fruitful kindness to man. Thus the gracious
messengers of divine power encircled the earth, and,
like ministering angels, bore to every land the riches
of the All-giver. To the religious mind they were
as bright and numberless as the stars which shed
down their stellar virtue on mankind.
For a considerable distance before reaching the
summit the cone of Vesuvius is extremely steep,
and the jagged blocks of lava, scattered confusedly

MOUNT VESUVIUS. 285
up and down, afford a very insecure footing.
Moreover, their edges are excessively sharp, and the
effect on wearing-apparel is quite frightful. " Rents
of ruin," long before I reached the top, made it
very uncertain how much would remain wheii I got
there. As I approached the base of the cone
sundry ill-favored persons appeared, looking very
lean and hungry. I thought of Cassius, and said
to myself, " Such men are dangerous." They fol
lowed, for a short distance, to the most precipitous
part of the ascent, when two of them went before
and held out small rings of rope, which they are
accustomed to use in dragging visitors to the top.
The rest were to push behind. Not wishing to
avail myself of any such aid, I stopped, and, in spite
of their pertinacity, succeeded in sending them off.
They were extremely unwilling to go ; but a little
resolution and a few small coins were sufficient to
effect their departure. At this height the wind
blew with fury, so that it was very difficult to avoid
being prostrated. But we still slowly advanced.
At length the guide suggested, that, as we were
near the top, I had better sit under the shelter of a
large rock and take my lunch, as it would be im
possible to find any protection from the blast on the
summit. This I did ; and as I ate my sandwiches
in the roaring wind, like many another traveller I
blessed the memory of the ingenious nobleman who
invented that simple refreshment. A few yards
from the top the lava disappears under a deep bed
of ashes, which extends around the edge of the

286 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
crater. This, being soft and treacherous, renders it
quite dangerous to approach too near the rim, and
on this occasion the great violence of the wind made
it doubly unsafe. I was finally obliged to lie flat
and draw myself towards it, or else run great danger
of being blown into the gulf below.
The bottom of the crater, which was not greatly
agitated, was covered with a thick deposit of ashes,
apparently several feet deep. Its perpendicular
walls were about five hundred feet high. They
were almost smooth, though in many places yellow
with sulphur, and displayed, here and there, a
vertical rent long and deep, filled with that sub
stance. Clouds of steam, now dense and heavy,
now faint and attenuated, rose and floated lazily to
the edge of the pit, when the wind instantly whirled
them away. At times the bed of ashes heaved and
throbbed with deep pulsations, that showed the pent-
up force within. Occasionally, low rumblings or
groanings were heard, as if the volcano longed to
relieve itself of the liquid fire that circled through
its veins. But no stones were ejected, nor was any
melted lava visible. Nought appeared but the pro
found indignation of imprisoned havoc, the forced
calmness of chained ruin. So deep and precipitous
were the sides of the crater that it was impossible to
go down into it ; and so furious was the wind that it
was equally impossible to stand erect. Therefore. I
prepared to depart. As I heard sundry whistles
and shouts coming from the mountain, which might
be bandit signals, and at the best augured nothing of

MOUNT VESUVIUS. 287
good in those solitary wastes, where the sio-ht or
sound of man alwaj^s causes more alarm than the
fiercest beast, (so much do we dread our fellow-
men,) I decided to descend by another route. I
told the guide I should walk to Pompeii, which lies
about six miles distant towards the south. He said
he would go too. I told him I wished to go alone,
and started off. First, however, occurred the usual
altercation about the pay, with which he appeared
to be greatly dissatisfied ; and with many violent ob
jurgations, and appeals to the Madonna, and exag
gerated gestures, he swore that I wronged him. I
declined to give him anything more than what he
had already agreed to take, and moved off at a brisk
pace. He followed ; but as the ashes were three feet
deep and very loose, and I walked faster than he,
the pursuit was soon given up. However, he still
continued to shout and scream, and thrust out his
arms after the manner of his race. The last sound
which the wind bore to my ears from the top of
Mount Vesuvius was the frequent repetition of,
" Bate m un altro carlino ! Bate-ni'-un-altro-car-
lino ! Ba-te-m '-un-al-tro-car-li-no ! " (" Give me
another carlino.") The last and only living thing
I saw there, as I went down the mountain, -was the
distant form of him of Resina, in bold relief against
the clear blue sky, waving his arms up and down
like a semaphore.
I was now walking over and through the immense
heaps of ashes which have accumulated for ages on
the southern slopes, and extend, more or less, for

288 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
miles beyond the city of Pompeii, which they
shrouded in death. For about two miles from the
summit the scene is one of arid desolation. Then
come a few patches of the long-rooted and tangled
grass which manages to grow in such spots. A
few goats, here and there, were browsing upon it,
herded by a black-eyed, swarthy boy, as picturesque
and shaggy as themselves. Then begin scanty
vineyards, where the all-fruitful vine manages to
extract the hidden riches of even this lifeless dust,
and transmute it into the precious and exquisite
ilLachryma Christi." To us it appears almost blas
phemous to apply so revered a name to a beverage
which is associated, at least to most New England
minds, far more with " revel and ungodly glee "
than with anything else. But wine in Italy is very
innocent, and, being seldom mixed with alcohol,
has little intoxicating quality. It is the ordinary
drink of the people, and as common as water with
us. In fact, it is not unfrequently mixed with that
refreshing element ; and by the time a cask of wine
reaches Naples, it is generally so much diluted
by the person in charge of it and his friends that
it bears but a faint resemblance to the sun-drawn
blood of Mount Vesuvius. To change water into
wine is a miracle ; but to transmute wine into
water is not so difficult. Hence it would be " not
only disgrace and dishonor, but an infinite loss,"
for a man to be seen staggering along under the
influence of a bottle of wine and water mixed with
water, which is the way it is generally drunk.

MOUNT VESUVIUS. 289
There is still another reason why the title of
Lachryma Christi does not strike an Italian as it
does us, and that is their want of veneration for
the name. They have no sympathy with that awful
reverence which we feel for the heavenly character
and benignant majesty of the Son of God. Among
the Italians the Madonna intercepts all the divine
virtues of Christ, whom they regard (if they ever
think of him at all) as merely an avenging judge,
who will come at the last to pass sentence upon
the wicked. He is thus rather an object of terror
and dislike. She is the immortal Queen of Heaven,
and the splendor of her presence eclipses every
attribute of her Son. Yet she is ever gracious and
ready to pardon. Hence, for one prayer to Christ,
a thousand are addressed to the Virgin, and he
seems too far away to be often thought of. His
holy name passes the lips of an Italian with as lit
tle reflection as that of Jupiter, and it appears to
him no more improper to apply it to a wine than
to a church.
My way led through a large vineyard, which ex
tended to the very base of the mountain. One of
the contadini, apparently the owner or tenant of the
place, was perched on a ladder trimming a tree. He
spoke to me, and inquired why I wished to go
strolling off to the mountain alone. I asked him if
he thought it dangerous. Some little conversation
ensued thereupon. He appeared civil, and as intel
ligent as his class generally are. He was well
satisfied with the new government, and thought his
19

290 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
country on the right way to prosperity. From this
spot to Pompeii, about four miles distant, the road
lay through a tract covered with luxuriant vegeta
tion, which was the more remarkable on account of
the thick banks of ashes which form the subsoil.
The peasantry seemed happy and generally well
clothed; and they were always kind and ready
to oblige. They were much better situated than
I had inferred from what I had read of them.
They have, undoubtedly, been priest-ridden and
oppressed by despotic laws and heavy taxation for
ages ; yet a fair future is now dawning upon them,
and we have many reasons to hope that Victor
Emanuel, the constitutional king, will guide them
to a prosperity which they have not yet seen.

HERCULANEUM. 291

CHAPTER XXI.
HERCULANEUM AND POMPEII.
At the base of the once green and fertile slopes
of Mount Vesuvius lay the cities of Herculaneum
and Pompeii. They were of small size, and ranked
only as provincial towns of the second class.
Their inhabitants were luxurious and extremely
dissolute. They were the Sodom and Gomorrah
of the Roman Empire, and richly merited the fate
that befell them, when nature, as if outraged by
their depravity, first prostrated them by earth
quakes, and then poured forth upon them the full
tide of volcanic wrath. Lava and ashes, cinders
and liquid mud, obliterated their very site from the
face of the earth ; the sea that formerly bathed
their walls fled from them ; and they are but now
come forth from their tomb of sixteen centuries, the
blackened relics of Almighty vengeance.
Herculaneum was situated about four miles from
Naples, on a spur of the mountain which projected
towards the bay. Nothing could be more salubri
ous than its climate, or more lovely than the views
around it. Hence, in its palmy days, it was much
frequented by wealthy and eminent Romans. At
the time of the first throes of Vesuvius it was

292 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
severely shattered by an earthquake. This was
soon followed by streams of mud and lava, which
flowed sluggishly down, and gradually filled and
covered up every edifice. Its citizens appear to
have had abundant warning of the fate which
threatened them, and to have made their escape in
time. Few or no human remains have been found
among the charred relics which modern researches
have exposed to view. The entrance to this sep
ulchre of a city is by a sloping passage cut through
the solid lava to a great depth. Here, a hundred
feet beneath the surface, the visitor, aided by the
feeble light of torches, gropes among its scattered
bones, like a pigmy in the grave of the giant
Typhoeus. The labor of carrying on the excavations is im
mense. The lapse of ages has hardened the mud
and lava into stone, and its removal is very difficult.
Notwithstanding the destructive effects of the molt
en lava, many objects of interest have been dis
covered in a good state of preservation. Among
these were many works of art in bronze. They are,
for the most part, of admirable design and execu
tion ; and the Museum at Naples, where they are
placed, is the most richly endowed with chefs-d'oeuvre
of this material of any collection at the present day.
Few can think without delight of the Mercury in
Repose ; the bust of Apollo, and that of Seneca ;
the Dancing Faun, and his two confrSres, one under
the influence of sleep, the other of wine ; the statues
of Narcissus and Apollo, and many other figures of
rare excellence.

POMPEII. 293
The lava and dense mud which overwhelmed
Herculaneum are not found at Pompeii. Hence
more extensive researches have there been made,
and a larger part of it has been exposed to view.
Like the former city, it was first ruined by an
earthquake, and then completely destroyed, a few
years after, by the eruption of the year 79,
which overwhelmed a number of the inhabitants,
who had returned to their houses. Its annihilation
was effected by showers of liquid mud, ashes, and
boiling water, mixed with pumice-stones and cinders,
all which covered the town to the depth of twenty
feet. In the course of years these became consoli
dated, and it was not long before a thick covering
of fertile soil overspread the surface. A luxuriant
growth of herbage concealed the cinders and ashes.
Vineyards gradually were planted, and soon light-
hearted contadini, mindful only of the sunny and
sparkling present, gathered the abundant grapes,
and chattered and danced over the bones of their
predecessors. Under this shroud of death the city
remained' for nearly sixteen hundred years without
discovery. This is somewhat remarkable, as its
large and handsome amphitheatre, just without the
walls, had always been partly visible, and in the
latter part of the sixteenth century an aqueduct was
conducted through the forum and several temples
and other buildings. Yet the remains then found
excited no especial interest or curiosity.
The situation of Pompeii, like that of its fellow-
sufferer, was of extreme beauty, though on lower

294 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
ground. It was close upon the sea-shore, and the
rings to which vessels were moored are yet to be
seen in the walls of its buildings. Wealthy Romans
often resorted to it as a favorite bathing-place.
Hither came Augustus and Balbus. Here Cicero
owned a villa, and solaced the turbulence of his life
at Rome with the lovely aspects of nature and the
delights of literature. Here Seneca passed his
early life ; and in its final catastrophe perished the
elder Pliny, gray-headed and venerable, yet brave
and energetic amidst all the horrors of fire and
earthquake, and then, as ever, the undaunted votary
of science. Almost his last words were, " Fortune
assists the brave ; " and he met his fate with a calm
reliance. Pompeii was by no means a large town. Its form
was oval, and its area embraced about one hundred
and sixty acres, nearly one third of which has been
excavated. Its greatest length, within the walls,
was not more than three fourths, and its breadth
less than one half of a mile. As might be supposed,
it was a sort of abbreviation of Rome. It possessed
its triumphal arch, small, to be sure, and of slight
regard compared with the arches of Titus or Con-
stantine, yet, nevertheless, an arch and triumphal.
In its little forum puny orations, doubtless, were
often made, and Lilliputian debates carried on. In
its baths and temples, its basilicas and Coliseuni, the
townsmen did their best to imitate the Imperial City.
It had no Appian Way or Flaminian Road, yet it
had certain avenues with sonorous names. Though

pompeii. 295
the broadest of them would hardly allow two
chariots to pass abreast, yet they sufficed. The
people were short and small, and so were their
vehicles. The axles of these, as shown by the
ruts yet remaining, were considerably shorter than
our own. It is not probable that many carriages
were needed by a community living in so contracted
a space, and this would seem to appear from the
fact that no stables have yet been found in the
ruins. In the side streets only one vehicle could
pass at a time ; but they were very short, and a pas
sage could thus quickly be made from one main
avenue to another. The houses were small and
low. They were evidently designed for a people
accustomed to spend most of their time in the open
air. They were very dark, and without chimneys.
The windows were few or none, yet most of these
few were glazed with glass of fair workmanship.
They were invariably small, never containing
more than four scanty panes. A small number of
the houses were of two, or even three stories in
height, and these the wealth and pride of their
owners had adorned with statues and paintings,
many of them showing a most depraved taste. The
upper stories were all of wood, and the lower of
stone. The former were consequently crushed by
the heavy weight of ashes and rubbish heaped upon
them. The rooms were extremely small, and the
sleeping apartments so excessively contracted that
no. grown person of the present day could occupy
them with comfort or lie down on the beds.

296 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
The inhabitants of this pigmy city were a sen
sual race, and the evidences yet remaining of their
moral and social degradation surpass anything to be'
seen elsewhere. They are fearfully abundant, both
in the city and in the Museum at Naples, whither
they have been removed. Like the citizens of
Herculaneum, the -Pompeians had abundant warn
ing of their fate, and fled, so that the number of
skeletons discovered is not great. Most of these
were Roman soldiers, of whom the remains of no less
than sixty-three occupied the barracks. Those on
duty in the different quarters of the city rested
bravely at their posts, through all the horrors of
that fiery tornado, till death relieved them from the
service they had performed so well. Their blanched
and scattered bones appeared, among the direful
relics around them, like mementos of the humble
yet sterling virtues of an iron age beaming amid the
luxurious vices of a sensual city. From certain in
dications it would seem that the inhabitants did not
abandon their houses without a struggle. They
appear to have returned after an interval, and sought
to recover their most valuable possessions, and a
few of them perished in the effort. Another, and
perhaps several further eruptions, burst forth upon
them, from which they could not escape. Suffocated
by noxious vapors, smitten by the falling stones or
the lightning, choked by ashes, and scalded by
showers of boiling water, they fell, clutching ner
vously, even in the pangs of death, the treasures for
which they had risked so much. In the Museum

pompeii. 297
bony fingers are to be seen, with gold rings still
upon them ; and purses full of coins taken from the
grasp of deathly hands, jewelry of rare design,
gold chains and bracelets, and many other valuable
ornaments, testify to the efforts of their owners to
save them.
In the houses and shops which are now daily
being exposed to light, as well as in those heretofore
discovered, myriads of articles have been found
illustrating the manners and customs of the citizens.
Here are dried fruits, dates, figs, and almonds, in
glass jars, just as their owner left them, when he
had made his last sale and they told him to run for
his life. Here the contents of a drug-shop, in all
their variety, appear by the side of the last batch of
bread which some baker had just placed in his
oven, a dozen loaves done to a crisp and still bear
ing the maker's name. One looks upon glass
bottles and vases, very well made, fishing-nets,
pills, pill-boxes, elastic springs, bells, buckles, ear
rings, silver spoons, surgical instruments, saucepans
and other cooking utensils, inkstands, locks, candel
abra of elaborate workmanship, an immense num
ber of rude earthen lamps, and thousands of other
things, which populate the Museum, and give it the
appearance of an old curiosity shop.
The principal entrance to the present city is
by "the Street of Tombs." After passing many
of these labored monuments, one comes to the
chief gate-way in the walls of the old town. On
one side of this was a shop for the sale of musical

298 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
instruments, on the other, one for hot drinks. Be
tween these two one gets a pretty clear idea of the
peculiar temperament of the people. Under the
new government of Italy, which has already regu
lated many a former, abuse, improved arrangerrients
for seeing the city have been made. Visitors are no
longer exposed to the abominable extortions of the
guides, but each one pays two francs as an admis
sion fee, which secures him all the services he needs.
Strangers are further informed, by notices every
where posted in English, French, and German, that
any guide who accepts a gratuity will be immedi
ately discharged on the fact being known. The en
trance is so far modernized that one passes through
a patent stile of English invention, which registers
with accuracy the number of visitors, and has the
further advantage that it cannot be tampered with
by the officials who have the care of it. This
latter is very much to the purpose, as they are of
uncertain honesty. The excavations are going on
with rapidity, and the present government devotes
about twenty thousand dollars per annum to this
purpose, which is four times the amount granted by
the Bourbons. Long trains of country people, of all
ages and both sexes, carry away the ashes and
cinders in baskets on their heads. They work with
far greater activity than those dreary relics of
humanity whom one sees in the Forum at Rome,
where old and decrepit men, in long cloaks, feebly
scoop up small quantities of dirt with iron spoons,
and deposit it in little barrows, like bandboxes on

pompeii. 299
wheels, which they slowly trundle away with an
air of great satisfaction, as if they had unearthed
a buried Caesar. The government has purchased
all the land in the vicinity of Pompeii, and to the
unoccupied portions of this the rubbish is carried.
The excavations are being conducted with much
greater rapidity than ever before, and a large part
of the ruins will be speedily laid bare.
New and interesting discoveries are daily made.
It is not long since the workmen reached a house
near the temple of Isis. Here, under blackened
beams and crumbling walls, were found the remains
of several human bodies. They lay amid heaps of
pumice-stones and under a thick bed of ashes. The
latter had gradually hardened around them, and
preserved with accuracy the outline of their forms.
In the thin crust of these moulds the superintend
ent caused holes to be made, and liquid plaster of
Paris was poured into them. The ashes were then
removed, and several human figures emerged from
the desolation around them, like ghosts of the past.
First, in her habit as she lived, came the figure of a
Pompeian matron, with the aspect of fearful death.
She wore a costly and elegant head-dress, and her
robes had evidently been of rich material. The arm
and finger bones were slender and delicate. She
had probably been the mistress of the house, and
a person of noble blood and high position. Perhaps
these were the remains of Drusilla, the daughter of
Herod, and wife of Felix, who is said by the ancient
historians to have perished, with her child, in the

300 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
great eruption. She had evidently died in great
agony, as her limbs were contracted, and her hands
clenched as if in pain. Near her were found gold
ear-rings, finger-rings, and other ornaments, iron
keys, and the charred remnants of a purse, with
nearly a hundred pieces of gold and silver money.
In the next room were found the relics of the other
members of her family, who had perished with her :
a girl, apparently her daughter ; a woman of low
rank, and evidently a domestic of the family ; and
a tall and athletic man. He was lying on his side,
and the impression of his hair and clothing, with his
burnt and torn sandals, yet remained distinctly
visible. He had died without a struggle, as his
limbs showed no sign of pain, and probably in the
vain effort to save the others. The attitude of the
woman near him indicated a death of great agony.
She had been a person of tall stature, and the bones
were those of a large and stout form. On her
little finger was an iron ring. The girl by her side
had died in convulsions of terror. She had drawn
her robes over her head, as if to cover herself from
the hot shower of ashes which finally overwhelmed
them all.
A scene like this, suddenly bursting upon the eye
amid the dark pall of ruin around it, is extremely
affecting. It appeals strongly to the sensibility of
the most indifferent and stoical. It is a touch of
nature which makes the whole world kin. One not
unfrequently comes upon the vestiges of death
among the monuments of the past ; the mortal part

POMPEII. 301
of man meets the sight in gorgeous tombs and
under massive pyramids and mausoleums. Here
and there, in dark places of the earth, a few scat
tered remains testify to the former presence of our
predecessors. Yet what are these but cold, shape
less, inexpressive remnants of the past, with noth
ing to excite our sympathy more than the bones of
a camel in the desert? But here is a little family-
tragedy, full of the most sorrowful suggestions, which
the very elements of destruction have preserved for
ages. The rock of our unconcern is smitten, as we
look upon the scene, and it is natural that our tears
should flow freely over the sad fate of those, who,
" unknelled, uncoffined, and unknown," perished
thus apart. No kindly consolations of religion
were theirs ; no last, sad parting, nor words of hope
and comfort ; no answer to their loud cries for
help ; no hand to wipe away their tears : each
struggled with death and went down into silence
alone. One resisting convulsively, as she thought
of the dread chaos spread out so suddenly before her ;
another lying down in stoical calmness, the others
in terror, as the thunder rolled and the lightning
flashed around them, till the fiery shower enveloped
them, and darkness gradually sank into their souls.
All this is suddenly presented to us from out the
o-loom of ages. It is honorable to our nature that
its touching traits affect us more, infinitely more,
than the sarcophagus of a buried Pharaoh, or the
tomb of a coroneted king of old.
The disaster which overwhelmed Pompeii was

302 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
the cause of its world-wide fame. There is no
other ancient city with which we have so intimate
acquaintance. The manners and customs of its
people, their very size and shape, their household
utensils, the mysteries of their worship, everything
connected with their daily life, in short, has been
preserved to us. How different is it with the other
cities of antiquity. What is left to us of Babylon,
or Palmyra, or Thebes ? Misshapen mounds of
ruin, long rows of haggard pillars and shattered
walls, the uncertain remnants of a few ancient
temples and palaces, and this is all. How little can
we find of even Rome or Jerusalem. What signify
the few shreds of ruin, representing we know jiot
what, that now occupy their former site ? Upon
them every form of disaster has wrought its work.
The iron heel of Time has stamped them back into
the earth from which they rose. The waves of the
past have rolled over them, as over the army of
Pharaoh, and only here and there a floating body
or broken chariot-wheel remains to testify of the
places that once knew them. But Pompeii, of slight
repute and insignificant size, has transmitted to us
the very bones of its citizens. What seemed its
shroud of death" has proved to be the shield of its
immortality, and Time has been robbed of his
tribute.

THE CAMPO SANTO OF NAPLES. 3Q3

CHAPTER XXII.
THE CAMPO SANTO OP NAPLES.
In all the long train of abuses which the influ
ences of bad government and a depraved church
have in past ages accumulated at Naples, there is
hardly any one which is more shocking to every
sense than the manner of burying the bodies of the
poor. In our own country there is always the at
tendance of sorrowing relatives and sympathizing
friends, and the decent ministrations of religion.
Even the poorest will sacrifice their few corhforts to
bury their dead with care, and ever cling with affec
tionate longing and tearful regret to the casket,
though the jewel has been taken from it. It is laid
in consecrated earth with tender solicitude ; its last
resting-place is adorned with some monument, how
ever humble ; and growing flowers not unfrequently
testify to the depth of that affection which reaches
beyond the tomb, — an affection which sees in every
spoliation of death but another link in that chain
which draws us towards those blest abodes where
we expect one day to rejoin the loved and lost.
But at Naples it is far different. Every feeling
of decency is outraged, and all the solemnities of
death are annihilated in their mode of burial. It

304 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
is only another instance of the effect of ignorance,
degradation, and bigotry, blunting and destroying
all the finer natural feelings. The public cemetery,
or Campo Santo as it is called in Italy, is situated
on a hill to the east of Naples, about two miles from
the city walls, and overlooks towards the south the
broad valleys, rich with corn and wine, which slope
up to the base of Vesuvius. It is a square enclosure
of nearly half an acre, covered with flag-stones, and
surrounded with a high brick wall. At regular
intervals over the surface are three hundred and
sixty-five stone slabs, each of which opens into a
pit about eight feet square and ten in depth. A
separate, pit, in its order, is opened every day, and
into it are thrown the bodies of those who have died
during the past twenty -four hours, and whose
friends are unable or unwilling to incur the ex
penses of a more decent funeral.
This barbarous interment takes place about five
o'clock every afternoon. I went there about the
hour of four, and already a few coffins were lying
around the mouth of the tomb, which was soon to
be opened for the reception of death's offering for
that day. It had already been unclosed in the
morning, in order to take away the remains of those
who had been buried there a year before. The
desolation of the scene was perfect : a broad, rocky
plain, like a gigantic chess-board, inlaid with stone
squares at equal distances ; a flat brick wall on
every side ; the few rusty iron implements necessary
for their work scattered about, or in the hands of

THE CAMPO SANTO OF NAPLES. 305
the ill-looking attendants, who had both in their
expression and their dress the air of galley-slaves ;
here and there a few withered (and oh how with
ered !) garlands or bouquets brought there by toil
ing and poverty-stricken affection, or let fall from
the coffins, where " love strong as death " had placed
them. Not a sound broke the fearful silence, which
weighed heavily upon the soul. It was a place
whose parched barrenness stiffened the heartstrings
and dried up the source of tears.
But soon one coffin after another, ordinarily a
plain pine box, began to arrive. ' They were borne
on the heads of laboring men, and often covered
with a simple cloth. A few fathers thus bore their
own children to the tomb ; with a deep sigh they
laid them at this gate of death, and departed with
out a word. But most of them were placed upon
the hard stone with an air of perfect unconcern.
Then came two or three small carts drawn by men,
which also were stationed near the mouth of the
grave. At length there came up, at a swift pace, an
equipage drawn by two showy black horses. It
was a coach painted in scarlet and gold, with hand
somely carved panels. At the corners were gilded
coronets, connected by a carved border also gilt.
Surely, thought I, this must be some great dignitary
of mother church, a cardinal, or at least an arch
bishop, come to mortify the lusts of the flesh by a
sight of the woes of life. The door was opened,
and my vision disappeared. Out leaped a vile-look
ing fellow, probably an undertaker, who went be-
20

30.01 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
hjnd the gorgeous vehicle, and letting down a sort
vof 'trap-door, displayed two long, open trays, in each
of which was an adult body. These were sewn
up in coarse rags, their faces being uncovered.
They were taken from the hearse, which at once
drove off, and placed in little cabinets at the side of
the Campo. I asked the custodian what all this
parade, this perambulating whited sepulchre, might
mean. He said it bore the bodies of those whose
friends could afford to pay a dollar that they might
be buried " con magnificenza" in other words, that
they might ride in state to the grave. Those who
were thus brought to the cemetery were not buried
till later in the evening than the rest, when a
greater degree of ceremony was observed, though
all were deposited in the same grave. The custode
was extremely civil, and explained everything to me
with great kindness. He seemed to feel a certain
pride in his position as ruler of this realm of death.
But now the moment for opening the pit had
arrived. The stone was raised from its mouth by
the attendants. The coffins of children, fourteen in
number, were piled confusedly together near it, and
the doors of the dead-carts were opened. Some of
the bodies were covered with rags, some had no cov
ering at all. A priest, with an attendant bearing a
vase of holy water, now came forward with an air of
perfect indifference, and read a very few sentences
from the ritual. Then, taking the brush from the
neophyte, he sprinkled some slight drops of water
from the vase over the bodies. Advancing a step,

THE CAMPO SANTO OF NAPLES. ^f\
he made the sign of the cross, muttered some ir!
tinct words, (they might have been a blessing, tr
might have been a curse,) and went away. The'
men thereupon opened the coffins of the infants
and children, one after another, and dropped the
bodies into the pit of horror in a manner perfectly
unfeeling. There was one, and only one, sign of
human sensibility at this vicinity of death. Two
peasants had approached, and with heads uncovered
were watching the scene with an expression of deep
interest. As one body after another disappeared
below, they broke the deep silence by exclaiming in
a low, mournful tone, which sounded like a requiem
over the dead, " Quanto e bellino ! Quanto e bet-
lino ! " And this was the only manifestation of
human interest.
The bodies of the adults were then taken from
the dead-carts, and one by one were lowered into
the tomb, with a sound that made me thrill with
horror. The last was that of a young man of
perhaps twenty years, without one rag to conceal
the lineaments of death. He was not wasted away
by the slow progress of disease, but his athletic
form yet bore the signs of vigor and strength. The
flesh was firm and the muscles large. He had met
with his fate from the hand of violence, and the
wound which had caused it was visible. He was
slowly lowered into the throat of the grave, until
he hung for a moment suspended by one arm over
the hecatomb of death below him. He was the
crowning sacrifice. As I looked, his form swung

308 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
round, as if by his own will, and the full glance of
those open eyes fell upon me with an expression I
shall never forget. It told of deathly anguish and
undying remorse. It was the look of a lost being,
peering through the dim veil that separates us all
from the grave, and yearning to speak of the misery
which devoured him. He seemed to say, " Weep,
weep, forever weep, my soul ! " He appeared like
a messenger from beyond the tomb beckoning me
to follow him that he might reveal the anguish of
the past and seek consolation for the future. " Yes,"
I cried, " I will go with thee. The bitter cup thou
hast tasted I fear not to drink. Thy footsteps in
the sad ashes of desolation I dread not to trace."
He disappeared. I sprang to the mouth of the pit
and saw the spectacle below me. He had done
his work. He lay on one arm upon the altar of
death. Yet still those wistful, longing eyes, steeped
in woe, summon me to go forth into the dread un
known. They haunt me by day, and in the shades
of night I still see them. They draw me each
moment nearer the pale regions of the dead, and
while I live they will never leave me.

CAPRI. 309

CHAPTER XXIII.
CAPRI.
The mode of going to Capri, as I found it, is not
according to any ideas of travel entertained or
practised in my own country, or, in fact, among any
other people whom I ever had the pleasure of visit
ing. The uncertainties of getting there are very
great. The boat is advertised to sail on a particular
day and hour, and if at that time a number of
passengers sufficient to pay the expenses of the trip
(to wit, fourteen) make their appearance, it starts,
but not otherwise. As the proprietors are ac
countable to no one but themselves, they' are per
fectly independent. Under these circumstances, I
was not surprised, on arriving at the quay, to learn
that at least half of the voyagers present had waited
ten days for the opportunity of making the trip.
The steamer proved to be small, decrepit, and vi
cious-looking. I did not see any name on her, but
should not have been surprised to see painted on
her stern, —
" Lasciate ogni speranza, voi che 'ntrate." *
She was stationed about two rods from the shore,
* " All hope abandon, ye who enter here."

310 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
too far to jump on board, but near enough to be ex
tremely aggravating. This was done for no other
reason than to compel the passengers to pay an
extra fee to the boatmen for taking them to her in
their small boats, of which there were a number
at hand. For this service they exacted all they
thought they could get, according to their custom,
hectoring one, abusing another, in their barbarous
Neapolitan patois, flattering and cajoling, wheedling
and threatening, and always appealing to the Ma
donna for the rectitude of their intentions. In
one somewhat crowded boat near the steamer
was1 a young Englishman, who appeared to have
had a little experience in the art of travelling, and
was not going on board till certain terms had been
exacted from the captain. He was energetically
oratorizing in broken Italian, in fact, so badly broken
that it was difficult, out of a dozen sentences, to find
one whole idea. As the boat slightly rose and fell
with the swell of the bay, and the orator had noth
ing to rest upon for a support, he appeared some
what unsteady. He did not have at all the aspect
of Demosthenes ; and I doubt if Webster himself
could have made a trustworthy declaration of his
political belief on so uncertain a platform.
The advertisement which announced the proposed
trip had stated that the boat would sail for Capri
at a certain hour, and, returning, stop at Sorrento.
It had happened several times before that the same
form of notice had been published, but the captain,
on his return, had thought it more for his advantage

CAPRI. 3H
to go directly back to Naples, and so had not hesi
tated to omit Sorrento from the programme, without
regard to the promises contained in the bills. The
object of this young nautical Demosthenes was to
prevent a repetition of such conduct, by not prepay
ing the fare, nor even going on board with his
party, until the captain had been compelled to give
some security for his good behavior, and had satis
fied them that he would really go to Sorrento. The
scene gradually grew to be quite animated, and
everybody joined in the chorus with genuine
Neapolitan vivacity. All the fiorestieri took part
with the undulating orator, who still kept gracefully
rising and falling, his body now at an angle of forty-
five degrees, and now preternaturally perpendicular,
while ever and anon he clutched at something or
somebody to avoid falling into the bay, and thus
settling the whole matter at once. But still young
Cicero kept on, now with a sentence from " Mur
ray's Hand-book," now with a line from " Baedek
er's Manual," while at times, for want of a better
medium, came forth a quotation from Dante's
" Inferno." All the boatmen, of course, favored the
captain, who leaned over the rail and smoked with
ineffable sang-froid. Various little debating so
cieties sprang up in all the boats around. And,
altogether, with the thrusting out of arms, and
splashing of oars, and clatter of patois, and invo
cation of the Madonna, and flourishing of pink
parasols, and Babylonish Italian of fiorestieri, the
scene, in a few minutes, became infinitely ludicrous.

312 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
Finally, the whole affair was settled by every
body's going on board, and still keeping up the dis
cussion there. But it all amounted to nothing, as
we were then in the captain's power, and were
obliged to pay our fare, besides losing half an hour
when every minute was precious. But we went to
Sorrento, nevertheless, and therefore inferred that
foreign eloquence had awed the captain into defer
ence to our demands. At least, we had acquired a
large stock of novel Italian, arid, though " uncertain
speakers," had imparted to the enemy our opinions
in the matter of travellers' rights.
The voyage across the bay to Capri, a distance of
twenty miles, was accomplished with no further
discomfort than the sea-sickness of the lady-pas
sengers. Before proceeding to the town itself the
boat lay for an hour off the mouth of the Blue
Grotto, and the passengers, after the usual alterca
tions with the boatmen in regard to the fees to be
paid, went into it in small boats. This grotto, or
" Cave of the Nymphs" as it is sometimes called, is
an arched cavern on the north shore of the island,
and is famous for the intense bright blue of its per
fectly clear waters, and also for the darker blue of
its rocky roof. It is very fashionable to visit it, and
travellers of a romantic turn of mind have here
found a prolific source of " emotions." Though
possessing great natural attractions, the place has,
like Chamouny, been cockneyfied to the utmost ab
surdity, until one feels almost ashamed to go there.
It has been compared to everything blue, from

CAPRI. 313
indigo to sapphire ; and all that nature or art ever
made of that hue has been appropriated to the use
of this watery den. One speaks of amethyst,
another of turquoise, a third of lapis-lazuli, while
ultramarine, azure, cerulean, and similar epithets,
have been showered about in profusion. One
traveller has expressed his conviction that "the
very spirit of light had descended there and held
her throne upon those waters, veiling her radiancy
with its robes of azure." Mr. Albert Smith, (Cha
mouny Smith,) whose humorous muse has flapped
her jaunty wings over every part of the continent,
who has taught the world how funny Mont Blanc
is, and made everybody laugh at the jocose old
monastery of St. Bernard, has also found the comi
cal elements of this place. He has developed them
in certain lines beginning thus : —
" This is the Grotto Azzurra, a bright home of coral and oysters ;
Ultramarine is the color that bathes all its wave-fretted
cloisters ;
Such an abode might the Sirens have had who were sold by
Ulysses,
Not a great way from the grotto, and there became food for the
pisces."
The entrance is quite narrow and low, and it is
necessary to crouch very humbly in the boat in
order to pass through it. It is easily closed by a
slight rise in the tide, or a little breeze driving up
the waves. When one looks at the extremely small
hole by which he entered, he can hardly help shud
dering as he thinks of the unfortunate party upon
whom the gate was thus shut not long ago, and who

314 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
spent twenty-four hours there in the darkness, with
out even a sandwich or a bottle of wine, while the
dinner-bell sounded like a passing knell over their
heads. We found no nymphs there, but, rather,
little boys ; little ill-conditioned boys, who expressed
a desire to go into the water for our amusement ;
little untidy boys, with obstreperous manners, and
slight regard for the conventionalities of society as
far as raiment was concerned ; little discordant
boys, who clamored for a " bouteille" and wrangled
and fought and swam and dove for carlini and
grani, and splashed about, like blue polypi, in the
bright water.
For about a mile from the grotto to the town of
Capri extends a long line of steep precipices, which
overhang the sea, while their bases sink deep into
the waves. Beyond the short, sloping beach of the
harbor these craggy promontories again appear, and
nearly surround the island. Hence Milton aptly
calls it, — "an island small, but strong,
On the Campanian shore."
They rise higher and higher from every side to
wards the interior, until their irregular and pictu
resque outlines give to Capri the form of a huge ice
berg. It appears to me that the view from these
heights, looking towrards Naples, is the most beautiful
I have ever seen. I speak thus advisedly, after hav
ing looked upon many charming landscapes. But
this seems to surpass all in its harmonious variety,
its graceful outlines, and broad expanse. From these

CAPRI. 315
cliffs the eye ranges freely in every direction over
the spacious circuit of the bay, with nothing to
limit the view but the blackened cone of Vesuvius
at its head, twenty miles away, and the lofty and
fertile mountains which sweep away from it on
either hand, enclosing, in their graceful curves, the
bright blue plain. On one side rise the crowded
houses of Naples, terrace above terrace, to the Castle
of St. Elmo, while for many miles from the city,
along and beyond the base of the volcano, the
waters reflect a long and unbroken line of white
houses. On our left, nearer at hand, tower the
picturesque crags of Ischia, Procida, and S. Stefano ;
on the right are the promontories of Sorrento and
Massa, crowned with gray monasteries " bosomed
high " in olive and orange groves. When all these
are seen by the light of the full and brilliant moon
rising over the mountain, and making its black and
giant form vastly blacker and more gigantic in the
shadow, while the sails, now white, now dark,
flicker like wandering ghosts over the bay, they
present a view of more than earthly beauty.
That depraved emperor Tiberius, whom his in
structor, Theodorus, aptly termed a compound of
mud and blood, resided in Capri for a number of
years, "hated of all, and hating." Here he built
twelve villas, the remains of which are now visible.
He used the Blue Grotto for a bathing-place, and
brutalized himself with the most disgraceful orgies.
The wines of the island are famous, and so are
the quails, of which fifty thousand are sometimes

316 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
caught in a single season, as they alight on their
passage to other lands. Hence the see of Capri
has been called the Bishopric of Quails. The
heights communicate with the shore by means of
a steep flight of nearly six hundred steps. These
lead down towards the bay, and, though difficult to
mount, are very tempting, from the unrivalled views
to be obtained from them at different points. There
is always an abundance of flowers on the sloping
uplands of the island, even in winter ; and the sweet
alyssum of our gardens, with crocuses and jonquils,
pink and white anemones, bright blue gentians and
daisies, cover every verdant field, like the stars in
the sky. In many a glowing constellation they
diversify the scene with their bright tints, springing
up under the fig and the caper tree, at the base of
moss-covered rocks or in their rifted sides, and
among the ruins of the palaces of Tiberius. He
and his wild orgies, his villas and dancing-girls,
have passed away, and so have all his successors ;
but the same humble flowers that he and they
trampled upon yet flourish there, and, in obedience
to the simple and eternal laws of nature, send forth
their sweet odors and display their bright hues, as
of old, in perpetual youth, purity, and innocence.

THE PROGRESS OF ITALY. 317

CHAPTER XXIV.
THE PROGRESS OF ITALY.
In spite of the opinions of those who praise the
good old times, which never existed, and oppose
every liberal idea, the progress of humanity is ever
onward. It often is slow and uncertain ; but it is
sure as the hidden yet resistless forces of nature,
for it is the cause of God. It strives to move like
the vine, which gradually covers and crushes the
mightiest ruin or most majestic oak. If it cannot
move like the vine, it thrusts out its delicate arms
like the woodbine, and beautifies even that decay
which it promotes. If it have not the swiftness of
the woodbine, it advances slowly, like the lichen, and
covers with the dark weeds of mourning the fossil
remnants of past intolerance, while it slowly eats
away its vitality. It always moves forward with
bravery, seizes upon every advantage, and rarely
will any storm shake it from its tenacious grasp.
This is well illustrated by the progress of Italy.
She has been for ages, and is now to a great extent,
sunk in the depths of ignorance and superstition.
Yet even within her limits there has always been
some slight advance, and at times convulsive throes
have shown the pent-up force within. She is now

318 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
well advanced towards a brilliant future. The uni
fication of Italy, to be sure, is not yet an accom
plished fact, and from the top of the Vatican the
Pope, like Satan on Mount Niphates, still looks
down with envy and hate on a scene of growing
happiness and thrift which he would gladly destroy.
But who can doubt the final result ? The new gov
ernment has taken for its maxim, " God helps those
who help themselves," and omits no occasion to im
press it upon the people. But it cannot do every
thing at once ; and for years to come, doubtless, the
rabble of Naples and Florence will chatter and
scream, and thrust out their brawny arms towards
the sky, and call upon the Madonna to come forth
and do and suffer for them what they ought to do
and bear themselves. Yet the government can and
does find for the people the opportunity of profit
able labor and well-directed energy. Railroads are
extending in every direction the blessings of free
intercourse and enlightenment; improved harbors
and light -houses are promoting the increase of
trade : new buildings and manufactories are econo
mizing the capital of the country, which has hitherto
been greatly drawn away to other lands. Already
we see Victor Emanuel, King by the grace of God
and the will of the people, in the van of national
industry and thrift. And now that he is "full of
noble device, of all sorts enchantingly beloved,"
now that he leads forth his subjects towards the
Canaan of national glory and happiness, shall we
doubt the issue? We know that the result is in

THE PROGRESS OF ITALY. 319
the hands of Providence, and we cannot now foresee
it ; but we know that the right direction is taken.
The past career of Italy is black enough, but she is
now advancing like the armies of the angels, —
" Whose rear lay wrapped in night, while breaking dawn
Roused the broad front and urged the battle on."
We hope to see her, like them, move on and on, to
an eternal conquest over the powers of darkness.
The Italians of to-day do not need bread and
soup tickets and the alms of the charitable. They
must no longer be fed, like dogs, at the doors of
monasteries and convents. All such things are as
fruitless and ineffective as rain on the mountain-
tops. They but add a deeper furrow to the rugged
lines of the past. They are all degrading, and per
manently so. It is the development of mind which
is to be the regeneration of Italy. Men may yearn
for the prolific future, the millennium which has
brightened the pages of so many writers with the
tints of coming day, but it will not come except
with the progress of education, which alone will
bring lasting happiness and a well-founded pros
perity. The impression must be deeply made on the
mind of every poverty-stricken and ragged son of
woe, that beneath that rude exterior smoulders a
spark, powerful for good as it has been too much
so for evil ; that even he has a mind capable of
development ; that even he has a particle of that
force which can extort from the stars their secrets,
can wrestle with Nature herself for a share in those
powers which God has given her from the begin-

320 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
ning, and even in death can rule our spirits from
the grave. The history of many other nations
shows us how much can be done by slowly elevating
and improving this mass of idle brain, and directing
it into its proper channels. It will be the pride
and pleasure of the new government to do this.
Already, in every direction, it has opened new
veins of wealth, and is guiding the resources of
the country towards useful and honorable purposes.
The kingdom of Naples, as might be inferred, is
the most degraded of all the Italian States. It has
been for ages subjected to every sort of misrule
and tyranny, until its people, especially in the
capital, are sunk as deeply as they well can be.
The grand old maxim of Humboldt says, " To be
born is of little account, but to make life valuable
is excellent." The Neapolitan says, " Let every
man get into the world as he best can, and then
look out for himself." This is the result of cen
turies of vicious misgovernment and depraved re
ligion. The daily lives of the citizens show their
moral prostration. Every vice is there practised in
the light of day, and poverty and ignorance march
hand in hand. They have hardly yet learned to
appreciate the blessings of liberty, and one of the
modes in which they first availed themselves of the
advantages of a free government was the opening of
their theatres during Lent, which had never been
lawful before. The lower orders of Naples are as in
efficient specimens of humanity as one often meets.
They bask with comfortable insouciance in the hot

THE PROGRESS OF ITALY. 321
sunshine, and never move if they can help it. If
one of them is constrained by necessity to work, he
will go as short a distance and that as slowly, he
will see as little on his way, and do as little on his
arrival at the scene of his labors and that as badly,
as any man in the world. His morals are limited
to swearing by the Madonna or her Son with
every breath, and cheating every one that is not so
sharp as himself. Of the beauty of his native city
and its environs he has not the faintest conception.
It is his belief that the Bay of Naples was made
only to provide cheap fish ; and fiorestieri, who are so
foolish as to come hundreds of miles to see it, are
made for him to plunder. " The proper study of
mankind " is to get and eat as much macaroni as
they can, and that with the least exertion, and sleep
as long as possible after it. Thus with gormandiz
ing, lying, cheating, swearing, sleeping, and an oc
casional prayer to the Madonna and San Gennaro,
his life is lazed away in inutilities. Like a soap-
bubble he suddenly disappears, no one knows
where ; one more atom of tainted humanity be
comes " the stuff that dreams are made of," and no
one inquires his whereabouts.
Hitherto the Neapolitans have said, " San Gennaro
is our protector, and so long as we stand well with
the saints and the Madonna, who think for us, of
what importance are our temporal matters ? " Act
ing on this principle, Francis II. actually appointed
San Genriaro commander-in-chief of the army ; but
the military talents of this saint did not prove
21 ,

322 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
sufficient to save his patron, and the latter was
obliged to flee to Rome. Thinking the saint too
weak for the place, he deposed him, and appointed
Pilone, the bandit, the commander of his army of
invasion, by a commision over his hand and seal.
This villain and his brigands, merciless as tigers and
cruel as fiends, were then let loose upon the do
minions of " the usurper," as Francis and the Pope
term Victor Emanuel. They burnt people alive,
murdered and ravaged, plundered and mutilated,
for many months, and are hardly yet put down, as
the Pope offered them a welcome refuge in his do
minions whenever they were hard pressed. Pilone
is still at large, probably at Rome. Perhaps the
saint was of a forgiving disposition, and aided his
rival and successor to escape. At any rate, if either
the saint or the sinner is caught by Victor Emanuel,
it will go hardly with him.
The new government has already done some
thing even for Naples. The results are seen in
recent institutions for education and religious im
provement, increase of foreign and domestic com
merce, freedom of the press, and renovation of the
public establishments. It has, in short, granted the
people as many privileges as they can bear; for
until they are capable of appreciating their advan
tages, till they have received some benefit in mind
and morals from the new regime, they are not suited
to freedom, nor it to them. Till that time, —
" License they mean when they cry liberty,
For who loves that must first be wise and good."

THE PROGRESS OF ITALY. 323
To railroads, in particular, the government of Vic
tor Emanuel has granted every aid possible, and
that not only throughout Naples but everywhere
in Italy. They are building them at the rate of
several hundred miles a year. They have thus far
been well managed, and most of them have earned
an average annual dividend of five per cent. Victor
Emanuel well comprehends the value of railroads
in binding his new kingdom together. The steam-
engine is the true apostle of liberty in our day, and
will prevent our civilization from sharing the fate
of Egypt, Greece, and Rome. This, if anything,
will make the unity of Italy possible. The cheer
ful whistle of the locomotive disperses the whole
grinning rabble of superstition and bigotry, like the
flight of the rout of Comus at cock-crow. The slug
gish and apathetic Italians, who had never before
left their own cities, now begin to move from place
to place with enthusiasm. They see already the
tangible, profitable results of Italian unity brought
home to their own doors. Cities hundreds of miles
apart find themselves suddenly brought within a
few hours of each other. Friends and connections
who never thought of seeing each other, so great
was the distance between them, are now become
near relatives. Large tracts of country, heretofore
unknown, are now laid open to view, and for the
first time traversed by the locomotive. In passing
rapidly over them one cannot fail to be struck with
the grand ideas which he obtains of the undevel
oped capacities of this fruitful land, and with the

324 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
great good which railroads are now doing and will
continue to do for Italy.
It is extremely interesting to watch the effect of
the newly arrived trains on the country people at
the small stations, most of whom have never seen
anything of the kind before. One perceives them
gathering in crowds, half-curious, half-fearful, now
approaching, now retreating, as if the engine were
some snorting, uncanny monster, which might break
loose and devour them. And to notice the women,
when the demon screams, put their hands upon
their ears, already covered with bright, gay ker
chiefs ! And then how they run from it coquettishly,
as it comes towards them, or chase it with shrill
laughter, as it retreats down the track ! Then the
chatting, and the display of white teeth and olive
cheeks and flashing black eyes, and the wonder and
the exultation and the joy and the pride, and the
many jokes with their husbands or swains, and the
clapping of hands, the waving of red handkerchiefs,
and the general glee, as the train moves off, and
they shake hands with friends at the windows, and
wish them many a " buon viaggio " when they leave
them in the bowels of the huge python, which is
to carry them hundreds of miles farther than they
ever went before, and all gay and happy and hope
ful. And this is under the blue sky of Italy, amid
groves of orange-trees and myrtles, which one can
enjoy from the car-windows, while the fair land
stretches away in the distance, and the farmers
till the soil with their phlegmatic oxen, looking

THE PROGRESS OF ITALY. 325
calmly on like sphinxes, never changing. And we
are whirled away on the wings of the wind towards
the distant hills, happy that so delightful a scene
is about to be improved by the blessings of civil
and religious freedom.
Surely, nothing can be more gratifying to the
mind than the aspect of a country like this renew
ing its mighty youth, and confidently pressing for
ward towards a manhood of great deeds.

326 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.

CHAPTER XXV.
TRAVELLING EXPERIENCES.
As one result of the great number of European
travellers, there has grown up, in the course of
years, a certain class of people whose only business
is to earn a living from them. Most of these are to
be found in Italy, and long practice has sharpened
their wits to a remarkable degree. By far the
greater part are neither honorable nor honest, and
do not hesitate to take every possible advantage
of a foreigner. Experience has taught them many
tricks, and they know precisely how far they can
go without risk of punishment. These hirelings
have a general understanding with each other, and
one plays into the other's hand with a great deal
of skill. Once or twice in Rome, in a retired spot
where the parties thought no one overheard them,
I have unexpectedly listened to conversations in
which instructions were given as to the shrewdest
manner of cheating some helpless stranger. The
degree of tact and knowledge which they acquire is
extraordinary. They know a forestiero at sight ;
they never fail to detect his weak point, and avail
themselves of it at every opportunity.
What I have said above is true also of the Italian

TRAVELLING EXPERIENCES, 327
beggars, and their ways of demanding alms are as
various as the different dispositions of those they
address. Some they weary out by their pertinacity ;
some weak natures they threaten ; to others they
apply the scourge of contempt ; and to others, still,
that of poverty. " fl signore is surely rich enough
to give so small a sum as that ! " Flattery is used
to a great extent. Every one who has anything to
be plundered of is excellentissimo, onorevolissimo,
nobilissimo, and everything else that belongs to the
superlative degree of excellence ; that is, until he
has refused them the alms they ask, and then their
adjectives are changed for others with a far different
meaning. Of all the hirelings who annoy the
traveller, — the waiters, the valets de place, couriers,
vetturini, porters, and boatmen, — the two latter
classes are generally more pertinacious and im
pudent than the rest. If their exorbitant demands
are not paid, they often do their best to exasperate
a foreigner, so that he may lose his temper and strike
them. Let no one so far forget himself as to do this,
for it is what they most desire, since it affords them
an excuse for employing those deadly knives which
they all carry. All the Italians are vindictive and
implacable by nature, and with them a blow can be
expiated only by a stab. This is especially true of
the lower classes, who are extremely passionate, and
lose all control of themselves on the slightest provo
cation. It is but a few years since, that the English
physician residing at Pisa was killed by one of these
underlings who prey upon travellers. He had left

328 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
the railroad station, on his arrival at Pisa, carrying
his sack and umbrella, when a porter (or facchino)
came up and asked permission to take them for him.
To this Dr. A. assented, after first making an agree
ment with the man as to the sum to be paid. He
then went on his way, and the man followed with
both articles. After going a few rods, the doctor
happened to turn round and saw that the facchino
had given the umbrella to one of his friends. This
is a frequent trick in Italy, the object, of course,
being to compel a traveller to pay for the services
of two men instead of one. Upon this the doctor
stopped, and told the one who was carrying the um
brella that he should pay him nothing, as he had
agreed with the first man to take all the baggage,
and if he chose to continue his work, he must do
it at his own risk. The fellow made no reply, but
still clung doggedly to the umbrella, and followed
on. Upon reaching the door of his apartment,
which was in the second story, Dr. A. took both
articles, and paid the facchino what he had agreed
to. The second man he refused to pay. Upon this
he became very abusive, insulted the doctor in most
virulent language, and finally shook his fist in his
face. Dr. A. thereupon was greatly enraged, and
gave the fellow a blow which sent him to the bot
tom of the stairs. In an instant he rose, sprang up
the steps, and, drawing his kniffe, stabbed the doctor
so severely that he died in a few hours. Scenes
like these are unfortunately too common in Italy,
and deadly assaults frequently result from less ex-

TRAVELLING EXPERIENCES. 329
citing causes than this. As any one can see, it all
comes from the practice of carrying deadly weapons.
I think I never saw one more deadly than the knife
which the lower classes habitually have upon their
persons. It is two-edged, long, and extremely
sharp ; and a thrust from one of them is oftener
fatal than a blow from any other weapon.
The smaller impositions practised upon travellers
are numberless, and strangers coming from a coun
try where the laws afford them some remedy for
abuses are often more seriously annoyed than they
would allow themselves to be on a little reflection.
In the majority of cases, the most sensible traveller
is he who pays an exorbitant demand and says
nothing, though inwardly resolving not to place
himself in the same position again. On such oc
casions one is generally helpless, and it is surely
better to be defrauded of a small sum than to risk
one's life, or suffer detention and other serious an
noyances. Nothing is to be gained by talking.
Italians have no sense of honor or moral feelings to
appeal to. Hesiod has very sensibly said, —
" Amongst men on the earth there never sprung
An ampler treasure than a sparing tongue ; "
and it is well to act on this principle in these cases
as well as every other. One appears' better while
bearing his misfortunes with silent equanimity than
when attempting to carry on an altercation with a
disreputable fellow, who speedily falls into a furious
passion and uses ten words to your one. Unless
one wishes to put himself in the way of being over-

330 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
reached, he will avoid all hotels and shops recom
mended in Murray's guide-books. The proprietors
of these quickly discover that they have secured his
commendation, and enormous prices and every sort
of imposition are sure to follow at once. They
know very well that they can demand any price
they please with the certainty of getting it. " Mur
ray " is a power on the continent ; and English
travellers yield, without a show of resistance, to his
opinions on every European subject, from a statue
to a ruin, from the standing of a hotel to the taste
of a dish or the peculiar flavor of a wine.
The most civil and disinterested persons one
generally meets in travelling are those in uniform.
These being in the employ of government, or at
least of some higher authority to whom they are
accountable, feel the necessity of being polite.
They are aware that incivility may perchance cost
them their situation, while courteous behavior can
do them no harm and may be of benefit. If one
finds himself in trouble, he can always safely call
for assistance upon men of this class, and in most
cases it will be willingly granted him.
There are comparatively few travellers who
speak the languages of the countries through which
they pass, and most of those from America and
England have but little faculty of acquiring them.
This is especially true of the latter, and one meets
with repeated examples of their lingual infirmity
everywhere on the continent. I was much amused,
at Piale's reading-room in Rome, at hearing the

TRAVELLING EXPERIENCES. 331
English who wished to read " The Times " ask for
uLeh Teem." What idea could an Italian waiter
have of the object of their inquiry ? The mere use
of such an expression shows a complete ignorance
of the principles of language. If one knows only
a few words of a foreign tongue, and knows them
thoroughly, and can pronounce them well, it is
desirable to make use of them as much as possible.
It will at least give the natives the impression that
one has been some little time in their country, and
consequently cannot be so easily imposed upon as a
fiorestiero newly arrived. In attempting to converse
in a foreign dialect there is, of course, at the com
mencement, great difficulty in understanding the
words addressed to one ; but a little tact and watch
fulness will do much towards remedying this trouble.
A whole sentence will often hang on a single word,
and this being caught by an attentive ear, the rest
is mere verbiage. In France and Italy the viva
cious inhabitants often use nearly as many gestures
as words to express their meaning, and frequently a
single term and a wave of the hand will signify as
much as if every syllable were understood. When
to this one adds the many shrugs of the shoulders,
and the various frowns, smiles, and other expressions
of their feelings, with which the excitable people of
southern climates enliven their language, he will be
convinced that the eloquence of signs can be quite
as fluent and effective as that of words.
It often happens that a traveller, especially if he
be not a man of education and cool judgment, is

332 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
quite embarrassed and loses his presence of mind at
the first sentence addressed him in French or Italian.
I have even heard of instances where strangers did
not recognize their own tongue in a foreign land, so
confused were they by the novelties which sur
rounded them. It is said that when Judge Mason,
of Virginia, made his first appearance at the Court
of Louis Napoleon, the latter, who speaks English
perfectly well, addressed him in that language, and
asked him if he spoke French. To which our then
minister replied, " Un petit, Sire," " A small, Sire."
A somewhat similar contretemps is said to have
happened to Jefferson, on his presentation at the
Tuileries in the time of the first Napoleon. He had
been informed that the Emperor's first question,
which would be in French, since he had never
learned any other tongue, would probably relate to
his passage across the Atlantic, which had been very
long and disagreeable. To the expected inquiry
Jefferson had prepared a suitable answer. But
Napoleon addressed him with, "How did your Ex
cellency leave General Washington ? " To which
Jefferson innocently replied, " Tres orageux, Sire"
" Very stormy, Sire."
Once, while crossing from Folkestone to Boulogne,
I had my attention drawn to a little family party of
English, evidently about to tempt their fate on the
raging channel for the first time. It consisted of a
portly personage in top-boots, with the air of a
country squire, a buxom, ruddy-faced female, evi
dently his wife, and a young lady of unsophisticated

TRAVELLING EXPERIENCES. 333
sixteen, apparently fresh from some boarding-school.
At Boulogne we were detained three hours, while
waiting for the departure of the cars for Paris.
Upon going into the restaurant at the station for
some refreshment, I found the squire and his at-
tachies at one of the tables. They were evidently
somewhat agitated by the bustle around them. The
crash of plates and glasses, the loud cries of garpons
rushing to and fro, and the lively sallies of the
French, obviously quite stupefied them. In the
midst of it a waiter came up, and in correct English
asked the old gentleman what he would like. The
latter hesitated a moment, and plainly knew not
what to say. Finally, turning to his daughter, he
said, '' Mary, you 're just come from Madame Rat
tan's school and know how to speak French ; do ask
for something. I am helpless in this foreign country,
and don't know what to do." Mademoiselle re
flected a moment, colored to the roots of her hair,
and at length solemnly addressed the waiter with,
" Avez-vous du firomage ? "
In the matter of language the French have great
advantages over other travellers, since their tongue
is everywhere spoken. Their campaigns on the
continent, their literature and their diplomacy, and
the talents of their scientific men, have extended it
in every direction. There is hardly a village in
Europe, however small, where some one will not be
found who speaks it. It is still the language of
polished society in Germany, Italy, and Russia,
and, to a great extent, in other countries. Many

334 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
of its idioms have crept into their tongues, and one
who speaks it finds, from this fact, great assistance
in learning them. This is especially true of the
Italian, which is much more easily acquired by one
who knows French. Everywhere on the continent
the children of families of any social position are
taught to converse in French as fluently as in their
own vernacular. The French themselves rarely
learn any foreign tongue. They say, and with
reason, that it is unnecessary. This is fortunate
for them, as they have very small talents for studies
of this sort. This was amusingly exemplified on
one occasion in our own country. General Moreau,
after his banishment by Napoleon on account of the
part he took in a political conspiracy, fled to the
United States. He was received with distinction,
and honored as his genius deserved. He visited
Harvard College at the time of its annual Com
mencement, and occupied one of the most prominent
seats. In the course of the exercises the choir sang
a hymn or song the burden of which was, " To-mor
row ; to-morrow." The hero thought this to be ad
dressed to him, having an imperfect knowledge of
our language, and at every repetition of those words
rose from his seat, placed his hand on his heart, and
bowed with profound humility to the singers and
the audience.
I have sometimes heard intelligent travellers from
my own country remark that they could hardly avoid
a feeling of inferiority, a sense of incapacity, as it
were, when they listened to foreigners speaking with

TRAVELLING EXPERIENCES. 335
great volubility three or four languages in the
course of an evening. But there is no ground for
any such feeling. The continental nations are much
more favorably situated in this respect than we are,
or ever can be. They are all so closely connected,
not only as to their territory, but their mercantile
intercourse and social relations, that it would be
very strange if there did not exist, to a certain ex
tent, a community of languages. If the people of
New Hampshire spoke Italian, those of Connecticut,
French, and the inhabitants of New York, German,
it would, perhaps, be an evidence of inferiority, were
there as few of us familiar with those languages as
at present. But we have no such advantages, since
one tongue is everywhere spoken. Thus a trav
eller returning from Europe master of three or four
languages would not only have little occasion for
their use, but might soon find himself losing ground
for want of practice. He might, in fact, pass all
the rest of his life here, and that in very good society,
without hearing a word of any tongue but his own.
It is remarkable how few words a tourist really
feels the need of in order to signify his wants.
One not unseldom, as the result of his journeyings,
acknowledges the truth of Talleyrand's bon-mot, that
"language was given to man only for the purpose
of concealing his ideas," so clearly does he see how
great a superabundance of words men generally use.
Of those ordinarily employed by travellers in a
foreign country to express their desires or feelings
there is now a well-worn series. This forms a

336 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
sort of language peculiar to them, and well polished
by constant friction. It is spoken by all the guides,
couriers, and others who have to do with stran
gers in lingual distress, with great effect. With
this and a few signs one manages to proceed very
well without any assistance. There is a little work
which was several years since published on the con
tinent, and has gradually become very popular. It
is called " Baedeker's Manual," and contains, in
English, German, French, and Italian, a few hun
dred words and phrases which the author's experi
ence has shown him are most needed by travellers.
It is really wonderful to notice how complete this
book is, and how skilfully the various expressions are
chosen. If one were to commit the contents of this
volume to memory, and acquire a little information
in regard to the pronunciation of the different lan
guages, he might journey from France to Russia un
accompanied by any guide or courier. The same
author has published a series of excellent guide-books
in German and French. They are much employed
by the Germans, and are also popular with the tour
ists of other nations. They are written for eco
nomical people who have little money to spend, and
point out not only the most attractive routes and
the most interesting objects, but the cheapest way
of seeing them.
In every language, both our own and foreign,
much fewer words are used than most people think.
Hence it is more difficult, so far as the memory is
concerned, to learn to read than speak a foreign

TRAVELLING EXPERIENCES. 337
tongue. A day-laborer, whose wants are few and
hisv mind of small calibre, will not find the need of
more than three or four hundred different words in
his lifetime. From this class the number, of course,
increases up to the vocabulary of the man of refine
ment and education, who does not employ all together
more than four thousand. In this respect the two
sexes show a considerable difference, and woman is
naturally more copious in her expressions than man.
Jean Paul says, if a woman were to try to give the
order to halt, she would say : " Now, men, as soon
as I have done speaking, I want to have every one
of you stand still on the spot where you happen to
be. Why don't you mind what I say? Halt!"
I was once entertained by an instance of this which
came under my notice on a railroad train in Italy.
An American, who knew no tongue but his own,
had by mistake brought away the key of his room
from the hotel. Upon making this discovery he
imparted it to his wife, who thereupon proceeded to
talk with great animation, for at least fifteen minutes,
as to the best means of sending it back. The gen
tleman said little or nothing, but took a piece of card
from his pocket, wrote the name of the hotel upon
it, and attached it to the key. At the next station
he got dowrn from the car, handed the article to one
of the railway officials, with two francs, pointed
towards the city he had just left, and said not a
word. The party addressed understood him, and
the whole thing was done at a stroke.
There is one resort for an educated man which
22

338 EUROPEAN MOSAIC.
he may use with advantage in stress of language,
and that is the Latin. The necessity for this, how
ever, does not often happen, though I have noticed
two or three instances of its employment. While
standing one evening on the balcony of the Pincian
Hill, at Rome, which overlooks the Piazzo del
Popolo, I saw near me two Catholic priests, one of
whom was evidently an Irishman. They were
trying to carry on a conversation in Latin, in which
neither seemed very fluent. I heard them, how
ever, make an appointment in that language, from
which I inferred that they proposed to meet again
elsewhere and continue their conference. It was
finished, on this occasion, by the Irishman petulantly
exclaiming in his vernacular to the other, "And
why in the world don't you speak English ? Every
gentleman does." But the effect of this was entirely
lost, as' the person addressed did not speak any lan
guage but his own and that of the ancient Romans.
He was a Neapolitan refugee, as the Irish priest
subsequently informed me, and had been obliged to
flee for his life in consequence of some plot in which
he had taken part against the government of Victor
Emanuel. That ponderous sage and explorer of Scotia and
the Hebrides, Dr. Johnson, says with truth, " All
travel has its advantages ; if it lead a man to a
better country, he learns to improve his own, if to
a worse, to enjoy it." It has, however, other ef
fects not less valuable : it gives one broader views
of human nature, makes him more tolerant of the

TRAVELLING EXPERIENCES. 339
peculiarities of others less favored than himself, and
leads him to bear with patience many little annoy
ances and vexations which in his own country he
could hardly endure with equanimity. . Notwith
standing the great number of tourists at the present
day, the genuine philosophy of travelling is not so
well understood as it might be. There is yet much
to be learnt in this department of human improve
ment, as in every other. He is undoubtedly the
wisest traveller and the most certain of benefit who
in spite of every annoyance maintains a cheerful
heart and a contented frame of mind ; who accepts
thankfully the good that is offered him, and rises
superior to the lesser ills which surround him.
The former is permanently improving ; the latter
may be thrust aside by a resolute will, and made
as powerless for harm as the passing cloud which
for a moment dims the light of the sun.

THE END.

M_E UNIVERSITY LIBRARY

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