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diff --git a/39179-h/39179-h.htm b/39179-h/39179-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..2095492 --- /dev/null +++ b/39179-h/39179-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,16998 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"> + <head> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=iso-8859-1" /> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> + <title> + The Project Gutenberg eBook of Pencillings by the Way, by N. Parker Willis. + </title> + <style type="text/css"> + +body { + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; +} + +h1 {text-align: center; + clear: both; +} + +h2 {text-align: center; + margin-top: 6em; + clear: both; +} + +h3 {text-align: center; + margin-top: 6em; + clear: both; } + +p { + margin-top: .75em; + text-align: left; + margin-bottom: .75em; +} + +.pagenum { + position: absolute; + left: 92%; + font-size: smaller; + text-align: right; +} +hr { + width: 33%; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; + clear: both; +} + +hr.l15 { + width: 15%; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; +} +hr.l30 { + width: 30%; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; +} + +.center {text-align: center;} + +.smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + +.ch_sum {font-size: .85em; + margin-left: 1em; + text-align: center; + margin-top: 1.5em; + margin-bottom: 2em;} +.ch_st {margin-top: 1.5em;} + +.footnote {margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-size: 0.9em;} + +.footnotes {border: dashed 1px;} + +.footnote .label {position: absolute; right: 84%; text-align: right;} + +.fnanchor { + vertical-align: super; + font-size: .8em; + text-decoration: + none; +} + +.poem {font-size: 95%; margin-left: 5%; margin-right: 10%; + margin-bottom: 1em; text-align: left; } +.poem .stanza { margin: 1em 0em 1em 0em; } +.poem p { margin: 0; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em; } + +.poem p.i1 { margin-left: 1em; } +.poem p.i4 { margin-left: 4em; } +.poem p.i11 {margin-left: 11em;} +.poem p.o1 {margin-left: -.4em;} +.poem p.o2 {margin-left: -.7em;} +.poem p.fn {margin-left: 4em; + font-size: .9em;} + +.o1 {margin-left: -.4em;} + +.p2 {margin-top: 2em;} +.p4 {margin-top: 4em;} +.p6 {margin-top: 6em;} + +.b13 {font-size:1.3em;} +.s08 {font-size:.8em;} +.s07 {font-size:.7em;} +.s05 {font-size:.5em;} + +.blockquot { + margin-left: 5%; + margin-right: 10%; + font-size: 90%; +} + +table { + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; + empty-cells: show; +} + +.td_l {text-align: center; padding-top: 2em;} +.td_p {text-align: right;} +.td_d {text-align: left; text-indent: -1em; padding-right: 1em;} + +.tnbox {margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; + margin-bottom: 8em; + margin-top: auto; + text-align: center; + border: 1px solid; + padding: 1em; + color: black; + background-color: #f6f2f2; + width: 25em;} + + </style> + </head> +<body> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Pencillings by the Way, by N. Parker Willis + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license + + +Title: Pencillings by the Way + Written During Some Years of Residence and Travel in Europe + +Author: N. Parker Willis + +Release Date: March 17, 2012 [EBook #39179] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PENCILLINGS BY THE WAY *** + + + + +Produced by Melissa McDaniel and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was +produced from images generously made available by The +Internet Archive) + + + + + + +</pre> + + +<div class="tnbox"> +<p class="center"><b>Transcriber's Note:</b></p> +<p>Obvious typographical errors have been corrected. +Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation in the original +document have been preserved. +The author's use of accents was retained as printed.</p> +</div> + +<h1> +PENCILLINGS BY THE WAY:<br /><br /> +<span class="s05">WRITTEN</span><br /><br /> +<span class="s07">DURING SOME YEARS OF RESIDENCE AND TRAVEL</span><br /><br /> +<span class="s05">IN</span><br /><br /> +<span class="s08">EUROPE.</span></h1> + +<p class="center b13 p2">BY<br /><br /> +N. PARKER WILLIS.</p> + +<p class="center p4">NEW YORK:<br /> +CHARLES SCRIBNER, 124 GRAND STREET.</p> + +<p class="center s05">MDCCCLX.</p> + +<p class="center p6"><span class="s05">Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1852, by</span><br /> +CHARLES SCRIBNER,<br /> +<span class="s05">In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the Southern District +of New York.</span></p> + +<h2>PREFACE.</h2> + +<hr class="l15" /> + +<p>A word or two of necessary explanation, dear reader.</p> + +<p>I had resided on the Continent for several years, and had been +a year in England, without being suspected, I believe, in the +societies in which I lived, of any habit of authorship. No production +of mine had ever crossed the water, and my Letters to +the New-York Mirror, were (for this long period, and I presumed +would be forever), as far as European readers were concerned, an +unimportant and easy secret. Within a few months of returning +to this country, the Quarterly Review came out with a severe +criticism on the Pencillings by the Way, published in the New-York +Mirror. A London publisher immediately procured a +broken set of this paper from an American resident there, and +called on me with an offer of £300 for an immediate edition of +what he had—rather less than one half of the Letters in this +present volume. This chanced on the day before my marriage, +and I left immediately for Paris—a literary friend most kindly +undertaking to look over the proofs, and suppress what might +annoy any one then living in London. The book was printed in +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_VIII" id="Page_VIII">viii</a></span> +three volumes, at about $7 per copy, and in this expensive shape +three editions were sold by the original publisher. After his +death a duodecimo edition was put forth, very beautifully illustrated; +and this has been followed by a fifth edition lately published, +with new embellishments, by Mr. Virtue. The only +American edition (long ago out of print) was a literal copy of +this imperfect and curtailed book.</p> + +<p>In the present complete edition, the Letters objected to by the +Quarterly, are, like the rest, re-published <i>as originally written</i>. +The offending portions must be at any rate, harmless, after being +circulated extensively in this country in the Mirror, and prominently +quoted from the Mirror in the Quarterly—and this being +true, I have felt that I could gratify the wish to be put <i>fairly on +trial</i> for these alleged offences—to have a comparison instituted +between my sins, in this respect, and Hamilton's, Muskau's, Von +Raumer's, Marryat's and Lockhart's—and so, to put a definite +value and meaning upon the constant and vague allusions to these +iniquities, with which the critiques of my contemporaries abound. +I may state as a fact, that the only instance in which a quotation +by me from the conversation of distinguished men gave the least +offence in England, was the one remark made by Moore the poet +at a dinner party, on the subject of O'Connell. It would have +been harmless, as it was designed to be, but for the unexpected +celebrity of my Pencillings; yet with all my heart I wished it +unwritten.</p> + +<p>I wish to put on record in this edition (and you need not be at +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_IX" id="Page_IX">ix</a></span> +the trouble of perusing them unless you please, dear reader!) an +extract or two from the London prefaces to "Pencillings," and +parts of two articles written apropos of the book's offences.</p> + +<p>The following is from the Preface to the first London edition:—</p> + +<p>"The extracts from these Letters which have appeared in the +public prints, have drawn upon me much severe censure. Admitting +its justice in part, perhaps I may shield myself from its +remaining excess by a slight explanation. During several years' +residence in Continental and Eastern countries, I have had +opportunities (as <i>attaché</i> to a foreign Legation), of seeing phases +of society and manners not usually described in books of travel. +Having been the Editor, before leaving the United States, of a +monthly Review, I found it both profitable and agreeable, to continue +my interest in the periodical in which that Review was +merged at my departure, by a miscellaneous correspondence. +Foreign courts, distinguished men, royal entertainments, &c. &c.,—matters +which were likely to interest American readers more +particularly—have been in turn my themes. The distance of +America from these countries, and the ephemeral nature and +usual obscurity of periodical correspondence, were a sufficient +warrant to my mind, that the descriptions would die where they +first saw the light, and fulfil only the trifling destiny for which +they were intended. I indulged myself, therefore, in a freedom +of detail and topic which is usual only in posthumous memoirs—expecting +as soon that they would be read in the countries and +by the persons described, as the biographer of Byron and Sheridan, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_X" id="Page_X">x</a></span> +that these fruitful and unconscious themes would rise from +the dead to read their own interesting memoirs! And such a +resurrection would hardly be a more disagreeable surprise to that +eminent biographer, than was the sudden appearance to me of +my own unambitious Letters in the Quarterly Review.</p> + +<p>"The reader will see (for every Letter containing the least +personal detail has been most industriously republished in the +English papers) that I have in some slight measure corrected +these Pencillings by the Way. They were literally what they +were styled—notes written on the road, and despatched without a +second perusal; and it would be extraordinary if, between the +liberty I felt with my material, and the haste in which I scribbled, +some egregious errors in judgment and taste had not crept +in unawares. The Quarterly has made a long arm over the +water to refresh my memory on this point. There <i>are</i> passages +I would not re-write, and some remarks on individuals which I +would recall at some cost, and would not willingly see repeated in +these volumes. Having conceded thus much, however, I may +express my surprise that this particular sin should have been +visited upon <i>me</i>, at a distance of three thousand miles, when the +reviewer's own literary fame rests on the more aggravated instance +of a book of personalities, published under the very noses of the +persons described. Those of my Letters which date from England +were written within three or four months of my first arrival +in this country. Fortunate in my introductions, almost embarrassed +with kindness, and, from advantages of comparison, gained +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_XI" id="Page_XI">xi</a></span> +by long travel, qualified to appreciate keenly the delights of +English society, I was little disposed to find fault. Everything +pleased me. Yet in one instance—one single instance—I +indulged myself in stricture upon individual character, and I +<i>repeat it in this work</i>, sure that there will be but one person in +the world of letters who will not read it with approbation—the +editor of the <i>Quarterly</i> himself. It was expressed at the time +with no personal feeling, for I had never seen the individual concerned, +and my name had probably never reached his ears. I +but repeated what I had said a thousand times, and never without +an indignant echo to its truth—an opinion formed from the +most dispassionate perusal of his writings—that the editor of that +Review was the most unprincipled critic of his age. Aside from +its flagrant literary injustice, we owe to the <i>Quarterly</i>, it is well +known, every spark of ill-feeling that has been kept alive between +England and America for the last twenty years. The sneers, +the opprobrious epithets of this bravo in literature, have been +received in a country where the machinery of reviewing was not +understood, as the voice of the English people, and an animosity +for which there was no other reason, has been thus periodically +fed and exasperated. I conceive it to be my duty as a literary +man—I <i>know</i> it is my duty as an American—to lose no opportunity +of setting my heel on the head of this reptile of criticism."</p> + +<p>The following is part of an article, written by myself, on the +subject of personalities, for a periodical in New York:</p> + +<p>"There is no question, I believe, that pictures of living society, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_XII" id="Page_XII">xii</a></span> +where society is in very high perfection, and of living persons, +where they are "persons of mark," are both interesting to ourselves, +and valuable to posterity. What would we not give for a +description of a dinner with Shakspeare and Ben Jonson—of a +dance with the Maids of Queen Elizabeth—of a chat with Milton +in a morning call? We should say the man was a churl, who, +when he had the power, should have refused to 'leave the world +a copy' of such precious hours. Posterity will decide who are +the great of our time—but they are at least <i>among</i> those I have +heard talk, and have described and quoted, and who would read +without interest, a hundred years hence, a character of the +second Virgin Queen, caught as it was uttered in a ball-room of +her time? or a description of her loveliest Maid of Honor, by +one who had stood opposite her in a dance, and wrote it before +he slept? or a conversation with Moore or Bulwer?—when the +Queen and her fairest maid, and Moore and Bulwer have had +their splendid funerals, and are dust, like Elizabeth and Shakspeare?</p> + +<p>"The harm, if harm there be in such sketches, is in the spirit +in which they are done. If they are ill-natured or untrue, or if +the author says aught to injure the feelings of those who have +admitted him to their confidence or hospitality, he is to blame, +and it is easy, since he publishes while his subjects are living, to +correct his misrepresentations, and to visit upon him his infidelities +of friendship.</p> + +<p>"But (while I think of it), perhaps some fault-finder will be +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_XIII" id="Page_XIII">xiii</a></span> +pleased to tell me, why this is so much deeper a sin in <i>me</i> than in +all other travellers. Has Basil Hall any hesitation in describing +a dinner party in the United States, and recording the conversation +at table? Does Miss Martineau stick at publishing the +portrait of a distinguished American, and faithfully recording all +he says in a confidential <i>tête-à-tête</i>? Have Captain Hamilton +and Prince Pukler, Von Raumer and Captain Marryat, any +scruples whatever about putting down anything they hear that is +worth the trouble, or of describing any scene, private or public, +which would tell in their book, or illustrate a national peculiarity? +What would their books be without this class of subjects? What +would any book of travels be, leaving out everybody the author +saw, and all he heard? Not that I justify all these authors have +done in this way, for I honestly think they have stepped over the +line, which I have but trod close upon."</p> + +<p>Surely it is the <i>abuse</i>, and not the <i>use</i> of information thus +acquired, that makes the offence.</p> + +<p>The most formal, unqualified, and severe condemnation +recorded against my Pencillings, however, is that of the renowned +Editor of the Quarterly, and to show the public the immaculate +purity of the forge where this long-echoed thunder is manufactured, +I will quote a passage or two from a book of the same +description, by the Editor of the Quarterly himself. 'Peter's +Letters to his Kinsfolk,' by Mr. Lockhart, are three volumes +exclusively filled with portraits of persons, living at the time it +was written in Scotland, their conversation with the author, their +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_XIV" id="Page_XIV">xiv</a></span> +manners, their private histories, etc., etc. In one of the letters +upon the 'Society of Edinburgh,' is the following delicate passage:—</p> + +<p>"'Even you, my dear Lady Johnes, are a perfect history in +every branch of knowledge. I remember, only the last time I saw +you, you were praising with all your might the legs of Col. B——, +those flimsy, worthless things that look as if they were bandaged +with linen rollers from the heel to the knee. You may say what +you will, but I still assert, and I will prove it if you please by +pen and pencil, that, with one pair of exceptions, the best legs in +Cardigan are Mrs. P——'s. As for Miss J—— D——'s, I think +they are frightful.' * * * *</p> + +<p>"Two pages farther on he says:—</p> + +<p>"'As for myself, I assure you that ever since I spent a week +at Lady L——'s and saw those great fat girls of hers, waltzing +every night with that odious De B——, I can not endure the +very name of the thing.'</p> + +<p>"I quote from the second edition of these letters, by which it +appears that even these are <i>moderated</i> passages. A note to the +first of the above quotations runs as follows:</p> + +<p>"'A great part of this letter is omitted in the Second Edition +in consequence of the displeasure its publication gave to certain +ladies in Cardiganshire. As for the gentleman who chose to take +what I said of him in so much dudgeon, he will observe, that I +have allowed what I said to remain <i>in statu quo</i>, which I certainly +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_XV" id="Page_XV">xv</a></span> +should not have done, had he expressed his resentment in a +proper manner.'</p> + +<p>"So well are these unfortunate persons' names known by those +who read the book in England, that in the copy which I have +from a circulating library, they are all filled out in pencil. And +I would here beg the reader to remark that these are private +individuals, compelled by no literary or official distinction to +come out from their privacy and figure in print, and in this, if +not in the <i>taste</i> and <i>quality</i> of my descriptions, I claim a fairer +escutcheon than my self-elected judge—for where is a person's +name recorded in my letters who is not either by tenure of +public office, or literary, or political distinction, a theme of daily +newspaper comment, and of course fair game for the traveller.</p> + +<p>"I must give one more extract from Mr. Lockhart's book, an +account of a dinner with a private merchant of Glasgow.</p> + +<p>"'I should have told you before, that I had another visiter +early in the morning, besides Mr. H. This was a Mr. P——, a +respectable merchant of the place, also an acquaintance of my +friend W——. He came before H——, and after professing +himself very sorry that his avocations would not permit him to +devote his forenoon to my service, he made me promise to dine +with him.... My friend soon joined me, and observing from +the appearance of my countenance that I was contemplating the +scene with some disgust,' (the Glasgow Exchange) 'My good +fellow,' said he, 'you are just like every other well-educated +stranger that comes into this town; you can not endure the first +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_XVI" id="Page_XVI">xvi</a></span> +sight of us mercantile whelps. Do not, however, be alarmed; I +will not introduce you to any of these cattle at dinner. No, sir! +You must know that there are a few men of refinement and polite +information in this city. I have warned two or three of these +<i>raræ aves</i>, and depend upon it, you shall have a very snug <i>day's +work</i>.' So saying he took my arm, and observing that five was +<i>just on the chap</i>, hurried me through several streets and lanes +till we arrived in the ——, where his house is situated. His +wife was, I perceived, quite the fine lady, and, withal, a little of +the blue stocking. Hearing that I had just come from Edinburgh, +she remarked that Glasgow would be seen to much more disadvantage +after that elegant city. 'Indeed,' said she, 'a person +of taste, must, of course, find many disagreeables connected with +a residence in such a town as this; but Mr. P——'s business +renders the thing necessary for the present, and one can not +make a silk purse of a sow's ear—he, he, he!' Another lady of +the company, carried this affectation still farther; she pretended +to be quite ignorant of Glasgow and its inhabitants, although she +had lived among them the greater part of her life, and, by the +by, seemed no chicken. I was afterward told by my friend Mr. +H——, that this damsel had in reality sojourned a winter or two +in Edinburgh, in the capacity of <i>lick-spittle</i> or <i>toad-eater</i> to a +lady of quality, to whom she had rendered herself amusing by a +malicious tongue; and that during this short absence, she had +embraced the opportunity of utterly forgetting everything about +the West country. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_XVII" id="Page_XVII">xvii</a></span></p> + +<p>"'The dinner was excellent, although calculated apparently +for forty people rather than sixteen, which last number sat down. +While the ladies remained in the room, there was such a noise +and racket of coarse mirth, ill restrained by a few airs of sickly +sentiment on the part of the hostess, that I really could neither +attend to the wine nor the dessert; but after a little time a very +broad hint from a fat Falstaff, near the foot of the table, apparently +quite a privileged character, thank Heaven! sent the ladies +out of the room. The moment after which blessed consummation, +the butler and footman entered, as if by instinct, the one +with a huge punch bowl, <i>the other with, &c.</i>'"</p> + +<p>I do thank Heaven that there is no parallel in my own letters +to either of these three extracts. It is a thing of course +that there is not. They are violations of hospitality, social confidence, +and delicacy, of which even my abusers will allow me +incapable. Yet this man accuses me of all these things, and so +runs criticism!</p> + +<p>And to this I add (to conclude this long Preface) some extracts +from a careful review of the work in the North American:—</p> + +<p>"'Pencillings by the Way,' is a very spirited book. The +letters out of which it is constructed, were written originally for +the New-York 'Mirror,' and were not intended for distinct publication. +From this circumstance, the author indulged in a freedom +of personal detail, which we must say is wholly unjustifiable, +and we have no wish to defend it. This book does not pretend to +contain any profound observations or discussions on national +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_XVIII" id="Page_XVIII">xviii</a></span> +character, political condition, literature, or even art. It would +be obviously impossible to carry any one of these topics +thoroughly out, without spending vastly more time and labor upon +it than a rambling poet is likely to have the inclination to do. In +fact, there are very few men, who are qualified, by the nature of +their previous studies, to do this with any degree of edification to +their readers. But a man of general intellectual culture, especially +if he have the poetical imagination superadded, may give +us rapid sketches of other countries, which will both entertain +and instruct us. Now this book is precisely such a one as we +have here indicated. The author travelled through Europe, +mingling largely in society, and visited whatever scenes were +interesting to him as an American, a scholar, and a poet. The +impressions which these scenes made upon his mind, are described +in these volumes; and we must say, we have rarely fallen in with +a book of a more sprightly character, a more elegant and graceful +style, and full of more lively descriptions. The delineations +of manners are executed with great tact; and the shifting +pictures of natural scenery pass before us as we read, exciting a +never-ceasing interest. As to the personalities which have +excited the wrath of British critics, we have, as we said before, +no wish to defend them; but a few words upon the tone, temper, +and motives, of those gentlemen, in their dealing with our author, +will not, perhaps, be considered inappropriate.</p> + +<p>"It is a notorious fact, that British criticism, for many years +past, has been, to a great extent, free from all the restraints of a +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_XIX" id="Page_XIX">xix</a></span> +regard to literary truth. Assuming the political creed of an +author, it would be a very easy thing to predict the sort of criticism +his writings would meet with, in any or all of the leading +periodicals of the kingdom. This tendency has been carried so +far, that even discussions of points in ancient classical literature +have been shaped and colored by it. Thus, Aristophanes' comedies +are turned against modern democracy, and Pindar, the +Theban Eagle, has been unceremoniously classed with British +Tories, by the London Quarterly. Instead of inquiring 'What +is the author's object? How far has he accomplished it? How +far is that object worthy of approbation?'—three questions that +are essential to all just criticism; the questions put by English +Reviewers are substantially 'What party does he belong to? Is +he a Whig, Tory, Radical, or is he an American?' And the +sentence in such cases depends on the answer to them. Even +where British criticism is favorable to an American author, its +tone is likely to be haughty and insulting; like the language of a +condescending city gentleman toward some country cousin, whom +he is kind enough to honor with his patronage.</p> + +<p>"Now, to critics of this sort, Mr. Willis was a tempting mark. +No one can for a moment believe that the London Quarterly, +Frazer's Magazine, and Captain Marryat's monthly, are honest in +the language they hold toward Mr. Willis. Motives, wide +enough from a love of truth, guided the conduct of these journals. +The editor of the London Quarterly, it is well known, is the +author of 'Peter's Letters to his Kinsfolk,' a work full of personalities, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_XX" id="Page_XX">xx</a></span> +ten times more objectionable than anything to be found +in the 'Pencillings.' Yet this same editor did not blush to +write and print a long and most abusive tirade upon the American +traveller, for doing what he had himself done to a much greater +and more reprehensible extent; and, to cap the climax of inconsistency, +republished in his journal the very personalities, names +and all, which had so shocked his delicate sensibilities. It is +much more likely that a disrespectful notice of the London +Quarterly and its editor, in these 'Pencillings,' was the source +from which this bitterness flowed, than that any sense of literary +justice dictated the harsh review. Another furious attack on +Mr. Willis's book appeared in the monthly journal, under the +editorial management of Captain Marryat, the author of a series +of very popular sea novels. Whoever was the author of that +article, ought to be held disgraced in the opinions of all honorable +men. It is the most extraordinary tissue of insolence and +coarseness, with one exception, that we have ever seen, in any +periodical which pretended to respectability of literary character. +It carries its grossness to the intolerable length of attacking the +private character of Mr. Willis, and throwing out foolish sneers +about his birth and parentage. It is this article which led to the +well-known correspondence, between the American Poet and the +British Captain, ending in a hostile meeting. It is to be regretted +that Mr. Willis should so far forget the principles of his New +England education, as to participate in a duel. We regard the +practice with horror; we believe it not only wicked, but absurd. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_XXI" id="Page_XXI">xxi</a></span> +We can not possibly see how, Mr. Willis's tarnished fame could +be brightened by the superfluous work of putting an additional +quantity of lead into the gallant captain. But there is, perhaps, +no disputing about tastes; and, bad as we think the whole affair +was, no candid man can read the correspondence without feeling +that Mr. Willis's part of it, is infinitely superior to the captain's, +in style, sense, dignity of feeling, and manly honor.</p> + +<p>"But, to return to the work from which we have been partially +drawn aside. Its merits in point of style are unquestionable. +It is written in a simple, vigorous, and highly descriptive form of +English, and rivets the reader's attention throughout. There +are passages in it of graphic eloquence, which it would be difficult +to surpass from the writings of any other tourist, whatever. +The topics our author selects, are, as has been already stated, +not those which require long and careful study to appreciate and +discuss; they are such as the poetic eye would naturally dwell +upon, and a poetic hand rapidly delineate, in a cursory survey of +foreign lands. Occasionally, we think, Mr. Willis enters too +minutely into the details of the horrible. Some of his descriptions +of the cholera, and the pictures he gives us of the catacombs +of the dead, are ghastly. But the manners of society he +draws with admirable tact; and personal peculiarities of distinguished +men, he renders with a most life-like vivacity. Many of +his descriptions of natural scenery are more like pictures, than +sketches in words. The description of the Bay of Naples will +occur as a good example. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_XXII" id="Page_XXII">xxii</a></span></p> + +<p>"It would be impossible to point out, with any degree of particularity, +the many passages in this book whose beauty deserves +attention. But it may be remarked in general, that the greater +part of the first volume is not so fresh and various, and animated, +as the second. This we suppose arises partly from the fact that +France and Italy have long been beaten ground.</p> + +<p>"The last part of the book is a statement of the author's +observations upon English life and society; and it is this portion, +which the English critics affect to be so deeply offended with. +The most objectionable passage in this is the account of a dinner +at Lady Blessington's. Unquestionably Mr. Moore's remarks +about Mr. O'Connell ought not to have been reported, considering +the time when, and the place where, they were uttered; +though they contain nothing new about the great Agitator, the +secrets disclosed being well known to some millions of people +who interest themselves in British politics, and read the British +newspapers. We close our remarks on this work by referring +our readers to a capital scene on board a Scotch steamboat, and +a breakfast at Professor Wilson's, the famous editor of Blackwood, +both in the second volume, which we regret our inability +to quote."</p> + +<p>"Every impartial reader must confess, that for so young a +man, Mr. Willis has done much to promote the reputation of +American literature. His position at present is surrounded with +every incentive to a noble ambition. With youth and health to +sustain him under labor; with much knowledge of the world +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_XXIII" id="Page_XXIII">xxiii</a></span> +acquired by travel and observation, to draw upon; with a mature +style, and a hand practised in various forms of composition, Mr. +Willis's genius ought to take a wider and higher range than it +has ever done before. We trust we shall meet him again, ere +long, in the paths of literature; and we trust that he will take it +kindly, if we express the hope, that he will lay aside those tendencies +to exaggeration, and to an unhealthy tone of sentiment, +which mar the beauty of some of his otherwise most agreeable +books." +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_XXIV" id="Page_XXIV"></a></span> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_XXV" id="Page_XXV"></a></span></p> + +<h2>CONTENTS.</h2> +<hr class="l30" /> +<table summary="TOC"> +<tr> +<td class="td_l" colspan="3">LETTER I.</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td> </td> +<td> </td> +<td class="td_p"><span class="s07">PAGE</span></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_d" colspan="2">Getting under Way—The Gulf Stream—Aspect of the Ocean—Formation of a Wave—Sea +Gems—The Second Mate,</td> +<td class="td_p"><a href="#Page_11">11</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_l" colspan="3">LETTER II.</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_d" colspan="2">A Dog at Sea—Dining, with a High Sea—Sea Birds—Tandem of Whales—Speaking a +Man-of-War—Havre,</td> +<td class="td_p"><a href="#Page_18">18</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_l" colspan="3">LETTER III.</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_d" colspan="2">Havre—French Bed-room—The Cooking—Chance Impressions,</td> +<td class="td_p"><a href="#Page_25">25</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_l" colspan="3">LETTER IV.</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_d" colspan="2">Pleasant Companion—Normandy—Rouen—Eden of Cultivation—St. Denis—Entrance +to Paris—Lodgings—Walk of Discovery—Palais Royal,</td> +<td class="td_p"><a href="#Page_30">30</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_l" colspan="3">LETTER V.</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_d" colspan="2">Gallery of the Louvre—Greenough—Feeling as a Foreigner—Solitude in the Louvre—Louis +Philippe—The Poles—Napoleon II,</td> +<td class="td_p"><a href="#Page_40">40</a> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_XXVI" id="Page_XXVI">xxvi</a></span></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_l" colspan="3">LETTER VI.</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_d" colspan="2">Taglioni—French Acting—French Applause—Leontine Fay,</td> +<td class="td_p"><a href="#Page_48">48</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_l" colspan="3">LETTER VII.</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_d" colspan="2">Lelewel—Pére La Chaise—Pauvre Marie—Versailles—The Trianons—Josephine's +Boudoir—Time and Money at Paris—Wives and Fuel—One Price Shops,</td> +<td class="td_p"><a href="#Page_53">53</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_l" colspan="3">LETTER VIII.</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_d" colspan="2">Mr. Cooper—Mr. Greenough—Fighting Animals—The Dog Pit—Fighting Donkey—Sporting +Englishmen,</td> +<td class="td_p"><a href="#Page_63">63</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_l" colspan="3">LETTER IX.</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_d" colspan="2">Malibran—Paris at a Late Hour—Glass Gallery—Cloud and Sunshine—General Romarino—Parisian +Students—Tumult Ended,</td> +<td class="td_p"><a href="#Page_70">70</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_l" colspan="3">LETTER X.</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_d" colspan="2">French Children—Royal Equipages—French Driving—City Riding—Parisian Picturesque—Beggar's +Deception—Genteel Beggars,</td> +<td class="td_p"><a href="#Page_78">78</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_l" colspan="3">LETTER XI.</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_d" colspan="2">Madame Mars—Franklin's House—Ball for the Poor—Theatrical Splendor—Louis +Philippe—Duke of Orleans—Young Queen of Portugal—Don Pedro—Close of the +Ball,</td> +<td class="td_p"><a href="#Page_86">86</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_l" colspan="3">LETTER XII.</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_d" colspan="2">Champs Elysées—Louis Philippe—Literary Dinner—Bowring and others—The Poles—Dr. +Howe's Mission,</td> +<td class="td_p"><a href="#Page_96">96</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_l" colspan="3">LETTER XIII.</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_d" colspan="2">Club Gambling House—Frascati's—Female Gambler,</td> +<td class="td_p"><a href="#Page_103">103</a> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_XXVII" id="Page_XXVII">xxvii</a></span></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_l" colspan="3">LETTER XIV.</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_d" colspan="2">Tuileries—Men of Mark—Cooper and Morse—Contradictions—Dinner Hour—How to +Dine Well,</td> +<td class="td_p"><a href="#Page_107">107</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_l" colspan="3">LETTER XV.</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_d" colspan="2">The Emperor—Turenne—Lady Officer—Gambling Quarrel—Curious Antagonists—Influence +of Paris,</td> +<td class="td_p"><a href="#Page_114">114</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_l" colspan="3">LETTER XVI.</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_d" colspan="2">Cholera Gaieties—Cholera Patient—Morning in Paris—Cholera Hospital—New Patient—Physician's +Indifference—Punch Remedy—Dead Room—Non-Contagion,</td> +<td class="td_p"><a href="#Page_121">121</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_l" colspan="3">LETTER XVII.</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_d" colspan="2">Unexpected Challenge—Court Presentation—Louis Philippe—Royal Family at Tea—Countess +Guiccioli—Mardi Gras—Bal Costumé—Public Masks—Lady Cavalier—Ball +at the Palace—Duke of Orleans—Dr. Bowring—Celebrated Men—Glass Verandah,</td> +<td class="td_p"><a href="#Page_131">131</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_l" colspan="3">LETTER XVIII.</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_d" colspan="2">Cholera—Social Tea Party—Recipe for Caution—Baths and Happiness,</td> +<td class="td_p"><a href="#Page_146">146</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_l" colspan="3">LETTER XIX.</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_d" colspan="2">Bois de Boulogne—Guiccioli—Sismondi—Cooper,</td> +<td class="td_p"><a href="#Page_151">151</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_l" colspan="3">LETTER XX.</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_d" colspan="2">Friend of Lady Morgan—Dr. Spurzheim—Cast-Taking—De Potter—David the +Sculptor,</td> +<td class="td_p"><a href="#Page_156">156</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_l" colspan="3">LETTER XXI.</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_d" colspan="2">Attractions of Paris—Mr. Cooper—Mr. Rives,</td> +<td class="td_p"><a href="#Page_162">162</a> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_XXVIII" id="Page_XXVIII">xxviii</a></span></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_l" colspan="3">LETTER XXII.</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_d" colspan="2">Chalons—Sens—Auxerre—St. Bris—Three Views In One—Chalons,</td> +<td class="td_p"><a href="#Page_166">166</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_l" colspan="3">LETTER XXIII.</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_d" colspan="2">Boat on the Saone—Scenery above Lyons—Lyons—Churches at Lyons—Monastery,</td> +<td class="td_p"><a href="#Page_173">173</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_l" colspan="3">LETTER XXIV.</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_d" colspan="2">Travelling Party—Breakfast on the Road—Localities of Antiquity—Picturesque Chateau—French +Patois,</td> +<td class="td_p"><a href="#Page_179">179</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_l" colspan="3">LETTER XXV.</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_d" colspan="2">Arles—The Cathedral—Marseilles—Parting with Companions—Pass of Ollioules—Toulon—Antibes—Coast +of Mediterranean—Forced to Return—Lazaretto—Absurd +Hindrances—Fear of Contagion—Sleep out of Doors—Lazaretto Occupations—Delicious +Sunday—New Arrivals—Companions—End of Quarantine,</td> +<td class="td_p"><a href="#Page_185">185</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_l" colspan="3">LETTER XXVI.</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_d" colspan="2">Nice—Funeral of an Arch-Duchess—Nice to Genoa—Views—Entrance to Genoa—Genoa,</td> +<td class="td_p"><a href="#Page_204">204</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_l" colspan="3">LETTER XXVII.</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_d" colspan="2">The Venus—The Fornarina—A Coquette and the Arts—A Festa—Ascension Day—The +Cascine—Madame Catalani,</td> +<td class="td_p"><a href="#Page_211">211</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_l" colspan="3">LETTER XXVIII.</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_d" colspan="2">Titian's Bella—The Grand-Duchess—An Improvisatrice—Living in Florence—Lodgings +at Florence—Expense of Living,</td> +<td class="td_p"><a href="#Page_219">219</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_l" colspan="3">LETTER XXIX.</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_d" colspan="2">Companions—Scenery of Romagna—Wives—Bologna,</td> +<td class="td_p"><a href="#Page_225">225</a> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_XXIX" id="Page_XXIX">xxix</a></span></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_l" colspan="3">LETTER XXX.</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_d" colspan="2">Gallery at Bologna—A Guido—Churches—Confession-Chapel—Festa—Agreeable +Manners,</td> +<td class="td_p"><a href="#Page_231">231</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_l" colspan="3">LETTER XXXI.</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_d" colspan="2">Regatta—Venetian Sunset—Privileged Admission—Guillotining—Bridge of Sighs—San +Marc—The Nobleman Beggar,</td> +<td class="td_p"><a href="#Page_238">238</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_l" colspan="3">LETTER XXXII.</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_d" colspan="2">An Evening in Venice—The Streets of Venice—The Rialto—Sunset from San Marc,</td> +<td class="td_p"><a href="#Page_246">246</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_l" colspan="3">LETTER XXXIII.</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_d" colspan="2">Titian's Pictures—Last Day in Venice,</td> +<td class="td_p"><a href="#Page_251">251</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_l" colspan="3">LETTER XXXIV.</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_d" colspan="2">Italian Civility—Juliet's Tomb—The Palace of the Capuletti—A Dinner,</td> +<td class="td_p"><a href="#Page_254">254</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_l" colspan="3">LETTER XXXV.</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_d" colspan="2">Good and Ill-Breeding—Bridal Party,</td> +<td class="td_p"><a href="#Page_259">259</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_l" colspan="3">LETTER XXXVI.</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_d" colspan="2">Manner of Living—Originals of Novels—Ill,</td> +<td class="td_p"><a href="#Page_262">262</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_l" colspan="3">LETTER XXXVII.</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_d" colspan="2">The Duke of Lucca—Modena—The Palace—Bologna—Venice Again—Its Splendor,</td> +<td class="td_p"><a href="#Page_266">266</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_l" colspan="3">LETTER XXXVIII.</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_d" colspan="2">Armenian Island—Agreeable Monk—Insane Hospital—Insane Patients—The Lagune—State +Galley—Instruments of Torture,</td> +<td class="td_p"><a href="#Page_273">273</a> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_XXX" id="Page_XXX">xxx</a></span></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_l" colspan="3">LETTER XXXIX.</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_d" colspan="2">Venice at Evening—The Patriotism of a Noble—Church of St. Antony—Petrarch's +Cottage and Tomb—Petrarch's Room,</td> +<td class="td_p"><a href="#Page_281">281</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_l" colspan="3">LETTER XL.</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_d" colspan="2">Cultivation of the Fields—The Vintage—Malibran in Gazza Ladra—Gallery of the +Lambaccari,</td> +<td class="td_p"><a href="#Page_287">287</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_l" colspan="3">LETTER XLI.</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_d" colspan="2">Sienna—Catholic Devotion—Acquapendente—Lake Bolsena—Vintage Festa—Monte +Cimino—First Sight of Rome—Baccano,</td> +<td class="td_p"><a href="#Page_292">292</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_l" colspan="3">LETTER XLII.</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_d" colspan="2">St. Peter's—The Apollo Belvidere—Raphael's Transfiguration—The Pantheon—The +Forum,</td> +<td class="td_p"><a href="#Page_301">301</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_l" colspan="3">LETTER XLIII.</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_d" colspan="2">The Falls of Tivoli—Villa of Adrian—A Ramble by Moonlight—The Cloaca +Maxima,</td> +<td class="td_p"><a href="#Page_307">307</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_l" colspan="3">LETTER XLIV.</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_d" colspan="2">The Last Judgment—The Music—Gregory the Sixteenth,</td> +<td class="td_p"><a href="#Page_312">312</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_l" colspan="3">LETTER XLV.</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_d" colspan="2">Byron's Statue—The Borghese Palace—Society of Rome,</td> +<td class="td_p"><a href="#Page_316">316</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_l" colspan="3">LETTER XLVI.</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_d" colspan="2">The Climate—Falls of Terni—The Clitumnus—A Lesson not Lost—Thrasimene—Florence—Florentine +Women—Need of an Ambassador,</td> +<td class="td_p"><a href="#Page_320">320</a> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_XXXI" id="Page_XXXI">xxxi</a></span></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_l" colspan="3">LETTER XLVII.</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_d" colspan="2">Chat in the Ante-Chamber—Love in High Life—Ball at the Palazzo Pitti—The Grand +Duke—An Italian Beauty—An English Beauty,</td> +<td class="td_p"><a href="#Page_329">329</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_l" colspan="3">LETTER XLVIII.</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_d" colspan="2">Oxen of Italy—Vallombrosa—A Convent Dinner—Vespers at Vallombrosa—The +Monk's Estimate of Women—Milton's Room—Florence,</td> +<td class="td_p"><a href="#Page_336">336</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_l" colspan="3">LETTER XLIX.</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_d" colspan="2">The House of Michael Angelo—Fiesole—San Miniato—Christmas Eve—Amusing +Scenes in Church,</td> +<td class="td_p"><a href="#Page_344">344</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_l" colspan="3">LETTER L.</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_d" colspan="2">Penitential Processions—The Carlist Refugees—The Miracle of Rain—The Miraculous +Picture—Giovanni Di Bologna—Andrea Del Sarto,</td> +<td class="td_p"><a href="#Page_350">350</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_l" colspan="3">LETTER LI.</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_d" colspan="2">The Entertainments of Florence—A Peasant Beauty—The Morality of Society—The +Italian Cavalier—The Features of Society,</td> +<td class="td_p"><a href="#Page_357">357</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_l" colspan="3">LETTER LII.</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_d" colspan="2">Artists and the French Academy—Beautiful Scenery—Sacred Woods of Bolsena,</td> +<td class="td_p"><a href="#Page_363">363</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_l" colspan="3">LETTER LIII.</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_d" colspan="2">The Virtuoso of Viterbo—Robberies—Rome as Fancied—Rome as Found,</td> +<td class="td_p"><a href="#Page_367">367</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_l" colspan="3">LETTER LIV.</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_d" colspan="2">The Fountain of Egeria—The Pontine Marshes—Mola—The Falernian Hills—The +Doctor of St. Agatha—The Queen of Naples,</td> +<td class="td_p"><a href="#Page_372">372</a> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_XXXII" id="Page_XXXII">xxxii</a></span></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_l" colspan="3">LETTER LV.</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_d" colspan="2">St. Peter's—The Fountains—The Obelisk—The Forum—Its Memories—The Cenci—Claude's +Pictures—Fancies Realized—The Last of the Dorias—A Picture by Leonardo +Da Vinci—Palace of the Cesars—An Hour on the Palatine,</td> +<td class="td_p"><a href="#Page_379">379</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_l" colspan="3">LETTER LVI.</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_d" colspan="2">Roman Eyes versus Feet—Vespers at Santa Trinita—Roman Baths—Baths of Titus—Shelley's +Haunt,</td> +<td class="td_p"><a href="#Page_390">390</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_l" colspan="3">LETTER LVII.</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_d" colspan="2">The Tomb of the Scipios—The Early Christians—The Tomb of Metella—Fountain of +Egeria—Changed Aspect of Rome,</td> +<td class="td_p"><a href="#Page_396">396</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_l" colspan="3">LETTER LVIII.</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_d" colspan="2">Palm Sunday—A Crowd—The Miserere—A Judas—The Washing of Feet—The +Dinner,</td> +<td class="td_p"><a href="#Page_402">402</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_l" colspan="3">LETTER LIX.</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_d" colspan="2">The Protestant Cemetery—Shelley's Grave—Beauty of the Place—Keats—Dr. Bell,</td> +<td class="td_p"><a href="#Page_409">409</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_l" colspan="3">LETTER LX.</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_d" colspan="2">Audience with the Pope—Humility and Pride in Contrast—The Miserere at St. +Peter's—Italian Moonlight—Dancing at the Coliseum,</td> +<td class="td_p"><a href="#Page_415">415</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_l" colspan="3">LETTER LXI.</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_d" colspan="2">Easter Sunday—The Pope's Blessing—Illumination of St. Peter's—Florentine Sociability—A +Marriage of Convenience,</td> +<td class="td_p"><a href="#Page_421">421</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_l" colspan="3">LETTER LXII.</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_d" colspan="2">The Correggio—Austrians in Italy—The Cathedral at Milan—Guercino's Hagar—Milanese +Coffee,</td> +<td class="td_p"><a href="#Page_427">427</a> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_XXXIII" id="Page_XXXIII">xxxiii</a></span></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_l" colspan="3">LETTER LXIII.</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_d" colspan="2">Still in Italy—Isola Bella—Ascent of the Simplon—Farewell to Italy—An American—Descent +of the Simplon,</td> +<td class="td_p"><a href="#Page_433">433</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_l" colspan="3">LETTER LXIV.</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_d" colspan="2">The Cretins—The Goitre—First Sight of Lake Leman—Mont Blanc—June in Geneva—The +Winkelreid,</td> +<td class="td_p"><a href="#Page_440">440</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_l" colspan="3">LETTER LXV.</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_d" colspan="2">American and Genevese Steamers—Lilies of the Valley—A Frenchman's Apology—Genevese +Women—Voltaire's Room,</td> +<td class="td_p"><a href="#Page_446">446</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_l" colspan="3">LETTER LXVI.</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_d" colspan="2">The Jura—Arrival at Morez—Lost my Temper—National Characteristics—Politeness +versus Comfort,</td> +<td class="td_p"><a href="#Page_452">452</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_l" colspan="3">LETTER LXVII.</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_d" colspan="2">Lafayette's Funeral—Crossing the Channel—An English Inn—Mail Coaches and +Horses—A Gentleman Driver—A Subject for Madame Trollope,</td> +<td class="td_p"><a href="#Page_458">458</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_l" colspan="3">LETTER LXVIII.</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_d" colspan="2">First Dinner in London—The King's Birth-day—A Handsome Street—Introduction +to Lady Blessington—A Chat about Bulwer—The D'Israeli's—Contrast of Criticism—Countess +Guiccioli—Lady Blessington—An Apology,</td> +<td class="td_p"><a href="#Page_465">465</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_l" colspan="3">LETTER LXIX.</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_d" colspan="2">An Evening at Lady Blessington's—Fonblanc—Tribute to American Authors—A +Sketch of Bulwer—Bulwer's Conversation—An Author his own Critic,</td> +<td class="td_p"><a href="#Page_476">476</a> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_XXXIV" id="Page_XXXIV">xxxiv</a></span></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_l" colspan="3">LETTER LXX.</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_d" colspan="2">Ascot Races—Handsome Men—The Princess Victoria—Charles Lamb—Mary Lamb—Lamb's +Conversation—The Breakfast at Fault,</td> +<td class="td_p"><a href="#Page_483">483</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_l" colspan="3">LETTER LXXI.</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_d" colspan="2">A Dinner at Lady Blessington's—D'Israeli, the Younger—The Author of Vathek—Mr. +Beckford's Whims—Irish Patriotism—The Effect of Eloquence,</td> +<td class="td_p"><a href="#Page_491">491</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_l" colspan="3">LETTER LXXII.</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_d" colspan="2">The Opera House—What Books will pay for—English Beauty—A Belle's Criticism on +Society—Celebrities,</td> +<td class="td_p"><a href="#Page_498">498</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_l" colspan="3">LETTER LXXIII.</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_d" colspan="2">Breakfast with Proctor—A Story of Hazlitt—Procter as a Poet—Impressions of the +Man,</td> +<td class="td_p"><a href="#Page_504">504</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_l" colspan="3">LETTER LXXIV.</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_d" colspan="2">Moore's Dread of Criticism—Moore's Love of Rank—A generous Offer nobly Refused—A +Sacrifice to Jupiter—The Election of Speaker—Miss Pardoe—Prices of Books,</td> +<td class="td_p"><a href="#Page_509">509</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_l" colspan="3">LETTER LXXV.</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="td_d" colspan="2">Dinner at Lady Blessington's—Scott—The Italians—Scott's Mode of Living—O'Connell—Grattan—Moore's +Manner of Talking—Lady Blessington's Tact—Moore's Singing—A +Curious Incident—The Maid Metamorphosed,</td> +<td class="td_p"><a href="#Page_517">517</a></td> +</tr> +</table> + +<h2>PENCILLINGS BY THE WAY.</h2> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11"></a></span></p> + +<h3>LETTER I.</h3> + +<p class="ch_st"><span class="smcap">At Sea.</span>—I have emerged from my berth this morning for the +first time since we left the Capes. We have been running six or +seven days before a strong northwest gale, which, by the scuds in +the sky, is not yet blown out, and my head and hand, as you will +see by my penmanship, are anything but at rights. If you have +ever plunged about in a cold rain-storm at sea for seven successive +days, you can imagine how I have amused myself.</p> + +<p>I wrote to you after my pilgrimage to the tomb of Washington. +It was almost the only object of natural or historical interest in +our own country that I had not visited, and that seen, I made all +haste back to embark, in pursuance of my plans of travel, for +Europe. At Philadelphia I found a first-rate merchant-brig, +the Pacific, on the eve of sailing for Havre. She was nearly +new, and had a French captain, and no passengers—three very +essential circumstances to my taste—and I took a berth in her +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">12</a></span> +without hesitation. The next day she fell down the river, and +on the succeeding morning I followed her with the captain in the +steamboat.</p> + +<p>Some ten or fifteen vessels, bound on different voyages, lay in +the roads waiting for the pilot boat; and, as she came down the +river, they all weighed anchor together and we got under way. +It was a beautiful sight—so many sail in close company under a +smart breeze, and I stood on the quarter-deck and watched them +in a mood of mingled happiness and sadness till we reached the +Capes. There was much to elevate and much to depress me. +The dream of my lifetime was about to be realized. I was +bound to France; and those fair Italian cities, with their world of +association and interest were within the limit of a voyage; and +all that one looks to for happiness in change of scene, and all +that I had been passionately wishing and imagining since I could +dream a day-dream or read a book, was before me with a visible +certainty; but my home was receding rapidly, perhaps for years, +and the chances of death and adversity in my absence crowded +upon my mind—and I had left friends—(many—many—as dear +to me, any one of them, as the whole sum of my coming enjoyment), +whom a thousand possible accidents might remove or +estrange; and I scarce knew whether I was more happy or sad.</p> + +<p>We made Cape Henlopen about sundown, and all shortened +sail and came to. The little boat passed from one to another, +taking off the pilots, and in a few minutes every sail was spread +again, and away they went with a dashing breeze, some on one +course some on another, leaving us in less than an hour, apparently +alone on the sea. By this time the clouds had grown +black, the wind had strengthened into a gale, with fits of rain; +and as the order was given to "close-reef the top-sails," I took a +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">13</a></span> +last look at Cape Henlopen, just visible in the far edge of the +horizon, and went below.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Oct. 18.</span>—It is a day to make one in love with life. The +remains of the long storm, before which we have been driven for +a week, lie, in white, turreted masses around the horizon, the +sky overhead is spotlessly blue, the sun is warm, the wind steady +and fresh, but soft as a child's breath, and the sea—I must +sketch it to you more elaborately. We are in the Gulf Stream. +The water here as you know, even to the cold banks of Newfoundland, +is always blood warm, and the temperature of the air +mild at all seasons, and, just now, like a south wind on land in +June. Hundreds of sea birds are sailing around us—the spongy +sea-weeds, washed from the West Indian rocks, a thousand miles +away in the southern latitudes, float by in large masses—the +sailors, barefoot and bareheaded, are scattered over the rigging, +doing "fair-weather work"—and just in the edge of the horizon, +hidden by every swell, stand two vessels with all sail spread, +making, with the first fair wind they have had for many days, +for America.</p> + +<p>This is the first day that I have been able to be long enough on +deck to study the sea. Even were it not, however, there has +been a constant and chilly rain which would have prevented me +from enjoying its grandeur, so that I am reconciled to my +unusually severe sickness. I came on deck this morning and +looked around, and for an hour or two I could scarce realize that +it was not a dream. Much as I had watched the sea from our +bold promontory at Nahant, and well as I thought I knew its +character in storms and calms, the scene which was before me +surprized and bewildered me utterly. At the first glance, we +were just in the gorge of the sea; and, looking over the leeward +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">14</a></span> +quarter, I saw, stretching up from the keel, what I can only +describe as a hill of dazzling blue, thirty or forty feet in real altitude, +but sloped so far away that the white crest seemed to me a +cloud, and the space between a sky of the most wonderful beauty +and brightness. A moment more, and the crest burst over with +a splendid volume of foam; the sun struck through the thinner +part of the swell in a line of vivid emerald, and the whole mass +swept under us, the brig rising and riding on the summit with the +buoyancy and grace of a bird.</p> + +<p>The single view of the ocean which I got at that moment, will +be impressed upon my mind for ever. Nothing that I ever saw +on land at all compares with it for splendor. No sunset, no +lake scene of hill and water, no fall, not even Niagara, no glen +or mountain gap ever approached it. The waves had had no +time to "knock down," as the sailors phrase it, and it was a +storm at sea without the hurricane and rain. I looked off to the +horizon, and the long majestic swells were heaving into the sky +upon its distant limit, and between it and my eye lay a radius of +twelve miles, an immense plain flashing with green and blue and +white, and changing place and color so rapidly as to be almost +painful to the sight. I stood holding by the tafferel an hour, +gazing on it with a childish delight and wonder. The spray had +broken over me repeatedly, and, as we shipped half a sea at the +scuppers at every roll, I was standing half the time up to the +knees in water; but the warm wind on my forehead, after a +week's confinement to my berth, and the excessive beauty lavished +upon my sight, were so delicious, that I forgot all, and it was +only in compliance with the captain's repeated suggestion that I +changed my position.</p> + +<p>I mounted the quarter-deck, and, pulling off my shoes, like a +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">15</a></span> +schoolboy, sat over the leeward rails, and, with my feet dipping +into the warm sea at every lurch, gazed at the glorious show for +hours. I do not hesitate to say that the formation, progress, and +final burst of a sea-wave, in a bright sun, are the most gorgeously +beautiful sight under heaven. I must describe it like a jeweller +to you, or I can never convey my impressions.</p> + +<p>First of all, a quarter of a mile away to windward, your eye is +caught by an uncommonly high wave, rushing right upon your +track, and heaping up slowly and constantly as it comes, as if +some huge animal were ploughing his path steadily and powerfully +beneath the surface. Its "ground," as a painter would say, is +of a deep indigo, clear and smooth as enamel, its front curved +inward, like a shell, and turned over at the summit with a crest +of foam, flashing and changing perpetually in the sunshine, like +the sudden outburst of a million of "unsunned diamonds;" and, +right through its bosom, as the sea falls off, or the angle of +refraction changes, there runs a shifting band of the most vivid +green, that you would take to have been the cestus of Venus, as +she rose from the sea, it is so supernaturally translucent and +beautiful. As it nears you, it looks in shape like the prow of +Cleopatra's barge, as they paint it in the old pictures; but its +colors, and the grace and majesty of its march, and its murmur +(like the low tones of an organ, deep and full, and, to my +ear, ten times as articulate and solemn), almost startle you into +the belief that it is a sentient being, risen glorious and breathing +from the ocean. As it reaches the ship, she rises gradually, for +there is apparently an under-wave driven before it, which prepares +her for its power; and as it touches the quarter, the whole +magnificent wall breaks down beneath you with a deafening surge, +and a volume of foam issues from its bosom, green and blue and +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">16</a></span> +white, as if it had been a mighty casket in which the whole +wealth of the sea, crysoprase, and emerald, and brilliant spars, +had been heaped and lavished at a throw. This is the "tenth +wave," and, for four or five minutes, the sea will be smooth about +you, and the sparkling and dying foam falls into the wake, and +may be seen like a white path, stretching away over the swells +behind, till you are tired of gazing at it. Then comes another +from the same direction, and with the same shape and motion, +and so on till the sun sets, or your eyes are blinded and your +brain giddy with splendor.</p> + +<p>I am sure this language will seem exaggerated to you, but, +upon the faith of a lonely man (the captain has turned in, and it +is near midnight and a dead calm), it is a mere skeleton, a goldsmith's +inventory, of the reality. I long ago learned that first +lesson of a man of the world, "to be astonished at nothing," +but the sea has overreached my philosophy—quite. I am +changed to a mere child in my wonder. Be assured, no view of +the ocean from land can give you a shadow of an idea of it. +Within even the outermost Capes, the swell is broken, and the +color of the water in soundings is essentially different—more dull +and earthy. Go to the mineral cabinets of Cambridge or New +Haven, and look at the <i>fluor spars</i>, and the <i>turquoises</i>, and the +clearer specimens of <i>crysoprase</i>, and <i>quartz</i>, and <i>diamond</i>, and +imagine them all polished and clear, and flung at your feet by +millions in a noonday sun, and it may help your conceptions of +the sea after a storm. You may "swim on bladders" at Nahant +and Rockaway till you are gray, and be never the wiser.</p> + +<p>The "middle watch" is called, and the second mate, a fine +rough old sailor, promoted from "the mast," is walking the +quarter-deck, stopping his whistle now and then with a gruff +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">17</a></span> +"How do you head?" or "keep her up, you lubber," to the man +at the helm; the "silver-shell" of a waning moon, is just visible +through the dead lights over my shoulder (it has been up two +hours, to me, and by the difference of our present merideans, is +just rising now over a certain hill, and peeping softly in at an +eastern window that I have watched many a time when its panes +have been silvered by the same chaste alchymy), and so after a +walk on the deck for an hour to look at the stars and watch the +phosphorus in the wake, I think of ——, I'll get to mine own +uneven pillow, and sleep too.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18"></a></span></p> + +<h3>LETTER II.</h3> + +<p class="ch_st"><span class="smcap">At Sea, October 20.</span>—We have had fine weather for progress, +so far, running with north and north-westerly winds from +eight to ten knots an hour, and making, of course, over two +hundred miles a day. The sea is still rough; and though the +brig is light laden and rides very buoyantly, these mounting +waves break over us now and then with a tremendous surge, keeping +the decks constantly wet, and putting me to many an uncomfortable +shiver. I have become reconciled, however, to much +that I should have anticipated with no little horror. I can lie in +my berth forty-eight hours, if the weather is chill or rainy, and +amuse myself very well with talking bad French across the cabin +to the captain, or laughing at the distresses of my friend and +fellow-passenger, Turk (a fine setter dog, on his first voyage), or +inventing some disguise for the peculiar flavor which that dismal +cook gives to all his abominations, or, at worst, I can bury my +head in my pillow, and brace from one side to the other against +the swell, and enjoy my disturbed thoughts—all without losing +my temper, or wishing that I had not undertaken the voyage.</p> + +<p>Poor Turk! his philosophy is more severely tried. He has +been bred a gentleman, and is amusingly exclusive. No assiduities +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">19</a></span> +can win him to take the least notice of the crew, and I soon +discovered, that, when the captain and myself were below, he +endured many a persecution. In an evil hour, a night or two +since, I suffered his earnest appeals for freedom to work upon my +feelings, and, releasing him from his chain under the windlass, I +gave him the liberty of the cabin. He slept very quietly on the +floor till about midnight, when the wind rose and the vessel began +to roll very uncomfortably. With the first heavy lurch a couple +of chairs went tumbling to leeward, and by the yelp of distress, +Turk was somewhere in the way. He changed his position, and, +with the next roll, the mate's trunk "brought away," and shooting +across the cabin, jammed him with such violence against the +captain's state-room door, that he sprang howling to the deck, +where the first thing that met him was a washing sea, just taken +in at midships, that kept him swimming above the hatches for +five minutes. Half-drowned, and with a gallon of water in his +long hair, he took again to the cabin, and making a desperate +leap into the steward's berth, crouched down beside the sleeping +creole with a long whine of satisfaction. The water soon +penetrated however, and with a "<i>sacré!</i>" and a blow that he will +remember for the remainder of the voyage, the poor dog was +again driven from the cabin, and I heard no more of him till +morning. His decided preference for me has since touched my +vanity, and I have taken him under my more special protection—a +circumstance which costs me two quarrels a day at least, with +the cook and steward.</p> + +<p>The only thing which forced a smile upon me during the first +week of the passage was the achievement of dinner. In rough +weather, it is as much as one person can do to keep his place at +the table at all; and to guard the dishes, bottles, and castors, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">20</a></span> +from a general slide in the direction of the lurch, requires a +sleight and coolness reserved only for a sailor. "<i>Prenez garde!</i>" +shouts the captain, as the sea strikes, and in the twinkling of an +eye, everything is seized and held up to wait for the other lurch +in attitudes which it would puzzle the pencil of Johnson to exaggerate. +With his plate of soup in one hand, and the larboard +end of the tureen in the other, the claret bottle between his teeth, +and the crook of his elbow caught around the mounting corner +of the table, the captain maintains his seat upon the transom, +and, with a look of the most grave concern, keeps a wary eye on +the shifting level of his vermicelli; the old weather-beaten mate, +with the alacrity of a juggler, makes a long leg back to the cabin +panels at the same moment, and with his breast against the table, +takes his own plate and the castors, and one or two of the +smaller dishes under his charge; and the steward, if he +can keep his legs, looks out for the vegetables, or if he falls, +makes as wide a lap as possible to intercept the volant articles in +their descent. "Gentlemen that live at home at ease" forget to +thank Providence for the blessings of a permanent level.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Oct. 24.</span>—We are on the Grand Bank, and surrounded by +hundreds of sea-birds. I have been watching them nearly all +day. Their performances on the wing are certainly the perfection +of grace and skill. With the steadiness of an eagle and the +nice adroitness of a swallow, they wheel round in their constant +circles with an arrowy swiftness, lifting their long tapering pinions +scarce perceptibly, and mounting and falling as if by a mere act +of volition, without the slightest apparent exertion of power. +Their chief enjoyment seems to be to scoop through the deep +hollows of the sea, and they do it so quickly that your eye can +scarce follow them, just disturbing the polish of the smooth +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">21</a></span> +crescent, and leaving a fine line of ripple from swell to swell, +but never wetting a wing, or dipping their white breasts a feather +too deep in the capricious and wind-driven surface. I feel a +strange interest in these wild-hearted birds. There is something +in this fearless instinct, leading them away from the protecting +and pleasant land to make their home on this tossing and desolate +element, that moves both my admiration and my pity. I +cannot comprehend it. It is unlike the self-caring instincts of +the other families of Heaven's creatures. If I were half the +Pythagorean that I used to be, I should believe they were souls +in punishment—expiating some lifetime sin in this restless +metempsychosis.</p> + +<p>Now and then a land-bird has flown on board, driven to sea +probably by the gale; and so fatigued as hardly to be able to rise +again upon the wing. Yesterday morning a large curlew came +struggling down the wind, and seemed to have just sufficient +strength to reach the vessel. He attempted to alight on the +main yard, but failed and dropped heavily into the long-boat, +where he suffered himself to be taken without an attempt to +escape. He must have been on the wing two or three days without +food, for we were at least two hundred miles from land. His +heart was throbbing hard through his ruffled feathers, and he +held his head up with difficulty. He was passed aft; but, while I +was deliberating on the best means for resuscitating and fitting +him to get on the wing again, the captain had taken him from +me and handed him over to the cook, who had his head off before +I could remember French enough to arrest him. I dreamed all +that night of the man "that shot the albatross." The captain +relieved my mind, however, by telling me that he had tried +repeatedly to preserve them, and that they died invariably in a +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">22</a></span> +few hours. The least food, in their exhausted state, swells in their +throats and suffocates them. Poor Curlew! there was a tenderness +in one breast for him at least—a feeling I have the melancholy +satisfaction to know, fully reciprocated by the bird himself—that +seat of his affections having been allotted to me for +my breakfast the morning succeeding his demise.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Oct. 29.</span>—We have a tandem of whales ahead. They have +been playing about the ship an hour, and now are coursing away +to the east, one after the other, in gallant style. If we could +only get them into traces now, how beautiful it would be to stand +in the foretop and drive a degree or two, on a summer sea! It +would not be more wonderful, <i>de novo</i>, than the discovery of the +lightning-rod, or navigation by steam! And by the way, the +sight of these huge creatures has made me realize, for the first +time, the extent to which the sea has <i>grown</i> upon my mind during +the voyage. I have seen one or two whales, exhibited in the +docks, and it seemed to me always that they were monsters—out +of proportion, entirely, to the range of the ocean. I had been +accustomed to look out to the horizon from land (the radius, of +course, as great as at sea), and, calculating the probable speed +with which they would compass the intervening space, and the +disturbance they would make in doing it, it appeared that in any +considerable numbers, they would occupy more than their share +of notice and sea-room. Now—after sailing five days, at two +hundred miles a day, and not meeting a single vessel—it seems +to me that a troop of a thousand might swim the sea a century +and chance to be never crossed, so endlessly does this eternal +horizon open and stretch away!</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Oct. 30.</span>—The day has passed more pleasantly than usual +The man at the helm cried "a sail," while we were at breakfast, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">23</a></span> +and we gradually overtook a large ship, standing on the same +course, with every sail set. We were passing half a mile to leeward, +when she put up her helm and ran down to us, hoisting the +English flag. We raised the "star-spangled banner" in answer, +and "hove to," and she came dashing along our quarter, heaving +most majestically to the sea, till she was near enough to speak +us without a trumpet. Her fore-deck was covered with sailors +dressed all alike and very neatly, and around the gangway stood +a large group of officers in uniform, the oldest of whom, a noble-looking +man with gray hair, hailed and answered us. Several +ladies stood back by the cabin door—passengers apparently. She +was a man of war, sailing as a king's packet between Halifax and +Falmouth, and had been out from the former port nineteen days. +After the usual courtesies had passed, she bore away a little, and +then kept on her course again, the two vessels in company at +the distance of half a pistol shot. I rarely have seen a more +beautiful sight. The fine effect of a ship under sail is entirely +lost to one on board, and it is only at sea and under circumstances +like these, that it can be observed. The power of the +swell, lifting such a huge body as lightly as an egg-shell on its +bosom, and tossing it sometimes half out of the water without the +slightest apparent effort, is astonishing. I sat on deck watching +her with undiminished interest for hours. Apart from the spectacle, +the feeling of companionship, meeting human beings in +the middle of the ocean after so long a deprivation of society +(five days without seeing a sail, and nearly three weeks unspoken +from land), was delightful. Our brig was the faster sailer of the +two, but our captain took in some of his canvas for company's +sake; and all the afternoon we heard her half-hour bells, and the +boatswain's whistle, and the orders of the officers of the deck, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">24</a></span> +and I could distinguish very well, with a glass, the expression of +the faces watching our own really beautiful vessel as she skimmed +over the water like a bird. We parted at sunset, the man-of-war +making northerly for her port, and we stretching south for +the coast of France. I watched her till she went over the horizon, +and felt as if I had lost friends when the night closed in and +we were once more</p> + +<p class="blockquot"> +"Alone on the wide, wide sea." +</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Nov. 3.</span>—We have just made the port of Havre, and the pilot +tells us that the packet has been delayed by contrary winds, and +sails early to-morrow morning. The town bells are ringing +"nine" (as delightful a sound as I ever heard, to my sea-weary +ear), and I close in haste, for all is confusion on board.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25"></a></span></p> + +<h3>LETTER III.</h3> + +<p class="ch_st"><span class="smcap">Havre.</span>—This is one of those places which scribbling travellers +hurry through with a crisp mention of their arrival and +departure, but, as I have passed a day here upon customhouse +compulsion, and passed it pleasantly too, and as I have an evening +entirely to myself, and a good fire, why I will order another +<i>pound</i> of wood (they sell it like a drug here), and Monsieur and +Mademoiselle Somebodies, "violin players right from the hands +of Paganini, only fifteen years of age, and miracles of music," +(so says the placard), may delight other lovers of precocious +talent than I. Pen, ink, and paper for No. 2!</p> + +<p>If I had not been warned against being astonished, short of +Paris, I should have thought Havre quite an affair. I certainly +have seen more that is novel and amusing since morning than +I ever saw before in any seven days of my life. Not a face, not +a building, not a dress, not a child even, not a stone in the street, +nor shop, nor woman, nor beast of burden, looks in any comparable +degree like its namesake the other side of the water.</p> + +<p>It was very provoking to eat a salt supper and go to bed in that +tiresome berth again last night, with a French hotel in full view, +and no permission to send for a fresh biscuit even, or a cup of +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">26</a></span> +milk. It was nine o'clock when we reached the pier, and at that +late hour there was, of course, no officer to be had for permission +to land; and there paced the patrole, with his high black cap and +red pompon, up and down the quay, within six feet of our tafferel, +and a shot from his arquebuss would have been the consequence +of any unlicensed communication with the shore. It was +something, however, to sleep without rocking; and, after a fit of +musing anticipation, which kept me conscious of the sentinel's +measured tread till midnight, the "gentle goddess" sealed up my +cares effectually, and I awoke at sunrise—in France!</p> + +<p>It is a common thing enough to go abroad, and it may seem +idle and common-place to be enthusiastic about it; but nothing +is common or a trifle, to me, that can send the blood so warm to +my heart, and the color to my temples as generously, as did my +first conscious thought when I awoke this morning. <i>In France.</i> +I would not have had it a dream for the price of an empire.</p> + +<p>Early in the morning a woman came clattering into the cabin +with wooden shoes, and a <i>patois</i> of mingled French and English—a +<i>blanchisseuse</i>—spattered to the knees with mud, but with a cap +and 'kerchief that would have made the fortune of a New York +milliner. <i>Ciel!</i> what politeness! and what white teeth and +what a knowing row of papillotes, laid in precise parallel, on her +clear brunette temples.</p> + +<p>"<i>Quelle nouvelle!</i>" said the captain.</p> + +<p>"<i>Poland est a bas!</i>" was the answer, with a look of heroic +sorrow, that would have become a tragedy queen, mourning for +the loss of a throne. The French manner, for once, did not +appear exaggerated. It was news to sadden us all. Pity! pity! +that the broad Christian world could look on and see this glorious +people trampled to the dust in one of the most noble and desperate +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">27</a></span> +struggles for liberty that the earth ever saw! What an +opportunity was here lost to France for setting a seal of double +truth and splendor on her own newly-achieved triumph over despotism. +The washerwoman broke the silence with "<i>Any clothes +to wash, Monsieur?</i>" and in the instant return of my thoughts to +my own comparatively-pitiful interests, I found the philosophy +for all I had condemned in kings—the humiliating and selfish +individuality of human nature! And yet I believe with Dr. +Channing on that dogma.</p> + +<p>At ten o'clock I had performed the traveller's routine—had +submitted my trunk and my passport to the three authorities, and +had got into (and out of) as many mounting passions at what +seemed to me the intolerable impertinencies of searching my +linen, and inspecting my person for scars. I had paid the porter +three times his due rather than endure his cataract of French +expostulation; and with a bunch of keys, and a landlady attached +to it, had ascended by a cold, wet, marble staircase, to a parlor +and bedroom on the fifth floor: as pretty a place, when you +get there, and as difficult to get to as if it were a palace in thin +air. It is perfectly French! Fine, old, last-century chairs, +covered with splendid yellow damask, two sofas of the same, the +legs or arms of every one imperfect; a coarse wood dressing-table, +covered with fringed drapery and a sort of throne pincushion, +with an immense glass leaning over it, gilded probably in the +time of Henri Quatre; artificial flowers all around the room, +and prints of Atala and <i>Napoleon mourant</i> over the walls; windows +opening to the floor on hinges, damask and muslin curtains +inside, and boxes for flower-pots without; a bell-wire that pulls +no bell, a bellows too asthmatic even to wheeze, tongs that +refuse to meet, and a carpet as large as a table-cloth in the centre +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">28</a></span> +of the floor, may answer for an inventory of the "parlor." +The bedchamber, about half as large as the boxes in Rattle-row, +at Saratoga, opens by folding doors, and discloses a bed, that, for +tricksy ornament as well as size, might look the bridal couch for +a faery queen in a panorama; the same golden-sprig damask looped +over it, tent-fashion, with splendid crimson cord, tassels, fringes, +etc., and a pillow beneath that I shall be afraid to sleep on, it is +so dainty a piece of needle-work. There is a delusion about it, +positively. One cannot help imagining, that all this splendor +means something, and it would require a worse evil than any of +these little deficiencies of <i>comfort</i> to disturb the self-complacent, +Captain-Jackson sort of feeling, with which one throws his cloak +on one sofa and his hat on the other, and spreads himself out for +a lounge before this mere apology of a French fire.</p> + +<p>But, for eating and drinking! if they cook better in Paris, I +shall have my passport altered. The next <i>prefet</i> that signs it +shall substitute <i>gourmand</i> for <i>proprietaire</i>. I will profess a +palate, and live to eat. Making every allowance for an appetite +newly from sea, my experience hitherto in this department of +science is transcended in the degree of a rushlight to Arcturus.</p> + +<p>I strolled about Havre from breakfast till dinner, seven or +eight hours, following curiosity at random, up one street and +down another, with a prying avidity which I fear travel will wear +fast away. I must compress my observations into a sentence or +two, for my fire is out, and this old castle of a hotel lets in the wind +"shrewdly cold," and, besides, the diligence calls for me in a +few hours and one must sleep.</p> + +<p>Among my impressions the most vivid are—that, of the +twenty thousand inhabitants of Havre, by far the greater portion +are women and soldiers—that the buildings all look toppling, and +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">29</a></span> +insecurely antique and unsightly—that the privates of the regular +army are the most stupid, and those of the national guard the most +intelligent-looking troops I ever saw—that the streets are filthy +beyond endurance, and the shops clean beyond all praise—that the +women do all the buying and selling, and cart-driving and sweeping, +and even shoe-making, and other sedentary craftswork, and +at the same time have (the meanest of them) an air of ambitious +elegance and neatness, that sends your hand to your hat involuntarily +when you speak to them—that the children speak French, +and look like little old men and women, and the horses, (the +famed Norman breed) are the best of draught animals, and the +worst for speed in the world—and that, for extremes ridiculously +near, dirt and neatness, politeness and knavery, chivalry and +<i>petitesse</i>, of bearing and language, the people I have seen to-day +<i>must</i> be pre-eminently remarkable, or France, for a laughing philosopher, +is a paradise indeed! And now for my pillow, till the +diligence calls. Good night.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30"></a></span></p> + +<h3>LETTER IV.</h3> + +<p class="ch_st"><span class="smcap">Paris.</span>—It seems to me as if I were going back a month to +recall my departure from Havre, my memory is so clouded with +later incidents. I was awaked on the morning after I had written +to you, by a servant, who brought me at the same time a cup +of coffee, and at about an hour before daylight we were passing +through the huge gates of the town on our way to Paris. The +whole business of diligence-travelling amused me exceedingly. +The construction of this vehicle has often been described; but +its separate apartments (at four different prices), its enormous +size, its comfort and clumsiness, and, more than all, the driving +of its postillions, struck me as equally novel and diverting. This +last mentioned performer on the whip and voice (the only two +accomplishments he at all cultivates), rides one of the three +wheel horses, and drives the four or seven which are in advance, +as a grazier in our country drives a herd of cattle, and they +travel very much in the same manner. There is leather enough +in two of their clumsy harnesses, to say nothing of the postillion's +boots, to load a common horse heavily. I never witnessed such +a ludicrous absence of contrivance and tact as in the appointments +and driving of horses in a diligence. It is so in everything in +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">31</a></span> +France, indeed. They do not possess the quality as a nation. +The story of the Gascoigne, who saw a bridge for the first time, +and admired the ingenious economy that placed it across the +river, instead of lengthwise, is hardly an exaggeration.</p> + +<p>At daylight I found myself in the <i>coupé</i> (a single seat for three +in the front of the body of the carriage, with windows before and +at the sides), with two whiskered and mustached companions, +both very polite, and very unintelligible. I soon suspected, by +the science with which my neighbor on the left hummed little +snatches of popular operas, that he was a professed singer (a conjecture +which proved true), and it was equally clear, from the +complexion of the portfeuille on the lap of the other, that his +vocation was a liberal one—a conjecture which proved true also, +as he confessed himself a <i>diplomat</i>, when we became better +acquainted. For the first hour or more my attention was divided +between the dim but beautiful outline of the country by the +slowly approaching light of the dawn, and my nervousness at the +distressing want of skill in the postillion's driving. The increasing +and singular beauty of the country, even under the disadvantage +of rain and the late season, soon absorbed all my attention, +however, and my involuntary and half-suppressed exclamations +of pleasure, so unusual in an Englishman (for whom I found I +was taken), warmed the diplomatist into conversation, and I +passed the three ensuing hours very pleasantly. My companion +was on his return from Lithuania, having been sent out by the +French committee with arms and money for Poland. He was, +of course, a most interesting fellow-traveller; and, allowing for +the difficulty with which I understood the language, in the rapid +articulation of an enthusiastic Frenchman, I rarely have been +better pleased with a chance acquaintance. I found he had been +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">32</a></span> +in Greece during the revolution, and knew intimately my friend, +Dr. Howe, the best claim he could have on my interest, and, I +soon discovered, an answering recommendation of myself to +him.</p> + +<p>The province of Normandy is celebrated for its picturesque +beauty, but I had no conception before of the <i>cultivated</i> picturesque +of an old country. I have been a great scenery-hunter in +America, and my eye was new, like its hills and forests. The +massive, battlemented buildings of the small villages we passed +through, the heavy gateways and winding avenues and antique structure +of the distant and half-hidden châteaux, the perfect cultivation, +and, to me, singular appearance of a whole landscape +without a fence or a stone, the absence of all that we define by +<i>comfort</i> and <i>neatness</i>, and the presence of all that we have seen +in pictures and read of in books, but consider as the representations +and descriptions of ages gone by—all seemed to me irresistibly +like a dream. I could not rub my hand over my eyes, +and realize myself. I could not believe that, within a month's +voyage of my home, these spirit-stirring places had stood all my lifetime +as they do, and have—for ages—every stone as it was laid +in times of worm-eaten history—and looking to my eyes now as +they did to the eyes of knights and dames in the days of French +chivalry. I looked at the constantly-occurring ruins of the old +priories, and the magnificent and still-used churches, and my +blood tingled in my veins, as I saw, in the stepping-stones at their +doors, cavities that the sandals of monks, and the iron-shod feet +of knights in armor a thousand years ago, had trodden and helped +to wear, and the stone cross over the threshold, that hundreds of +generations had gazed upon and passed under.</p> + +<p>By a fortunate chance the postillion left the usual route at +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">33</a></span> +Balbec, and pursued what appeared to be a bye-road through +the grain-fields and vineyards for twenty or twenty-five miles. I +can only describe it as an uninterrupted green lane, winding +almost the whole distance through the bosom of a valley that +must be one of the very loveliest in the world. Imagine one of +such extent, without a fence to break the broad swells of verdure, +stretching up from the winding and unenclosed road on either +side, to the apparent sky; the houses occurring at distances of +miles, and every one with its thatched roof covered all over with +bright green moss, and its walls of marl interlaid through all the +crevices with clinging vines, the whole structure and its appurtenances +faultlessly picturesque, and, when you have conceived a +valley that might have contented Rasselas, scatter over it here +and there groups of men, women, and children, the Norman +peasantry in their dresses of all colors, as you see them in the +prints—and if there is anything that can better please the eye, +or make the imagination more willing to fold up its wings and +rest, my travels have not crossed it. I have recorded a vow to +walk through Normandy.</p> + +<p>As we approached Rouen the road ascended gradually, and a +sharp turn brought us suddenly to the brow of a steep hill, opposite +another of the same height, and with the same abrupt +descent, at the distance of a mile across. Between, lay Rouen. +I hardly know how to describe, for American eyes, the peculiar +beauty of this view; one of the most exquisite, I am told, in all +France. A town at the foot of a hill is common enough in our +country, but of the hundreds that answer to this description, I +can not name one that would afford a correct comparison. The +nice and excessive cultivation of the grounds in so old a country +gives the landscape a complexion essentially different from ours. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">34</a></span> +If there were another Mount Holyoke, for instance, on the other +side of the Connecticut, the situation of Northampton would be +very similar to that of Rouen; but, instead of the rural village, +with its glimpses of white houses seen through rich and luxurious +masses of foliage, the mountain sides above broken with rocks, +and studded with the gigantic and untouched relics of the native +forest, and the fields below waving with heavy crops, irregularly +fenced and divided, the whole picture one of an overlavish and +half-subdued Eden of fertility—instead of this I say—the broad +meadows, with the winding Seine in their bosom, are as trim as a +girl's flower-garden, the grass closely cut, and of a uniform surface +of green, the edges of the river set regularly with willows, the little +bright islands circled with trees, and smooth as a lawn; and +instead of green lanes lined with bushes, single streets running +right through the unfenced verdure, from one hill to another, and +built up with antique structures of stone—the whole looking, in the +<i>coup d'œil</i> of distance, like some fantastic model of a town, with +gothic houses of sand-paper, and meadows of silk velvet.</p> + +<p>You will find the size, population, etc., of Rouen in the guide-books. +As my object is to record impressions, not statistics, I +leave you to consult those laconic chronicles, or the books of a +thousand travellers, for all such information. The Maid of +Orleans was burnt here, as you know, in the fourteenth century. +There is a statue erected to her memory, which I did not see, +for it rained; and after the usual stop of two hours, as the barometer +promised no change in the weather, and as I was anxious +to be in Paris, I took my place in the night diligence and kept on.</p> + +<p>I amused myself till dark, watching the streams that poured +into the broad mouth of the postillion's boots from every part of +his dress, and musing on the fate of the poor Maid of Orleans; +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">35</a></span> +and then, sinking down into the comfortable corner of the <i>coupé</i>, +I slept almost without interruption till the next morning—the +best comment in the world on the only <i>comfortable</i> thing I have +yet seen in France, a diligence.</p> + +<p>It is a pleasant thing in a foreign land to see the familiar face +of the sun; and, as he rose over a distant hill on the left, I lifted +the window of the <i>coupé</i> to let him in, as I would open the door +to a long-missed friend. He soon reached a heavy cloud, however, +and my hopes of bright weather, when we should enter the +metropolis, departed. It began to rain again; and the postilion, +after his blue cotton frock was soaked through, put on his greatcoat +over it—an economy which is peculiarly French, and which +I observed in every succeeding postilion on the route. The last +twenty-five miles to Paris are uninteresting to the eye; and with +my own pleasant thoughts, tinct as they were with the brightness +of immediate anticipation, and an occasional laugh at the grotesque +figures and equipages on the road, I made myself passably +contented till I entered the suburb of St. Denis.</p> + +<p>It is something to see the outside of a sepulchre for kings, and +the old abbey of St. Denis needs no association to make a sight +of it worth many a mile of weary travel. I could not stop within +four miles of Paris, however, and I contented myself with running +to get a second view of it in the rain while the postilion +breathed his horses. The strongest association about it, old and +magnificent as it is, is the fact that Napoleon repaired it after the +revolution; and standing in probably the finest point for its front +view, my heart leaped to my throat as I fancied that Napoleon, +with his mighty thoughts, had stood in that very spot, possibly, +and contemplated the glorious old pile before me as the place of +his future repose. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">36</a></span></p> + +<p>After four miles more, over a broad straight avenue, paved in +the centre and edged with trees, we arrived at the port of St. +Denis. I was exceedingly struck with the grandeur of the gate +as we passed under, and, referring to the guide-book, I find it was +a triumphal arch erected to Louis XIV., and the one by which +the kings of France invariably enter. This also was restored by +Napoleon, with his infallible taste, without changing its design: +and it is singular how everything that great man touched became +his own—for, who remembers for whom it was raised while he is +told who employed his great intellect in its repairs?</p> + +<p>I entered Paris on Sunday at eleven o'clock. I never should +have recognized the day. The shops were all open, the artificers +all at work, the unintelligible criers vociferating their wares, and +the people in their working-day dresses. We wound through +street after street, narrow and dark and dirty, and with my mind +full of the splendid views of squares, and columns, and bridges, +as I had seen them in the prints, I could scarce believe I was in +Paris. A turn brought us into a large court, that of the Messagerie, +the place at which all travellers are set down on arrival. +Here my baggage was once more inspected, and, after a half-hour's +delay, I was permitted to get into a <i>fiacre</i>, and drive to a +hotel. As one is a specimen of all, I may as well describe the +<i>Hotel d'Etrangers</i>, Rue Vivienne, which, by the way, I take the +liberty at the same time to recommend to my friends. It is the +precise centre for the convenience of sight-seeing, admirably +kept, and, being nearly opposite Galignani's, that bookstore of +Europe, is a very pleasant resort for the half hour before dinner, +or a rainy day. I went there at the instance of my friend the +<i>diplomat</i>.</p> + +<p>The <i>fiacre</i> stopped before an arched passage, and a fellow in +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">37</a></span> +livery, who had followed me from the Messagerie (probably in +the double character of porter and police agent, as my passport +was yet to be demanded), took my trunk into a small office on +the left, over which was written "<i>Concierge</i>." This person, +who is a kind of respectable doorkeeper, addressed me in broken +English, without waiting for the evidence of my tongue, that I +was a foreigner, and, after inquiring at what price I would have +a room, introduced me to the landlady, who took me across a large +court (the houses are built <i>round</i> the yard always in France), to +the corresponding story of the house. The room was quite +pretty, with its looking-glasses and curtains, but there was no +carpet, and the fireplace was ten feet deep. I asked to see another, +and another, and another; they were all curtains and looking-glasses, +and stone-floors! There is no wearying a French +woman, and I pushed my modesty till I found a chamber to my +taste—a nutshell, to be sure, but carpeted—and bowing my +polite housekeeper out, I rang for breakfast and was at home in +Paris.</p> + +<p>There are few things bought with money that are more delightful +than a French breakfast. If you take it at your room, it +appears in the shape of two small vessels, one of coffee and one +of hot milk, two kinds of bread, with a thin, printed slice of +butter, and one or two of some thirty dishes from which you +choose, the latter flavored exquisitely enough to make one wish to +be always at breakfast, but cooked and composed I know not +how or of what. The coffee has an aroma peculiarly exquisite, +something quite different from any I ever tasted before; and the +<i>petit-pain</i>, a slender biscuit between bread and cake, is, when +crisp and warm, a delightful accompaniment. All this costs +about one third as much as the beefsteaks and coffee in America, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">38</a></span> +and at the same time that you are waited upon with a civility +that is worth three times the money.</p> + +<p>It still rained at noon, and, finding that the usual dinner hour +was five, I took my umbrella for a walk. In a strange city I +prefer always to stroll about at hazard, coming unawares upon +what is fine or curious. The hackneyed descriptions in the +guidebooks profane the spirit of a place; I never look at them till +after I have found the object, and then only for dates. The +Rue Vivienne was crowded with people, as I emerged from the +dark archway of the hotel to pursue my wanderings.</p> + +<p>A walk of this kind, by the way, shows one a great deal of +novelty. In France there are no shop-<i>men</i>. No matter what is +the article of trade—hats, boots, pictures, books, jewellery, anything +or everything that gentlemen buy—you are waited upon by +girls, always handsome, and always dressed in the height of the +mode. They sit on damask-covered settees, behind the counters; +and, when you enter, bow and rise to serve you, with a grace and +a smile of courtesy that would become a drawing-room. And +this is universal.</p> + +<p>I strolled on until I entered a narrow passage, penetrating a +long line of buildings. It was thronged with people, and passing +in with the rest, I found myself unexpectedly in a scene that +equally surprised and delighted me. It was a spacious square +enclosed by one entire building. The area was laid out as a +garden, planted with long avenues of trees and beds of flowers, +and in the centre a fountain was playing in the shape of a <i>fleur-de-lis</i>, +with a jet about forty feet in height. A superb colonnade +ran round the whole square, making a covered gallery of the +lower story, which was occupied by shops of the most splendid +appearance, and thronged through its long sheltered <i>pavès</i> by +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">39</a></span> +thousands of gay promenaders. It was the far-famed <i>Palais +Royal</i>. I remembered the description I had heard of its gambling +houses, and facilities for every vice, and looked with a new +surprise on its Aladdin-like magnificence. The hundreds of beautiful +pillars, stretching away from the eye in long and distant +perspective, the crowd of citizens, and women, and officers in +full uniform, passing and re-passing with French liveliness and +politeness, the long windows of plated glass glittering with jewellery, +and bright with everything to tempt the fancy, the tall +sentinels pacing between the columns, and the fountain turning +over its clear waters with a fall audible above the tread and +voices of the thousands who walked around it—who could look +upon such a scene and believe it what it is, the most corrupt spot, +probably, on the face of the civilized world?<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40"></a></span></p> + +<h3>LETTER V.</h3> + +<p class="ch_sum">THE LOUVRE—AMERICANS IN PARIS—POLITICS, ETC.</p> + +<p>The salient object in my idea of Paris has always been the +Louvre. I have spent some hours in its vast gallery to-day and +I am sure it will retain the same prominence in my recollections. +The whole palace is one of the oldest, and said to be one of the +finest, in Europe; and, if I may judge from its impressiveness, +the vast inner court (the <i>façades</i> of which were restored to their +original simplicity by Napoleon), is a specimen of high architectural +perfection. One could hardly pass through it without being +better fitted to see the masterpieces of art within; and it requires +this, and all the expansiveness of which the mind is capable +besides, to walk through the <i>Musée Royale</i> without the painful +sense of a magnificence beyond the grasp of the faculties.</p> + +<p>I delivered my passport at the door of the palace, and, +as is customary, recorded my name, country, and profession in +the book, and proceeded to the gallery. The grand double staircase, +one part leading to the private apartments of the royal +household, is described voluminously in the authorities; and, +truly, for one who has been accustomed to convenient dimensions +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">41</a></span> +only, its breadth, its lofty ceilings, its pillars and statuary, its +mosaic pavements and splendid windows, are enough to unsettle +for ever the standards of size and grandeur. The strongest feeling +one has, as he stops half way up to look about him, is the ludicrous +disproportion between it and the size of the inhabiting +animals. I should smile to see any man ascend such a staircase, +except, perhaps, Napoleon.</p> + +<p>Passing through a kind of entrance-hall, I came to a spacious +<i>salle ronde</i>, lighted from the ceiling, and hung principally with +pictures of a large size, one of the most conspicuous of which, +"The Wreck," has been copied by an American artist, Mr. +Cooke, and is now exhibiting in New York. It is one of the +best of the French school, and very powerfully conceived. I +regret, however, that he did not prefer the wonderfully fine piece +opposite, which is worth all the pictures ever painted in France, +"The Marriage Supper at Cana." The left wing of the table, +projected toward the spectator, with seven or eight guests who +occupy it, absolutely stands out into the hall. It seems impossible +that color and drawing upon a flat surface can so cheat the +eye.</p> + +<p>From the <i>salle ronde</i>, on the right opens the grand gallery, +which, after the lesson I had just received in perspective, I took, +at the first glance, to be a painting. You will realize the facility +of the deception when you consider, that, with a breadth of but +forty-two feet, this gallery is one thousand three hundred and +thirty-two feet (more than a quarter of a mile) in length. The +floor is of tesselated woods, polished with wax like a table; and +along its glassy surface were scattered perhaps a hundred visiters, +gazing at the pictures in varied attitudes, and with sizes reduced +in proportion to their distance, the farthest off looking, in the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">42</a></span> +long perspective, like pigmies of the most diminutive description. +It is like a matchless painting to the eye, after all. The ceiling +is divided by nine or ten arches, standing each on four Corinthian +columns, projecting into the area; and the natural perspective +of these, and the artists scattered from one end to the other, +copying silently at their easels, and a soldier at every division, +standing upon his guard, quite as silent and motionless, would +make it difficult to convince a spectator, who was led blindfold +and unprepared to the entrance, that it was not some superb +diorama, figures and all.</p> + +<p>I found our distinguished countryman, Morse, copying a beautiful +Murillo at the end of the gallery. He is also engaged upon +a Raffaelle for Cooper, the novelist. Among the French artists, +I noticed several soldiers, and some twenty or thirty females, the +latter with every mark in their countenances of absorbed and +extreme application. There was a striking difference in this +respect between them and the artists of the other sex. With the +single exception of a lovely girl, drawing from a Madonna, by +Guido, and protected by the presence of an elderly companion, +these lady painters were anything but interesting in their appearance.</p> + +<p>Greenough, the sculptor, is in Paris, and engaged just now in +taking the bust of an Italian lady. His reputation is now very +enviable; and his passion for his art, together with his untiring +industry and his fine natural powers, will work him up to something +that will, before long, be an honor to our country. If the +wealthy men of taste in America would give Greenough liberal +orders for his time and talents, and send out Augur, of New +Haven, to Italy, they would do more to advance this glorious art +in our country, than by expending ten times the sum in any other +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">43</a></span> +way. They are both men of rare genius, and both ardent and +diligent, and they are both cramped by the universal curse of +genius—necessity. The Americans in Paris are deliberating at +present on some means for expressing unitedly to our government +their interest in Greenough, and their appreciation of his +merit of public and private patronage. For the love of true +taste, do everything in your power to second such an appeal when +it comes.</p> + +<hr class="l15" /> + +<p>It is a queer feeling to find oneself a <i>foreigner</i>. One cannot +realize, long at a time, how his face or his manners should have +become peculiar; and, after looking at a print for five minutes in +a shop window, or dipping into an English book, or in any manner +throwing off the mental habit of the instant, the curious gaze +of the passer by, or the accent of a strange language, strikes one +very singularly. Paris is full of foreigners of all nations, and of +course, physiognomies of all characters may be met everywhere, +but, differing as the European nations do decidedly from each +other, they differ still more from the American. Our countrymen, +as a class, are distinguishable wherever they are met; not +as Americans however, for, of the habits and manners of our +country, people know nothing this side the water. But there is +something in an American face, of which I never was aware till +I met them in Europe, that is altogether peculiar. The French +take the Americans to be English: but an Englishman, while he +presumes him his countryman, shows a curiosity to know who he +is, which is very foreign to his usual indifference. As far as I +can analyze it, it is the independent self-possessed bearing of a +man unused to look up to any one as his superior in rank, united +to the inquisitive, sensitive, communicative expression which is +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">44</a></span> +the index to our national character. The first is seldom possessed +in England but by a man of decided rank, and the latter +is never possessed by an Englishman at all. The two are united +in no other nation. Nothing is easier than to tell the rank of an +Englishman, and nothing puzzles a European more than to know +how to rate the pretensions of an American.</p> + +<hr class="l15" /> + +<p>On my way home from the Boulevards this evening, I was fortunate +enough to pass through the grand court of the Louvre, at +the moment when the moon broke through the clouds that have +concealed her own light and the sun's ever since I have been in +France. I had often stopped, in passing the sentinels at the +entrance, to admire the grandeur of the interior to this oldest of +the royal palaces; but to-night, my dead halt within the shadow +of the arch, as the view broke upon my eye, and my sudden +exclamation in English, startled the grenadier, and he had half +presented his musket, when I apologized and passed on. It was +magically beautiful indeed! and, with the moonlight pouring +obliquely into the sombre area, lying full upon the taller of the +three <i>façades</i>, and drawing its soft line across the rich windows +and massive pilasters and arches of the eastern and western, +while the remaining front lay in the heavy black shadow of relief, +it seemed to me more like an accidental regularity in some rocky +glen of America, than a pile of human design and proportion. +It is strange how such high walls shut out the world. The court +of the Louvre is in the very centre of the busiest quarter of +Paris, thousands of persons passing and repassing constantly at +the extremity of the long arched entrances, and yet, standing on +the pavement of that lonely court, no living creature in sight but +the motionless grenadiers at either gate, the noises without coming +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">45</a></span> +to your ear in a subdued murmur, like the wind on the sea, +and nothing visible above but the sky, resting like a ceiling on +the lofty walls, the impression of utter solitude is irresistible. I +passed out by the archway for which Napoleon constructed his +bronze gates, said to be the most magnificent of modern times, +and which are now lying in some obscure corner unused, no succeeding +power having had the spirit or the will to complete, even +by the slight labor that remained, his imperial design. All over +Paris you may see similar instances; they meet you at every +step: glorious plans defeated; works, that with a mere moiety +of what has been already expended in their progress, might be +finished with an effect that none but a mind like Napoleon's could +have originally projected.</p> + +<hr class="l15" /> + +<p>Paris, of course, is rife with politics. There is but one +opinion on the subject of another pending revolution. The +"people's king" is about as unpopular as he need be for the purposes +of his enemies; and he has aggravated the feeling against +him very unnecessarily by his late project in the Tuileries. The +whole thing is very characteristic of the French people. He +might have deprived them of half their civil rights without immediate +resistance; but to cut off a strip of the public garden to +make a play ground for his children—to encroach a hundred feet +on the pride of Paris, the daily promenade of the idlers, who do +all the discussion of his measures, it was a little too venturesome. +Unfortunately, too, the offence is in the very eye of curiosity, +and the workmen are surrounded, from morning till night, by +thousands of people, of all classes, gesticulating, and looking at +the palace windows and winding themselves gradually up to the +revolutionary pitch. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">46</a></span></p> + +<p>In the event of an explosion, the liberal party will not want +partizans, for France is crowded with refugees from tyranny, of +every nation. The Poles are flocking hither every day, and the +streets are full of their melancholy faces! Poor fellows! they suffer +dreadfully from want. The public charity for refugees has been +wrung dry long ago, and the most heroic hearts of Poland, after +having lost everything but life, in their unavailing struggle, are +starving absolutely in the streets. Accident has thrown me into +the confidence of a well-known liberal—one of those men of +whom the proud may ask assistance without humiliation, and +circumstances have thus come to my knowledge, which would +move a heart of stone. The fictitious sufferings of "Thaddeus +of Warsaw," are transcended in real-life misery every day, +and by natures quite as noble. Lafayette, I am credibly assured, +has anticipated several years of his income in relieving them; +and no possible charity could be so well bestowed as contributions +for the Poles, starving in these heartless cities.</p> + +<p>I have just heard that Chodsko, a Pole, of distinguished talent +and learning, who threw his whole fortune and energy into the +late attempted revolution, was arrested here last night, with +eight others of his countrymen, under suspicion by the government. +The late serious insurrection at Lyons has alarmed +the king, and the police is exceedingly strict. The Spanish and +Italian refugees, who receive pensions from France, have been +ordered off to the provincial towns, by the minister of the interior, +and there is every indication of extreme and apprehensive caution. +The papers, meantime, are raving against the ministry in +the most violent terms, and the king is abused without qualification, +everywhere.</p> + +<p>I went, a night or two since, to one of the minor theatres to +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">47</a></span> +see the representation of a play, which has been performed for +the <i>hundred and second time</i>!—"Napoleon at Schoenbrun and +St. Helena." My object was to study the feelings of the people +toward Napoleon II., as the exile's love for his son is one of the +leading features of the piece. It was beautifully played—most +beautifully! and I never saw more enthusiasm manifested by an +audience. Every allusion of Napoleon to his child, was received +with that undertoned, gutteral acclamation, that expresses such +deep feeling in a crowd; and the piece is so written that its +natural pathos alone is irresistible. No one could doubt for an +instant, it seems to me, that the entrance of young Napoleon +into France, at any critical moment, would be universally and +completely triumphant. The great cry at Lyons was "<i>Vive +Napoleon II.!</i>"</p> + +<p>I have altered my arrangements a little, in consequence of the +state of feeling here. My design was to go to Italy immediately, +but affairs promise such an interesting and early change, that I +shall pass the winter in Paris. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48"></a></span></p> + +<h3>LETTER VI.</h3> + +<p class="ch_sum">TAGLIONI—FRENCH STAGE, ETC.</p> + +<p>I went last night to the French opera, to see the first dancer +of the world. The prodigious enthusiasm about her, all over +Europe, had, of course, raised my expectations to the highest +possible pitch. "<i>Have you seen Taglioni?</i>" is the first question +addressed to a stranger in Paris; and you hear her name constantly +over all the hum of the <i>cafés</i> and in the crowded resorts +of fashion. The house was overflowed. The king and his +numerous family were present; and my companion pointed out +to me many of the nobility, whose names and titles have been +made familiar to our ears by the innumerable private memoirs +and autobiographies of the day. After a little introductory +piece, the king arrived, and, as soon as the cheering was over, +the curtain drew up for "<i>Le Dieu et la Bayadere</i>." This is the +piece in which Taglioni is most famous. She takes the part of +a dancing girl, of whom the Bramah and an Indian prince are +both enamored; the former in the disguise of a man of low rank +at the court of the latter, in search of some one whose love for +him shall be disinterested. The disguised god succeeds in winning +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">49</a></span> +her affection, and, after testing her devotion by submitting +for a while to the resentment of his rival, and by a pretended +caprice in favor of a singing girl, who accompanies her, he marries +her, and then saves her from the flames as she is about to be +burned for marrying beneath her <i>caste</i>. Taglioni's part is all +pantomime. She does not speak during the play, but her motion +is more than articulate. Her first appearance was in a troop of +Indian dancing girls, who performed before the prince in the +public square. At a signal from the vizier a side pavilion opened, +and thirty or forty bayaderes glided out together, and commenced +an intricate dance. They were received with a tremendous round +of applause from the audience; but, with the exception of a +little more elegance in the four who led the dance, they were +dressed nearly alike; and as I saw no particularly conspicuous +figure, I presumed that Taglioni had not yet appeared. The +splendor of the spectacle bewildered me for the first moment or +two, but I presently found my eyes rivetted to a childish creature +floating about among the rest, and, taking her for some +beautiful young <i>elève</i> making her first essays in the chorus, I +interpreted her extraordinary fascination as a triumph of nature +over my unsophisticated taste; and wondered to myself whether, +after all, I should be half so much captivated with the show of +skill I expected presently to witness. <i>This was Taglioni!</i> She +came forward directly, in a <i>pas seul</i>, and I then observed that her +dress was distinguished from that of her companions by its +extreme modesty both of fashion and ornament, and the unconstrained +ease with which it adapted itself to her shape and +motion. She looks not more than fifteen. Her figure is small, +but rounded to the very last degree of perfection; not a muscle +swelled beyond the exquisite outline; not an angle, not a fault. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">50</a></span> +Her back and neck, those points so rarely beautiful in woman, +are faultlessly formed; her feet and hands are in full proportion +to her size, and the former play as freely and with as natural a +yieldingness in her fairy slippers, as if they were accustomed only +to the dainty uses of a drawing-room. Her face is most strangely +interesting; not quite beautiful, but of that half-appealing, half-retiring +sweetness that you sometimes see blended with the +secluded reserve and unconscious refinement of a young girl just +"out" in a circle of high fashion. In her greatest exertions her +features retain the same timid half smile, and she returns to the +alternate by-play of her part without the slightest change of +color, or the slightest perceptible difference in her breathing, or +in the ease of her look and posture. No language can describe +her motion. She swims in your eye like a curl of smoke, or a +flake of down. Her difficulty seems to be to keep to the floor. +You have the feeling while you gaze upon her, that, if she were +to rise and float away like Ariel, you would scarce be surprised. +And yet all is done with such a childish unconsciousness of admiration, +such a total absence of exertion or fatigue, that the +delight with which she fills you is unmingled; and, assured as +you are by the perfect purity of every look and attitude, that her +hitherto spotless reputation is deserved beyond a breath of suspicion, +you leave her with as much respect as admiration; and find +with surprise that a dancing girl, who is exposed night after night +to the profaning gaze of the world, has crept into one of the most +sacred niches of your memory.</p> + +<hr class="l15" /> + +<p>I have attended several of the best theatres in Paris, and find +one striking trait in all their first actors—<i>nature</i>. They do not +look like actors, and their playing is not like acting. They are men, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">51</a></span> +generally, of the most earnest, unstudied simplicity of countenance; +and when they come upon the stage, it is singularly without affectation, +and as the character they represent would appear. Unlike +most of the actors I have seen, too, they seem altogether +unaware of the presence of the audience. Nothing disturbs the +fixed attention they give to each other in the dialogue, and no +private interview between simple and sincere men could be more +unconscious and natural. I have formed consequently a high +opinion of the French drama, degenerate as it is said to be since +the loss of Talma; and it is easy to see that the root of its +excellence is in the taste and judgment of the people. <i>They +applaud judiciously.</i> When Taglioni danced her wonderful <i>pas +seul</i>, for instance, the applause was general and sufficient. It +was a triumph of art, and she was applauded as an artist. But +when, as the neglected bayadere, she stole from the corner of the +cottage, and, with her indescribable grace, hovered about the +couch of the disguised Bramah, watching and fanning him while +he slept, she expressed so powerfully, by the saddened tenderness +of her manner, the devotion of a love that even neglect could +not estrange, that a murmur of delight ran through the whole +house; and, when her silent pantomime was interrupted by the +waking of the god, there was an overwhelming tumult of acclamation +that came from the <i>hearts</i> of the audience, and as such +must have been both a lesson, and the highest compliment, to +Taglioni. An actor's taste is of course very much regulated by +that of his audience. He will cultivate that for which he is most +praised. We shall never have a high-toned drama in America, +while, as at present, applause is won only by physical exertion, +and the nice touches of genius and nature pass undetected and +unfelt. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">52</a></span></p> + +<p>Of the French actresses, I have been most pleased with Leontine +Fay. She is not much talked of here, and perhaps, as a +mere artist in her profession, is inferior to those who are more +popular; but she has that indescribable something in her face that +has interested me through life—that strange talisman which is +linked wisely to every heart, confining its interest to some nice +difference invisible to other eyes, and, by a happy consequence, +undisputed by other admiration. She, too, has that retired +sweetness of look that seems to come only from secluded habits, +and in the highly-wrought passages of tragedy, when her fine +dark eyes are filled with tears, and her tones, which have never +the out-of-doors key of the stage, are clouded and imperfect, she +seems less an actress than a refined and lovely woman, breaking +through the habitual reserve of society in some agonizing crisis +of real life. There are prints of Leontine Fay in the shops, and +I have seen them in America, but they resemble her very little. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53"></a></span></p> + +<h3>LETTER VII.</h3> + +<p class="ch_sum">JOACHIM LELEWEL—PALAIS ROYAL—PERE LA CHAISE—VERSAILLES, +ETC.</p> + +<p>I met, at a breakfast party, to-day, Joachim Lelewel, the +celebrated scholar and patriot of Poland. Having fallen in with +a great deal of revolutionary and emigrant society since I have +been in Paris, I have often heard his name, and looked forward +to meeting him with high pleasure and curiosity. His writings +are passionately admired by his countrymen. He was the principal +of the university, idolized by that effective part of the +population, the students of Poland; and the fearless and lofty +tone of his patriotic principles is said to have given the first and +strongest momentum to the ill-fated struggle just over. Lelewel +impressed me very strongly. Unlike most of the Poles, who are +erect, athletic, and florid, he is thin, bent, and pale; and were it +not for the fire and decision of his eye, his uncertain gait and +sensitive address would convey an expression almost of timidity. +His form, features, and manners, are very like those of Percival, +the American poet, though their countenances are marked with +the respective difference of their habits of mind. Lelewel looks +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">54</a></span> +like a naturally modest, shrinking man, worked up to the calm +resolution of a martyr. The strong stamp of his face is devoted +enthusiasm. His eye is excessively bright, but quiet and habitually +downcast; his lips are set firmly, but without effort, +together; and his voice is almost sepulchral, it is so low and +calm. He never breaks through his melancholy, though his +refugee countrymen, except when Poland is alluded to, have all +the vivacity of French manners, and seem easily to forget their +misfortunes. He was silent, except when particularly addressed, +and had the air of a man who thought himself unobserved, and +had shrunk into his own mind. I felt that he was winning upon +my heart every moment. I never saw a man in my life whose +whole air and character were so free from self-consciousness or +pretension—never one who looked to me so capable of the calm, +lofty, unconquerable heroism of a martyr.</p> + +<hr class="l15" /> + +<p>"Paris is the centre of the world," if centripetal tendency is +any proof of it. Everything struck off from the other parts of +the universe flies straight to the <i>Palais Royal</i>. You may meet +in its thronged galleries, in the course of an hour, representatives +of every creed, rank, nation, and system, under heaven. Hussein +Pacha and Don Pedro pace daily the same <i>pavé</i>—the one +brooding on a kingdom lost, the other on the throne he hopes to +win; the Polish general and the proscribed Spaniard, the exiled +Italian conspirator, the contemptuous Turk, the well-dressed +negro from Hayti, and the silk-robed Persian, revolve by the +hour together around the same <i>jet d'eau</i>, and costumes of every +cut and order, mustaches and beards of every degree of ferocity +and oddity, press so fast and thick upon the eye that one forgets +to be astonished. There are no such things as "lions" in Paris. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">55</a></span> +The extraordinary persons outnumber the ordinary. Every other +man you meet would keep a small town in a ferment for a month.</p> + +<hr class="l15" /> + +<p>I spent yesterday at <i>Pére la Chaise</i>, and to day at <i>Versailles</i>. +The two places are in opposite environs, and of very opposite +characters—one certainly making you in love with life, the other +almost as certainly with death. One could wander for ever in +the wilderness of art at Versailles, and it must be a restless ghost +that could not content itself with <i>Pére la Chaise</i> for its elysium.</p> + +<p>This beautiful cemetery is built upon the broad ascent of a +hill, commanding the whole of Paris at a glance. It is a wood +of small trees, laid out in alleys, and crowded with tombs +and monuments of every possible description. You will scarce +get through without being surprised into a tear; but, if affectation +and fantasticalness in such a place do not more grieve than +amuse you, you will much oftener smile. The whole thing is a +melancholy mock of life. Its distinctions are all kept up. +There are the fashionable avenues, lined with costly chapels and +monuments, with the names of the exclusive tenants in golden +letters upon the doors, iron railings set forbiddingly about the +shrubs, and the blessing-scrap writ ambitiously in Latin. The +tablets record the long family titles, and the offices and honors, +perhaps the numberless virtues of the dead. They read like +chapters of heraldry more than like epitaphs. It is a relief to +get into the outer alleys, and see how poverty and simple feeling +express what should be the same thing. It is usually some brief +sentence, common enough, but often exquisitely beautiful in this +prettiest of languages, and expressing always the <i>kind</i> of sorrow +felt by the mourner. You can tell, for instance, by the sentiment +simply, without looking at the record below, whether the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">56</a></span> +deceased was young, or much loved, or mourned by husband, or +parent, or brother, or a circle of all. I noticed one, however, +the humblest and simplest monument perhaps in the whole +cemetery, which left the story beautifully untold; it was a slab +of common marl, inscribed "<i>Pauvre Marie!</i>"—nothing more. I +have thought of it, and speculated upon it, a great deal since. +What was she? and who wrote her epitaph? <i>why</i> was she <i>pauvre +Marie</i>?</p> + +<p>Before almost all the poorer monuments is a minature garden +with a low wooden fence, and either the initials of the dead sown +in flowers, or rose-trees, carefully cultivated, trained to hang over +the stone. I was surprised to find, in a public cemetery, in +December, roses in full bloom and valuable exotics at almost +every grave. It speaks both for the sentiment and delicate +principle of the people. Few of the more costly monuments +were either interesting or pretty. One struck my fancy—a +small open chapel, large enough to contain four chairs, with the +slab facing the door, and a crucifix encircled with fresh flowers on +a simple shrine above. It is a place where the survivors in a +family might come and sit at any time, nowhere more pleasantly. +From the chapel I speak of, you may look out and see all Paris; +and I can imagine how it would lessen the feeling of desertion and +forgetfulness that makes the anticipation of death so dreadful, to +be certain that your friends would come, as they may here, and +talk cheerfully and enjoy themselves near you, so to speak. The +cemetery in summer must be one of the sweetest places in the +world.</p> + +<hr class="l15" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">57</a></span></p> + +<p><i>Versailles</i> is a royal summer chateau, about twelve miles from +Paris, with a demesne of twenty miles in circumference. Take +that for the scale, and imagine a palace completed in proportion, +in all its details of grounds, ornament, and architecture. It cost, +says the guide book, two hundred and fifty millions of dollars; +and, leaving your fancy to expend that trifle over a residence, +which, remember, is but one out of some half dozen, occupied +during the year by a single family, I commend the republican +moral to your consideration, and proceed with the more particular +description of my visit.</p> + +<p>My friend, Dr. Howe, was my companion. We drove up the +grand avenue on one of the loveliest mornings that ever surprised +December with a bright sun and a warm south wind. Before us, +at the distance of a mile, lay a vast mass of architecture, with +the centre, falling back between the two projecting wings, the +whole crowning a long and gradual ascent, of which the tri-colored +flag waving against the sky from the central turrets was +the highest point. As we approached, we noticed an occasional +flash in the sun, and a stir of bright colors, through the broad +deep court between the wings, which, as we advanced nearer, +proved to be a body of about two or three thousand lancers and +troops of the line under review. The effect was indescribably fine. +The gay uniforms, the hundreds of tall lances, each with its red +flag flying in the wind, the imposing crescent of architecture in +which the array was embraced, the ringing echo of the grand +military music from the towers—and all this intoxication for the +positive senses fused with the historical atmosphere of the place, +the recollection of the king and queen, whose favorite residence it +had been (the unfortunate Louis and Marie Antoinette), or the +celebrated women who had lived in their separate palaces within +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">58</a></span> +its grounds, of the genius and chivalry of Court after Court that +had made it, in turn, the scene of their brilliant follies, and, over +all, Napoleon, who <i>must</i> have rode through its gilded gates with +the thought of pride that he was its imperial master by the royalty +of his great nature alone—it was in truth, enough, the real and +the ideal, to dazzle the eyes of a simple republican.</p> + +<p>After gazing at the fascinating show for an hour, we took a guide +and entered the palace. We were walked through suite after suite +of cold apartments, desolately splendid with gold and marble, +and crowded with costly pictures, till I was sick and weary of +magnificence. The guide went before, saying over his rapid +rigmarole of names and dates, giving us about three minutes to a +room in which there were some twenty pictures, perhaps, of which +he presumed he had told us all that was necessary to know. +I fell behind, after a while; and, as a considerable English party +had overtaken and joined us, I succeeded in keeping one room in +the rear, and enjoying the remainder in my own way.</p> + +<p>The little marble palace, called "<i>Petit Trianon</i>," built for +Madame Pompadour in the garden grounds, is a beautiful affair, +full of what somebody calls "affectionate-looking rooms;" and +"<i>Grand Trianon</i>," built also on the grounds at the distance of +half a mile, for Madame Maintenon, is a very lovely spot, made +more interesting by the preference given to it over all other places +by Marie Antoinette. Here she amused herself with her Swiss +village. The cottages and artificial "mountains" (ten feet high, +perhaps) are exceedingly pretty models in miniature, and probably +illustrate very fairly the ideas of a palace-bred fancy upon +natural scenery. There are glens and grottoes, and rocky beds +for brooks that run at will ("<i>les rivieres à volonté</i>," the guide +called them), and trees set out upon the crags at most uncomfortable +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">59</a></span> +angles, and every contrivance to make a lovely lawn as +inconveniently like nature as possible. The Swiss families, however, +must have been very amusing. Brought fresh from their +wild country, and set down in these pretty mock cottages, with +orders to live just as they did in their own mountains, they must +have been charmingly puzzled. In the midst of the village +stands an exquisite little Corinthian temple; and our guide +informed us that the cottage which the Queen occupied at her +Swiss tea-parties was furnished at an expense of sixty thousand +francs—two not very Switzer-like circumstances.</p> + +<p>It was in the little palace of <i>Trianon</i> that Napoleon signed his +divorce from Josephine. The guide showed us the room, and the +table on which he wrote. I have seen nothing that brought me +so near Napoleon. There is no place in France that could have +for me a greater interest. It is a little <i>boudoir</i>, adjoining the state +sleeping-room, simply furnished, and made for familiar retirement, +not for show. The single sofa—the small round table—the +enclosing, tent-like curtains—the modest, unobtrusive elegance +of ornaments, and furniture, give it rather the look of a retreat, +fashioned by the tenderness and taste of private life, than any +apartment in a royal palace. I felt unwilling to leave it. My +thoughts were too busy. What was the strongest motive of that +great man in this most affecting and disputed action of his life?</p> + +<p>After having been thridded through the palaces, we had a few +moments left for the grounds. They are magnificent beyond description. +We know very little of this thing in America, as an +art; but it is one, I have come to think, that, in its requisition +of genius, is scarce inferior to architecture. Certainly the three +palaces of Versailles together did not impress me so much as the +single view from the upper terrace of the gardens. It stretches +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">60</a></span> +clear over the horizon. You stand on a natural eminence that +commands the whole country, and the plan seems to you like +some work of the Titans. The long sweep of the avenue, with a +breadth of descent that at the first glance takes away your breath, +stretching its two lines of gigantic statues and vases to the water +level; the wide, slumbering canal at its foot, carrying on the eye +to the horizon, like a river of an even flood lying straight through +the bosom of the landscape; the side avenues almost as extensive; +the palaces in the distant grounds, and the strange union +altogether, to an American, of as much extent as the eye can +reach, cultivated equally with the trim elegance of a garden—all +these, combining together, form a spectacle which nothing but +nature's royalty of genius could design, and (to descend ungracefully +from the climax) which only the exactions of an unnatural +royalty could pay for.</p> + +<hr class="l15" /> + +<p>I think the most forcible lesson one learns at Paris is the +value of time and money. I have always been told, erroneously, +that it was a place to waste both. You could do so much with +another hour, if you had it, and buy so much with another dollar, +if you could afford it, that the reflected economy upon what you +<i>can</i> command, is inevitable. As to the worth of time, for instance, +there are some twelve or fourteen <i>gratuitous</i> lectures +every day at the <i>Sorbonne</i>, the <i>School of Medicine</i> and the <i>College +of France</i>, by men like Cuvier, Say, Spurzheim, and others, each, +in his professed pursuit, the most eminent perhaps in the world; +and there are the Louvre, and the Royal Library, and the Mazarin +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">61</a></span> +Library, and similar public institutions, all open to gratuitous +use, with obsequious attendants, warm rooms, materials for +writing, and perfect seclusion; to say nothing of the thousand +interesting but less useful resorts with which Paris abounds, such +as exhibitions of flowers, porcelains, mosaics, and curious handiwork +of every description, and (more amusing and time-killing +still) the never-ending changes of sights in the public places, +from distinguished foreigners down to miracles of educated monkeys. +Life seems most provokingly short as you look at it. +Then, for money, you are more puzzled how to spend a poor +pitiful franc in Paris (it will buy so many things you want) than +you would be in America with the outlay of a month's income. +Be as idle and extravagant as you will, your idle hours look you +in the face as they pass, to know whether, in spite of the increase +of their value, you really mean to waste them; and the money +that slipped through your pocket you know not how at home, +sticks embarrassed to your fingers, from the mere multiplicity of +demands made for it. There are shops all over Paris called the +"<i>Vingt-cinq-sous</i>," where every article is fixed at that price—<i>twenty +five cents</i>! They contain everything you want, except a +wife and fire-wood—the only two things difficult to be got in +France. (The latter, with or without a pun, is much the <i>dearer</i> +of the two.) I wonder that they are not bought out, and sent +over to America on speculation. There is scarce an article in +them that would not be held cheap with us at five times its purchase. +There are bronze standishes for ink, sand, and wafers, +pearl paper-cutters, spice-lamps, decanters, essence-bottles, sets +of china, table-bells of all devices, mantel ornaments, vases of +artificial flowers, kitchen utensils, dog-collars, canes, guard-chains, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">62</a></span> +chessmen whips, hammers, brushes, and everything that is either +convenient or pretty. You might freight a ship with them, and +all good and well finished, at twenty-five cents the set or article! +You would think the man were joking, to walk through his +shop. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63"></a></span></p> + +<h3>LETTER VIII.</h3> + +<p class="ch_sum">DR. BOWRING—AMERICAN ARTISTS—BRUTAL AMUSEMENT, ETC.</p> + +<p>I have met Dr. Bowring in Paris, and called upon him to-day +with Mr. Morse, by appointment. The translator of the +"Ode to the Deity" (from the Russian of Derzhavin) could not +by any accident be an ordinary man, and I anticipated great +pleasure in his society. He received us at his lodgings in the +<i>Place Vendome</i>. I was every way pleased with him. His knowledge +of our country and its literature surprised me, and I could +not but be gratified with the unprejudiced and well-informed interest +with which he discoursed on our government and institutions. +He expressed great pleasure at having seen his ode in +one of our schoolbooks (Pierpont's Reader, I think), and assured +us that the promise to himself of a visit to America was one of +his brightest anticipations. This is not at all an uncommon feeling, +by the way, among the men of talent in Paris; and I am +pleasingly surprised, everywhere, with the enthusiastic hopes expressed +for the success of our experiment in liberal principles. +Dr. Bowring is a slender man, a little above the middle height, +with a keen, inquisitive expression of countenance, and a good +forehead, from which the hair is combed straight back all round, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">64</a></span> +in the style of the Cameronians. His manner is all life, and his +motion and gesture nervously sudden and angular. He talks +rapidly, but clearly, and uses beautiful language—concise, and +full of select expressions and vivid figures. His conversation in +this particular was a constant surprise. He gave us a great deal +of information, and when we parted, inquired my route of travel, +and offered me letters to his friends, with a cordiality very unusual +on this side the Atlantic.</p> + +<hr class="l15" /> + +<p>It is a cold but common rule with travellers in Europe to +avoid the society of their own countrymen. In a city like Paris, +where time and money are both so valuable, every additional +acquaintance, pursued either for etiquette or intimacy, is felt, +and one very soon learns to prefer his advantage to any tendency +of his sympathies. The infractions upon the rule, however, are +very delightful, and, at the general <i>réunion</i> at our ambassador's +on Wednesday evening, or an occasional one at Lafayette's, the +look of pleasure and relief at beholding familiar faces, and hearing +a familiar language once more, is universal. I have enjoyed +this morning the double happiness of meeting an American circle, +around an American breakfast. Mr. Cooper had invited us +(Morse, the artist, Dr. Howe, a gentleman of the navy, and myself). +Mr. C. lives with great hospitality, and in all the comfort +of American habits; and to find him as he is always found, with +his large family about him, is to get quite back to the atmosphere +of our country. The two or three hours we passed at his table +were, of course, delightful. It should endear Mr. Cooper to the +hearts of his countrymen, that he devotes all his influence, and +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">65</a></span> +no inconsiderable portion of his large income, to the encouragement +of American artists. It would be natural enough, after +being so long abroad, to feel or affect a preference for the works +of foreigners; but in this, as in his political opinions, most decidedly, +he is eminently patriotic. We feel this in Europe, +where we discern more clearly by comparison the poverty of our +country in the arts, and meet, at the same time, American artists +of the first talent, without a single commission from home for +original works, copying constantly for support. One of Mr. +Cooper's purchases, the "Cherubs," by Greenough, has been +sent to the United States, and its merit was at once acknowledged. +It was done, however (the artist, who is here, informs me), under +every disadvantage of feeling and circumstances; and, from what +I have seen and am told by others of Mr. Greenough, it is, I am +confident, however beautiful, anything but a fair specimen of his +powers. His peculiar taste lies in a bolder range, and he needs +only a commission from government to execute a work which +will begin the art of sculpture nobly in our country.</p> + +<hr class="l15" /> + +<p>My curiosity led me into a strange scene to-day. I had observed +for some time among the placards upon the walls an advertisement +of an exhibition of "fighting animals," at the <i>Barriére +du Combat</i>. I am disposed to see almost any sight <i>once</i>, particularly +where it is, like this, a regular establishment, and, of course, +an exponent of the popular taste. The place of the "<i>Combats +des Animaux</i>," is in one of the most obscure suburbs, outside the +walls, and I found it with difficulty. After wandering about in +dirty lanes for an hour or two, inquiring for it in vain, the cries +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">66</a></span> +of the animals directed me to a walled place, separated from the +other houses of the suburb, at the gate of which a man was +blowing a trumpet. I purchased a ticket of an old woman who +sat shivering in the porter's lodge; and, finding I was an hour +too early for the fights, I made interest with a savage-looking +fellow, who was carrying in tainted meat, to see the interior of +the establishment. I followed him through a side gate, and we +passed into a narrow alley, lined with stone kennels, to each of +which was confined a powerful dog, with just length of chain +enough to prevent him from reaching the tenant of the opposite +hole. There were several of these alleys, containing, I should +think, two hundred dogs in all. They were of every breed of +strength and ferocity, and all of them perfectly frantic with rage +or hunger, with the exception of a pair of noble-looking black +dogs, who stood calmly at the mouths of their kennels; the rest +struggled and howled incessantly, straining every muscle to +reach us, and resuming their fierceness toward each other when +we had passed by. They all bore, more or less, the marks of +severe battles; one or two with their noses split open, and still +unhealed; several with their necks bleeding and raw, and galled +constantly with the iron collar, and many with broken legs, but +all apparently so excited as to be insensible to suffering. After +following my guide very unwillingly through the several alleys, +deafened with the barking and howling of the savage occupants, +I was taken to the department of wild animals. Here were all +the tenants of the menagerie, kept in dens, opening by iron +doors upon the pit in which they fought. Like the dogs, they +were terribly wounded; one of the bears especially, whose mouth +was torn all off from his jaws, leaving his teeth perfectly exposed, +and red with the continually exuding blood. In one of the dens +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">67</a></span> +lay a beautiful deer, with one of his haunches severely mangled, +who, the man told me, had been hunted round the pit by the +dogs but a day or two before. He looked up at us, with his +large soft eye, as we passed, and, lying on the damp stone floor, +with his undressed wounds festering in the chilly atmosphere of +mid-winter, he presented a picture of suffering which made me +ashamed to the soul of my idle curiosity.</p> + +<p>The spectators began to collect, and the pit was cleared. Two +thirds of those in the amphitheatre were Englishmen, most of +whom were amateurs, who had brought dogs of their own to pit +against the regular mastiffs of the establishment. These were +despatched first. A strange dog was brought in by the collar, +and loosed in the arena, and a trained dog let in upon him. It +was a cruel business. The sleek, well-fed, good-natured animal +was no match for the exasperated, hungry savage he was compelled +to encounter. One minute, in all the joy of a release +from his chain, bounding about the pit, and fawning upon his +master, and the next attacked by a furious mastiff, who was +taught to fasten on him at the first onset in a way that deprived +him at once of his strength; it was but a murderous exhibition +of cruelty. The combats between two of the trained dogs, however, +were more equal. These succeeded to the private contests, +and were much more severe and bloody. There was a small +terrier among them, who disabled several dogs successively, by +catching at their fore-legs, and breaking them instantly with a +powerful jerk of his body. I was very much interested in one of +the private dogs, a large yellow animal, of a noble expression of +countenance, who fought several times very unwillingly, but always +gallantly and victoriously. There was a majesty about him, +which seemed to awe his antagonists. He was carried off in his +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">68</a></span> +master's arms, bleeding and exhausted, after punishing the best +dogs of the establishment.</p> + +<p>The baiting of the wild animals succeeded the canine combats. +Several dogs (Irish, I was told), of a size and ferocity such as I +had never before seen, were brought in, and held in the leash +opposite the den of the bear whose head was so dreadfully +mangled.</p> + +<p>The door was then opened by the keeper, but poor bruin +shrunk from the contest. The dogs became unmanageable at +the sight of him, however, and, fastening a chain to his collar, +they drew him out by main force, and immediately closed the +grating. He fought gallantly, and gave more wounds than he +received, for his shaggy coat protected his body effectually. The +keepers rushed in and beat off the dogs, when they had nearly +finished peeling the remaining flesh from his head; and the poor +creature, perfectly blind and mad with pain, was dragged into +his den again, to await another day of <i>amusement</i>!</p> + +<p>I will not disgust you with more of these details. They +fought several foxes and wolves afterward, and, last of all, one of +the small donkeys of the country, a creature not so large as some +of the dogs, was led in, and the mastiffs loosed upon her. The +pity and indignation I felt at first at the cruelty of baiting so unwarlike +an animal, I soon found was quite unnecessary. She +was the severest opponent the dogs had yet found. She went +round the arena at full gallop, with a dozen savage animals +springing at her throat, but she struck right and left with her +fore-legs, and at every kick with her heels threw one of them +clear across the pit. One or two were left motionless on the +field, and others carried off with their ribs kicked in, and their +legs broken, while their inglorious antagonist escaped almost unhurt. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">69</a></span> +One of the mastiffs fastened on her ear and threw her +down, in the beginning of the chase, but she apparently received +no other injury.</p> + +<p>I had remained till the close of the exhibition with some violence +to my feelings, and I was very glad to get away. Nothing +would tempt me to expose myself to a similar disgust again. +How the intelligent and gentlemanly Englishmen whom I saw +there, and whom I have since met in the most refined society of +Paris, can make themselves familiar, as they evidently were, +with a scene so brutal, I cannot very well conceive. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70"></a></span></p> + +<h3>LETTER IX.</h3> + +<p class="ch_sum">MALIBRAN—PARIS AT MIDNIGHT—A MOB, ETC.</p> + +<p>Our beautiful and favorite <span class="smcap">Malibran</span> is playing in Paris this +winter. I saw her last night in Desdemona. The other theatres +are so attractive, between Taglioni, Robert le Diable (the new +opera), Leontine Fay, and the political pieces constantly coming +out, that I had not before visited the Italian opera. Madame +Malibran is every way changed. She sings, unquestionably, better +than when in America. Her voice is firmer, and more under +control, but it has lost that gushing wildness, that brilliant daringness +of execution, that made her singing upon our boards so indescribably +exciting and delightful. Her person is perhaps still more +changed. The round, graceful fulness of her limbs and features +has yielded to a half-haggard look of care and exhaustion, and I +could not but think that there was more than Desdemona's fictitious +wretchedness in the expression of her face. Still, her forehead +and eyes have a beauty that is not readily lost, and she will +be a strikingly interesting, and even splendid creature, as long as +she can play. Her acting was extremely impassioned; and in +the more powerful passages of her part, she exceeded everything +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">71</a></span> +I had conceived of the capacity of the human voice for pathos +and melody. The house was crowded, and the applause was frequent +and universal.</p> + +<p>Madame Malibran, as you probably know, is divorced from +the man whose name she bears, and has married a violinist of +the Italian orchestra. She is just now in a state of health that +will require immediate retirement from the stage, and, indeed, +has played already too long. She came forward after the curtain +dropped, in answer to the continual demand of the audience, +leaning heavily on Rubini, and was evidently so exhausted as to +be scarcely able to stand. She made a single gesture, and was +led off immediately, with her head drooping on her breast, amid +the most violent acclamations. She is a perfect passion with the +French, and seems to have out-charmed their usual caprice.</p> + +<hr class="l15" /> + +<p>It was a lovely night, and after the opera I walked home. I +reside a long distance from the places of public amusement. Dr. +Howe and myself had stopped at a <i>café</i> on the Italian Boulevards +an hour, and it was very late. The streets were nearly +deserted—here and there a solitary cabriolet with the driver +asleep under his wooden apron, or the motionless figure of a +municipal guardsman, dozing upon his horse, with his helmet and +brazen armor glistening in the light of the lamps. Nothing has +impressed me more, by the way, than a body of these men passing +me in the night. I have once or twice met the King returning +from the theatre with a guard, and I saw them once at midnight +on an extraordinary patrol winding through the arch into +the Place Carrousel. Their equipments are exceedingly warlike +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">72</a></span> +(helmets of brass, and coats of mail), and, with the gleam of the +breast-plates through their horsemen's cloaks, the tramp of +hoofs echoing through the deserted streets, and the silence and +order of their march, it was quite a realization of the descriptions +of chivalry.</p> + +<p>We kept along the Boulevards to the Rue Richelieu. A carriage, +with footmen in livery, had just driven up to Frascati's, +and, as we passed, a young man of uncommon personal beauty +jumped out and entered that palace of gamblers. By his dress +he was just from a ball, and the necessity of excitement after a +scene meant to be so gay, was an obvious if not a fair satire on +the happiness of the "gay" circle in which he evidently moved. +We turned down the Passage Panorama, perhaps the most +crowded thoroughfare in all Paris, and traversed its long gallery +without meeting a soul. The widely-celebrated <i>patisserie</i> of +Felix, the first pastry-cook in the world, was the only shop open +from one extremity to the other. The guard, in his gray capote, +stood looking in at the window, and the girl, who had served the +palates of half the fashion and rank of Paris since morning, sat +nodding fast asleep behind the counter, paying the usual +fatiguing penalty of notoriety. The clock struck two as we +passed the <i>façade</i> of the Bourse. This beautiful and central +square is, night and day, the grand rendezvous of public vice; +and late as the hour was, its <i>pavé</i> was still thronged with flaunting +and painted women of the lowest description, promenading +without cloaks or bonnets, and addressing every passer-by.</p> + +<p>The Palais Royal lay in our way, just below the Bourse, and +we entered its magnificent court with an exclamation of new +pleasure. Its thousand lamps were all burning brilliantly, the +long avenues of trees were enveloped in a golden atmosphere +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">73</a></span> +created by the bright radiation of light through the mist, the +Corinthian pillars and arches retreated on either side from the +eye in distinct and yet mellow perspective, the fountain filled the +whole palace with its rich murmur, and the broad marble-paved +galleries, so thronged by day, were as silent and deserted as if the +drowsy <i>gens d'armes</i> standing motionless on their posts were the +only living beings that inhabited it. It was a scene really of +indescribable impressiveness. No one who has not seen this +splendid palace, enclosing with its vast colonnades so much that +is magnificent, can have an idea of its effect upon the imagination. +I had seen it hitherto only when crowded with the gay and +noisy idlers of Paris, and the contrast of this with the utter solitude +it now presented—not a single footfall to be heard on its +floors, yet every lamp burning bright, and the statues and flowers +and fountains all illuminated as if for a revel—was one of the +most powerful and captivating that I have ever witnessed. We +loitered slowly down one of the long galleries, and it seemed to +me more like some creation of enchantment than the public haunt +it is of pleasure and merchandise. A single figure, wrapped in a +cloak, passed hastily by us and entered the door to one of the +celebrated "hells," in which the playing scarce commences till +this hour—but we met no other human being.</p> + +<p>We passed on from the grand court to the Galerie Nemours. +This, as you may find in the descriptions, is a vast hall, standing +between the east and west courts of the Palais Royal. It is +sometimes called the "glass gallery." The roof is of glass, and +the shops, with fronts entirely of windows, are separated only by +long mirrors, reaching in the shape of pillars from the roof to the +floor. The pavement is tesselated, and at either end stand two +columns completing its form, and dividing it from the other +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">74</a></span> +galleries into which it opens. The shops are among the +costliest in Paris; and what with the vast proportions of the hall, +its beautiful and glistening material, and the lightness and grace +of its architecture, it is, even when deserted, one of the most +fairy-like places in this fantastic city. It is the lounging place +of military men particularly; and every evening from six to midnight, +it is thronged by every class of gayly dressed people, +officers off duty, soldiers, polytechnic scholars, ladies, and +strangers of every costume and complexion, promenading to and +fro in the light of the <i>cafés</i> and the dazzling shops, sheltered +completely from the weather, and enjoying, without expense or +ceremony, a scene more brilliant than the most splendid ball-room +in Paris. We lounged up and down the long echoing +pavement an hour. It was like some kingly "banquet hall +deserted." The lamps burned dazzlingly bright, the mirrors +multiplied our figures into shadowy and silent attendants, and +our voices echoed from the glittering roof in the utter stillness of +the hour, as if we had broken in, Thalaba-like, upon some magical +palace of silence.</p> + +<p>It is singular how much the differences of time and weather +affect scenery. The first sunshine I saw in Paris, unsettled all +my previous impressions completely. I had seen every place of +interest through the dull heavy atmosphere of a week's rain, and +it was in such leaden colors alone that the finer squares and +palaces had become familiar to me. The effect of a clear sun +upon them was wonderful. The sudden gilding of the dome of +the Invalides by Napoleon must have been something like it. I +took advantage of it to see everything over again, and it seemed +to me like another city. I never realized so forcibly the beauty +of sunshine. Architecture, particularly, is nothing without it. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">75</a></span> +Everything looks heavy and flat. The tracery of the windows +and relievos, meant to be definite and airy, appears clumsy and +confused, and the whole building flattens into a solid mass, +without design or beauty.</p> + +<hr class="l15" /> + +<p>I have spent the whole day in a Paris mob. The arrival of +General Romarino and some of his companions from Warsaw, +gave the malcontents a plausible opportunity of expressing their +dislike to the measures of government; and, under cover of a +public welcome to this distinguished Pole, they assembled in immense +numbers at the Port St. Denis, and on the Boulevard +Montmartre. It was very exciting altogether. The cavalry +were out, and patroled the streets in companies, charging upon +the crowd wherever there was a stand; the troops of the line +marched up and down the Boulevards, continually dividing the +masses of people, and forbidding any one to stand still. The +shops were all shut, in anticipation of an affray. The students +endeavored to cluster, and resisted, as far as they dared, the +orders of the soldiery; and from noon till night there was every +prospect of a quarrel. The French are a fine people under +excitement. Their handsome and ordinarily heartless faces become +very expressive under the stronger emotions; and their +picturesque dresses and violent gesticulation, set off a popular +tumult exceedingly. I have been highly amused all day, and +have learned a great deal of what it is very difficult for a foreigner +to acquire—the language of French passion. They express +themselves very forcibly when angry. The constant irritation +kept up by the intrusion of the cavalry upon the sidewalks, and +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">76</a></span> +the rough manner of dispersing gentlemen by sabre-blows and +kicks with the stirrup, gave me sufficient opportunity of judging. +I was astonished, however, that their summary mode of proceeding +was borne at all. It is difficult to mix in such a vast body, and +not catch its spirit, and I found myself, without knowing why, or +rather with a full conviction that the military measures were +necessary and right, entering with all my heart into the rebellious +movements of the students, and boiling with indignation at every +dispersion by force. The students of Paris are probably the +worst subjects the king has. They are mostly young men of from +twenty to twenty-five, full of bodily vigor and enthusiasm, and +excitable to the last degree. Many of them are Germans, and +no small proportion Americans. They make a good <i>amalgam</i> +for a mob, dress being the last consideration, apparently, with a +medical or law student in Paris. I never saw such a collection +of atrocious-looking fellows as are to be met at the lectures. The +polytechnic scholars, on the other hand, are the finest-looking +body of young men I ever saw. Aside from their uniform, which +is remarkably neat and beautiful, their figures and faces seem +picked for spirit and manliness. They have always a distinguished +air in a crowd, and it is easy, after seeing them, to imagine +the part they played as leaders in the revolution of the three +days.</p> + +<p>Contrary to my expectation, night came on without any +serious encounter. One or two individuals attempted to resist +the authority of the troops, and were considerably bruised; and +one young man, a student, had three of his fingers cut off by the +stroke of a dragoon's sabre. Several were arrested, but by eight +o'clock all was quiet, and the shops on the Boulevards once more +exposed their tempting goods, and lit up their brilliant mirrors +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">77</a></span> +without fear. The people thronged to the theatres to see the +political pieces, and evaporate their excitement in cheers at the +liberal allusions; and so ends a tumult that threatened danger, +but operated, perhaps, as a healthful vent for the accumulating +disorders of public opinion. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78"></a></span></p> + +<h3>LETTER X.</h3> + +<p class="ch_sum"> +GARDEN OF THE TUILERIES—FASHIONABLE DRIVES—FRENCH +OMNIBUSES—CHEAP RIDING—SIGHTS—STREET-BEGGARS—IMPOSTORS, +ETC.</p> + +<p>The garden of the Tuileries is an idle man's paradise. Magnificent +as it is in extent, sculptures, and cultivation, we all know +that statues may be too dumb, gravel walks too long and level, +and trees and flowers and fountains a little too Platonic, with any +degree of beauty. But the Tuileries are peopled at all hours of +sunshine with, to me, the most lovely objects in the world—children. +You may stop a minute, perhaps, to look at the +thousand gold fishes in the basin under the palace-windows, or +follow the swans for a single voyage round the fountain in the +broad avenue—but you will sit on your hired chair (at this season) +under the shelter of the sunny wall, and gaze at the children +chasing about, with their attending Swiss maids, till your heart +has outwearied your eyes, or the palace-clock strikes five. I +have been there repeatedly since I have been in Paris, and have +seen nothing like the children. They move my heart always, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">79</a></span> +more than anything under heaven; but a French child, with an +accent that all your paid masters cannot give, and manners, in the +midst of its romping, that mock to the life the air and courtesy +for which Paris has a name over the world, is enough to make +one forget Napoleon, though the column of Vendome throws its +shadow within sound of their voices. Imagine sixty-seven acres +of beautiful creatures (that is the extent of the garden, and I +have not seen such a thing as an <i>ugly</i> French child)—broad avenues +stretching away as far as you can see, covered with little +foreigners (so they seem to <i>me</i>), dressed in gay colors, and laughing +and romping and talking French, in all the amusing mixture +of baby passions and grown-up manners, and answer me—is it +not a sight better worth seeing than all the grand palaces that +shut it in?</p> + +<p>The Tuileries are certainly very magnificent, and, to walk +across from the Seine to the Rue Rivoli, and look up the endless +walks and under the long perfect arches cut through the trees, +may give one a very pretty surprise for once—but a winding lane +is a better place to enjoy the loveliness of green leaves, and a +single New England elm, letting down its slender branches to the +ground in the inimitable grace of nature, has, to my eye, more +beauty than all the clipped vistas from the king's palace to the +<i>Arc de l'Etoile</i>, the <i>Champs Elysées</i> inclusive.</p> + +<p>One of the finest things in Paris, by the way, is the view from +the terrace in front of the palace to this "Arch of Triumph," +commenced by Napoleon at the extremity of the "Elysian +Fields," a single avenue of about two miles. The part beyond +the gardens is the <i>fashionable drive</i>, and, by a saunter on horseback +to the <i>Bois de Boulogne</i>, between four and five, on a +pleasant day, one may see all the dashing equipages in Paris. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">80</a></span> +Broadway, however, would eclipse everything here, either for +beauty of construction or appointments. Our carriages are +every way handsomer and better hung, and the horses are +harnessed more compactly and gracefully. The lumbering +vehicles here make a great show, it is true—for the box, with +its heavy hammer-cloth, is level with the top, and the coachman +and footmen and outriders are very striking in their bright +liveries; but the elegant, convenient, light-running establishments +of Philadelphia and New York, excel them, out of all comparison, +for taste and fitness. The best driving I have seen is by the +king's whips, and really it is beautiful to see his retinue on the +road, four or five coaches and six, with footmen and outriders +in scarlet liveries, and the finest horses possible for speed and +action. His majesty generally takes the outer edge of the +<i>Champs Elysées</i>, on the bank of the river, and the rapid +glimpses of the bright show through the breaks in the wood, are +exceedingly picturesque.</p> + +<p>There is nothing in Paris that looks so outlandish to my eye as +the common vehicles. I was thinking of it this morning as I +stood waiting for the <i>St. Sulpice omnibus</i>, at the corner of the +Rue Vivienne, the great thoroughfare between the Boulevards +and the Palais Royal. There was the hack-cabriolet lumbering +by in the fashion of two centuries ago, with a horse and harness +that look equally ready to drop in pieces; the hand-cart with a +stout dog harnessed under the axle-tree, drawing with twice the +strength of his master; the market-waggon, driven always by +women, and drawn generally by a horse and mule abreast, the +horse of the Norman breed, immensely large, and the mule about +the size of a well-grown bull-dog; a vehicle of which I have not +yet found out the name, a kind of demi-omnibus, with two wheels +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">81</a></span> +and a single horse, and carrying nine; and last, but not least +amusing, a small close carriage for one person, swung upon two +wheels and drawn by a servant, very much used, apparently, by +elderly women and invalids, and certainly most admirable conveniences +either for the economy or safety of getting about a city. +It would be difficult to find an American servant who would draw +in harness as they do here; and it is amusing to see a stout, well-dressed +fellow, strapped to a carriage, and pulling along the +<i>pavés</i>, sometimes at a jog-trot, while his master or mistress sits +looking unconcernedly out of the window.</p> + +<p>I am not yet decided whether the French are the best or the +worst drivers in the world. If the latter they certainly have +most miraculous escapes. A cab-driver never pulls the reins +except upon great emergencies, or for a right-about turn, and +his horse has a most ludicrous aversion to a straight line. The +streets are built inclining toward the centre, with the gutter in +the middle, and it is the habit of all cabriolet-horses to run down +one side and up the other constantly at such sudden angles that +it seems to you they certainly will go through the shop windows. +This, of course, is very dangerous to foot-passengers in a city +where there are no side-walks; and, as a consequence, the average +number of complaints to the police of Paris for people killed by +careless driving, is about four hundred annually. There are +probably twice the number of legs broken. One becomes vexed +in riding with these fellows, and I have once or twice undertaken +to get into a French passion, and insist upon driving myself. +But I have never yet met with an accident. "<i>Gar-r-r-r-e!</i>" +sings out the driver, rolling the word off his tongue like a bullet +from a shovel, but never thinking to lift his loose reins from the +dasher, while the frightened passenger, without looking round, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">82</a></span> +makes for the first door with an alacrity that shows a habit of +expecting very little from the <i>cocher's</i> skill.</p> + +<p>Riding is very cheap in Paris, if managed a little. The city is +traversed constantly in every direction by omnibuses, and you +may go from the Tuileries to <i>Père la Chaise</i>, or from St. +Sulpice to the Italian Boulevards (the two diagonals), or take +the "<i>Tous les Boulevards</i>" and ride quite round the city for six +sous the distance. The "<i>fiacre</i>" is like our own hacks, except +that you pay but "twenty <i>sous</i> the course," and fill the vehicle +with your friends if you please; and, more cheap and comfortable +still, there is the universal cabriolet, which for "fifteen <i>sous</i> the +course," or "twenty the hour," will give you at least three times +the value of your money, with the advantage of seeing ahead and +talking bad French with the driver.</p> + +<p>Everything in France is either <i>grotesque</i> or <i>picturesque</i>. I +have been struck with it this morning, while sitting at my +window, looking upon the close inner court of the hotel. One +would suppose that a <i>pavé</i> between four high walls, would offer +very little to seduce the eye from its occupation; but on the contrary, +one's whole time may be occupied in watching the various +sights presented in constant succession. First comes the itinerant +cobbler, with his seat and materials upon his back, and coolly +selecting a place against the wall, opens his shop under your +window, and drives his trade, most industriously, for half an hour. +If you have anything to mend, he is too happy; if not he has not +lost his time, for he pays no rent, and is all the while at work. +He packs up again, bows to the <i>concierge</i>, as politely as his load +will permit, and takes his departure, in the hope to find your +shoes more worn another day. Nothing could be more striking +than his whole appearance. He is met in the gate, perhaps, by +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">83</a></span> +an old clothes man, who will buy or sell, and compliment you for +nothing, cheapening your coat by calling the Virgin to witness +that your shape is so genteel that it will not fit one man in a +thousand; or by a family of singers, with a monkey to keep time; +or a regular beggar, who, however, does not dream of asking +charity till he has done something to amuse you; after these, +perhaps, will follow a succession of objects singularly peculiar to +this fantastic metropolis; and if one could separate from the poor +creatures the knowledge of the cold and hunger they suffer, +wandering about, houseless, in the most inclement weather, it +would be easy to imagine it a diverting pantomime, and give them +the poor pittance they ask, as the price of an amused hour. An +old man has just gone from the court who comes regularly twice a +week, with a long beard, perfectly white, and a strange kind of +an equipage. It is an organ, set upon a rude carriage, with four +small wheels, and drawn by a mule, of the most diminutive size, +looking (if it were not for the venerable figure crouched upon the +seat) like some roughly-contrived plaything. The whole affair, +harness and all, is evidently his own work; and it is affecting to +see the difficulty, and withal, the habitual apathy with which the +old itinerant fastens his rope-reins beside him, and dismounts to +grind his one—solitary—eternal tune, for charity.</p> + +<p>Among the thousands of wretched objects in Paris (they make +the heart sick with their misery at every turn), there is, here and +there, one of an interesting character; and it is pleasant to select +them, and make a habit of your trifling gratuity. Strolling +about, as I do, constantly, and letting everybody and everything +amuse me that will, I have made several of these penny-a-day +acquaintances, and find them very agreeable breaks to the heartless +solitude of a crowd. There is a little fellow who stands by +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">84</a></span> +the gate of the Tuileries, opening to the Place Vendome, who, +with all the rags and dirt of a street-boy, begs with an air of +superiority that is absolutely patronizing. One feels obliged to +the little varlet for the privilege of giving to him—his smile +and manner are so courtly. His face is beautiful, dirty as it is; +his voice is clear, and unaffected, and his thin lips have an +expression of high-bred contempt, that amuses me a little, and +puzzles me a great deal. I think he must have gentleman's +blood in his veins, though he possibly came indirectly by it. +There is a little Jewess hanging about the Louvre, who begs +with her dark eyes very eloquently; and in the <i>Rue de la Paix</i> +there may be found at all hours, a melancholy, sick-looking +Italian boy, with his hand in his bosom, whose native language +and picture-like face are a diurnal pleasure to me, cheaply +bought with the poor trifle which makes him happy. It is +surprising how many devices there are in the streets for attracting +attention and pity. There is a woman always to be seen +upon the Boulevards, playing a solemn tune on a violin, with a +child as pallid as ashes, lying, apparently, asleep in her lap. I +suspected, after seeing it once or twice, that it was wax, and a +day or two since I satisfied myself of the fact, and enraged the +mother excessively by touching its cheek. It represents a sick +child to the life, and any one less idle and curious would be +deceived. I have often seen people give her money with the +most unsuspecting look of sympathy, though it would be natural +enough to doubt the maternal kindness of keeping a dying child +in the open air in mid-winter. Then there is a woman without +hands, making braid with wonderful adroitness; and a man without +legs or arms, singing, with his hat set appealingly on the +ground before him; and cripples, exposing their abbreviated +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">85</a></span> +limbs, and telling their stories over and over, with or without +listeners, from morning till night; and every description of appeal +to the most acute sympathies, mingled with all the gayety, show, +and fashion, of the most crowded promenade in Paris.</p> + +<p>In the present dreadful distress of trade, there are other still +more painful cases of misery. It is not uncommon to be addressed +in the street by men of perfectly respectable appearance, +whose faces bear every mark of strong mental struggle, and often +of famishing necessity, with an appeal for the smallest sum that +will buy food. The look of misery is so general, as to mark the +whole population. It has struck me most forcibly everywhere, +notwithstanding the gayety of the national character, and, I am +told by intelligent Frenchmen, it is peculiar to the time, and felt +and observed by all. Such things startle one back to nature +sometimes. It is difficult to look away from the face of a starving +man, and see the splendid equipages, and the idle waste upon +trifles, within his very sight, and reconcile the contrast with any +belief of the existence of human pity—still more difficult, perhaps, +to admit without reflection, the right of one human being +to hold in a shut hand, at will, the very life and breath for which +his fellow-creatures are perishing at his door. It is this that is +visited back so terribly in the horrors of a revolution. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86"></a></span></p> + +<h3>LETTER XI.</h3> + +<p class="ch_sum"> +FOYETIÉR—THE THRACIAN GLADIATOR—MADEMOISELLE MARS—DOCTOR +FRANKLIN'S RESIDENCE IN PARIS—ANNUAL BALL +FOR THE POOR.</p> + +<p>I had the pleasure to day of being introduced to the young +sculptor Foyetiér, the author of the new statue on the terrace +of the Tuileries. Aside from his genius, he is interesting from a +circumstance connected with his early history. He was a herd-driver +in one of the provinces, and amused himself in his leisure +moments with the carving of rude images, which he sold for a +sous or two on market-days in the provincial town. The celebrated +Dr. Gall fell in with him accidentally, and felt of his head, +<i>en passant</i>. The bump was there which contains his present +greatness, and the phrenologist took upon himself the risk of his +education in the arts. He is now the first sculptor, beyond all +competition, in France. His "<i>Spartacus</i>," the Thracian gladiator, +is the admiration of Paris. It stands in front of the palace, +in the most conspicuous part of the regal gardens, and there are +hundreds of people about the pedestal at all hours of the day. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">87</a></span> +The gladiator has broken his chain, and stands with his weapon +in his hand, every muscle and feature breathing action, his body +thrown back, and his right foot planted powerfully for a spring. +It is a gallant thing. One's blood stirs to look at it.</p> + +<p><i>Foyetiér</i> is a young man, I should think about thirty. He is +small, very plain in appearance; but he has a rapid, earnest eye, +and a mouth of singular suavity of expression. I liked him extremely. +His celebrity seems not to have trenched a step on the +nature of his character. His genius is everywhere allowed, and +he works for the king altogether, his majesty bespeaking everything +he attempts, even in the model; but he is, certainly, of all +geniuses, one of the most modest.</p> + +<hr class="l15" /> + +<p>The celebrated Mars has come out from her retirement once +more, and commenced an engagement at the <i>Theatre Français</i>. +I went a short time since to see her play in Tartuffe. This stage +is the home of the true French drama. Here Talma played +when he and Mademoiselle Mars were the delight of Napoleon +and of France. I have had few gratifications greater than that +of seeing this splendid woman re-appear in the place were she +won her brilliant reputation. The play, too, was <i>Moliere's</i>, and +it was here that it was first performed. Altogether it was like +something plucked back from history; a renewal, as in a magic +mirror, of glories gone by.</p> + +<p>I could scarce believe my eyes when she appeared as the "wife +of Argon." She looked about twenty-five. Her step was light +and graceful; Her voice was as unlike that of a woman of sixty +as could well be imagined; sweet, clear, and under a control +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">88</a></span> +which gives her a power of expression I never had conceived +before; her mouth had the definite, firm play of youth; her +teeth (though the dentist might do that) were white and perfect, +and her eyes can have lost none of their fire, I am sure. I never +saw so <i>quiet</i> a player. Her gestures were just perceptible, no +more; and yet they were done so exquisitely at the right moment—so +unconsciously, as if she had not meant them, that they +were more forcible than even the language itself. She repeatedly +drew a low murmur of delight from the whole house with a single +play of expression across her face, while the other characters were +speaking, or by a slight movement of her fingers, in pantomimic +astonishment or vexation. It was really something new to me. +I had never before seen a first-rate female player in <i>comedy</i>. +Leontine Fay is inimitable in tragedy; but, if there be any comparison +between them, it is that this beautiful young creature +overpowers the <i>heart</i> with her nature, while Mademoiselle Mars +satisfies the uttermost demand of the <i>judgment</i> with her art.</p> + +<hr class="l15" /> + +<p>I yesterday visited the house occupied by Franklin while he +was in France. It is one of the most beautiful country residences +in the neighborhood of Paris, standing on the elevated +ground of Passy, and overlooking the whole city on one side, and +the valley of the Seine for a long distance toward Versailles on +the other. The house is otherwise celebrated. Madame de Genlis +lived there while the present king was her pupil; and Louis XV. +occupied it six months for the country air, while under the infliction +of the gout—its neighborhood to the palace probably rendering +it preferable to the more distant <i>chateaux</i> of St. Cloud or +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">89</a></span> +Versailles. Its occupants would seem to have been various +enough, without the addition of a Lieutenant-General of the +British army, whose hospitality makes it delightful at present. +The lightning-rod, which was raised by Franklin, and which was +the first conductor used in France, is still standing. The gardens +are large, and form a sort of terrace, with the house on the +front edge. It must be one of the sweetest places in the world +in summer.</p> + +<hr class="l15" /> + +<p>The great annual ball for the poor was given at the <i>Academie +Royale</i>, a few nights since. This is attended by the king and +royal family, and is ordinarily the most splendid affair of the +season. It is managed by twenty or thirty lady-patronesses, who +have the control of the tickets; and, though by no means exclusive, +it is kept within very respectable limits; and, if one is +content to float with the tide, and forego dancing, is an unusually +comfortable and well-behaved spectacle.</p> + +<p>I went with a large party at the early hour of eight. We fell +into the train of carriages, advancing slowly between files of dragoons, +and stood before the door in our turn in the course of an +hour. The staircases were complete orangeries, with immense +mirrors at every turn, and soldiers on guard, and servants in +livery, from top to bottom. The long saloon, lighted by ten +chandeliers, was dressed and hung with wreaths as a receiving-room; +and passing on through the spacious lobbies, which +were changed into groves of pines and exotics, we entered upon +the grand scene. The <i>coup d'œil</i> would have astonished Aladdin. +The theatre, which is the largest in Paris, and gorgeously built +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">90</a></span> +and ornamented, was thrown into one vast ball-room, ascending +gradually from the centre to platforms raised at either end, one +of which was occupied by the throne and seats for the king's +family and suite. The four rows of boxes were crowded with +ladies, and the house presented, from the floor to the <i>paradis</i>, +one glittering and waving wall of dress, jewelry, and feathers. +An orchestra of near a hundred musicians occupied the centre +of the hall; and on either side of them swept by the long, countless +multitudes of people, dressed with a union of taste and show; +while, instead of the black coats which darken the complexion of +a party in a republican country, every other gentleman was in a +gay uniform; and polytechnic scholars, with their scarlet-faced +coats, officers of the "National Guard" and the "line," gentlemen +of the king's household, and foreign ministers, and <i>attachés</i>, +presented a variety of color and splendor which nothing could +exceed.</p> + +<p>The theatre itself was not altered, except by the platform occupied +by the king; it is sufficiently splendid as it stands; but +the stage, whose area is much larger than that of the pit, was +hung in rich drapery as a vast tent, and garnished to profusion +with flags and arms. Along the sides, on a level with the lower +row of boxes, extended galleries of crimson velvet, festooned with +flowers. These were filled with ladies, and completed a circle +about the house of beauty and magnificence, of which the king +and his dazzling suite formed the <i>corona</i>. Chandeliers were hung +close together from one end of the hall to the other. I commenced +counting them once or twice, but some bright face flitting +by in the dance interrupted me. An English girl near me +counted fifty-five, and I think there must have been more. The +blaze of light was almost painful. The air glittered, and the fine +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">91</a></span> +grain of the most delicate complexions was distinctly visible. It +is impossible to describe the effect of so much light and space +and music crowded into one spectacle. The vastness of the hall, +so long that the best sight could not distinguish a figure at the +opposite extremity, and so high as to absorb and mellow the +vibration of a hundred instruments—the gorgeous sweep of splendor +from one platform to the other, absolutely drowning the eye +in a sea of gay colors, nodding feathers, jewelry, and military +equipment—the delicious music, the strange faces, dresses, and +tongues, (one-half of the multitude at least being foreigners), the +presence of the king, and the gallant show of uniforms in his +conspicuous <i>suite</i>, combined to make up a scene more than sufficiently +astonishing. I felt the whole night the smothering consciousness +of senses too narrow—eyes, ears, language, all too +limited for the demand made upon them.</p> + +<p>The king did not arrive till after ten. He entered by a silken +curtain in the rear of the platform on which seats were placed for +his family. The "<i>Vive le Roi</i>" was not so hearty as to drown +the music, but his majesty bowed some twenty times very graciously, +and the good-hearted queen curtsied, and kept a smile +on her excessively plain face, till I felt the muscles of my own +ache for her. King Philippe looks anxious. By the remarks of +the French people about me when he entered, he has reason for +it. I observed that the polytechnic scholars all turned their +backs upon him; and one exceedingly handsome, spirited-looking +boy, standing just at my side, muttered a "<i>sacré!</i>" and bit +his lip, with a very revolutionary air, at the continuance of the +acclamation. His majesty came down, and walked through the +hall about midnight. His eldest son, the Duke of Orleans, a +handsome, unoffending-looking youth of eighteen, followed him, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">92</a></span> +gazing round upon the crowd with his mouth open, and looking +very much annoyed at his part of the pageant. The young duke +has a good figure, and is certainly a very beautiful dancer. His +mouth is loose and weak, and his eyes are as opaque as agates. +He wore the uniform of the <i>Garde Nationale</i>, which does not become +him. In ordinary gentleman's dress, he is a very authentical +copy of a Bond-street dandy, and looks as little like a +Frenchman as most of Stultz's subjects. He danced all the +evening, and selected, very popularly, decidedly the most vulgar +women in the room, looking all the while as one who had been +petted by the finest women in France (Leontine Fay among the +number), might be supposed to look, under such an infliction. +The king's second son, the Duke of Nemours, pursued the same +policy. He has a brighter face than his brother, with hair almost +white, and dances extremely well. The second daughter is +also much prettier than the eldest. On the whole, the king's +family is a very plain, though a very amiable one, and the people +seem attached to them.</p> + +<p>These general descriptions, are, after all, very vague. Here I +have written half a sheet with a picture in my mind of which you +are getting no semblable idea. Language is a mere skeleton of +such things. The <i>Academie Royale</i> should be borne over the +water like the chapel of Loretto, and set down in Broadway with +all its lights, music, and people, to give you half a notion of the +"<i>Bal en faveur des Pauvres</i>." And so it is with everything +except the little histories of one's own personal atmosphere, +and that is the reason why egotism should be held virtuous in a +traveller, and the reason why one cannot study Europe at +home.</p> + +<p>After getting our American party places, I abandoned myself +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">93</a></span> +to the strongest current, and went in search of "lions." The +first face that arrested my eye was that of the Duchess +D'Istria, a woman celebrated here for her extraordinary personal +beauty.</p> + +<p>Directly opposite this lovely dutchess, in the other stage-box, +sat Donna Maria, the young Queen of Portugal, surrounded by +her relatives. The ex-empress, her mother, was on her right, +her grandmother on her left, and behind her some half dozen of +her Portuguese cousins. She is a little girl of twelve or fourteen, +with a fat, heavy face, and a remarkably pampered, sleepy look. +She was dressed like an old woman, and gaped incessantly the +whole evening. The box was a perfect blaze of diamonds. I +never before realized the beauty of these splendid stones. The +necks, heads, arms, and waists of the ladies royal were all +streaming with light. The necklace of the empress mother particularly +flashed on the eye in every part of the house. By the +unceasing exclamations of the women, it was an unusually brilliant +show, even here. The little Donna has a fine, well-rounded +chin; and when she smiled in return to the king's bow, I thought +I could see more than a child's character in the expression of her +mouth. I should think a year or two of mental uneasiness +might let out a look of intelligence through her heavy features. +She is likely to have it, I think, with the doubtful fortunes that +seem to beset her.</p> + +<p>I met Don Pedro often in society before his departure upon his +expedition. He is a short, well-made man, of great personal +accomplishment, and a very bad expression, rather aggravated by +an unfortunate cutaneous eruption. The first time I saw him, I +was induced to ask who he was, from the apparent coldness and +dislike with which he was treated by a lady whose beauty had +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">94</a></span> +strongly arrested my attention. He sat by her on a sofa in a +very crowded party, and seemed to be saying something very earnestly, +which made the lady's Spanish eyes flash fire, and brought +a curl of very positive anger upon a pair of the loveliest lips +imaginable. She was a slender, aristocratic-looking creature, and +dressed most magnificently. After glancing at them a minute or +two, I made up my mind that, from the authenticity of his dress +and appointments, he was an Englishman, and that she was some +French lady of rank whom he was particularly annoying with his +addresses. On inquiry, the gentleman proved to be Don Pedro, +and the lady the Countess de Lourle, <i>his sister</i>! I have often +met her since, and never without wondering how two of the same +family could look so utterly unlike each other. The Count de +Lourle is called the Adonis of Paris. He is certainly a very +splendid fellow, and justifies the romantic admiration of his wife, +who married him clandestinely, giving him her left hand in the +ceremony, as is the etiquette, they say, when a princess marries +below her rank. One can not help looking with great interest on +a beautiful creature like this, who has broken away from the +imposing fetters of a royal sphere, to follow the dictates of +natural feeling. It does not occur so often in Europe that +one may not sentimentalize about it without the charge of affectation.</p> + +<p>To return to the ball. The king bowed himself out a little +after midnight, and with him departed most of the fat people, and +all the little girls. This made room enough to dance, and the +French set themselves at it in good earnest. I wandered about +for an hour or two; after wearying my imagination quite out in +speculating on the characters and rank of people whom I never +saw before and shall probably never see again, I mounted to the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">95</a></span> +<i>paradis</i> to take a last look down upon the splendid scene, and +made my exit. I should be quite content never to go to such a +ball again, though it was by far the most splendid scene of the +kind I ever saw. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96"></a></span></p> + +<h3>LETTER XII.</h3> + +<p class="ch_sum"> +PLACE LOUIS XV.—PANORAMIC VIEW OF PARIS—A LITERARY +CLUB DINNER—THE GUESTS—THE PRESIDENT—THE EXILED +POLES, ETC.</p> + +<p>I have spent the day in a long stroll. The wind blew warm +and delicious from the south this morning, and the temptation to +abandon lessons and lectures was irresistible. Taking the <i>Arc +de l'Etoile</i> as my extreme point I yielded to all the leisurely hinderances +of shop-windows, beggars, book-stalls, and views by the +way. Among the specimen-cards in an engraver's window I was +amused at finding, in the latest Parisian fashion, "<span class="smcap">Hussein-Pacha</span>, +<i>Dey d'Algiers</i>."</p> + +<p>These delightful Tuileries! We rambled through them (I had +met a friend and countryman, and enticed him into my idle plans +for the day), and amused ourselves with the never-failing beauty +and grace of the French children for an hour. On the inner +terrace we stopped to look at the beautiful hotel of Prince Polignac, +facing the Tuileries, on the opposite bank. By the side of +this exquisite little model of a palace stands the superb commencement +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">97</a></span> +of Napoleon's ministerial hotel, breathing of his +glorious conception in every line of its ruins. It is astonishing +what a godlike impress that man left upon all he touched.</p> + +<p>Every third or fourth child in the gardens was dressed in the +full uniform of the National Guard—helmet, sword, epaulets, and +all. They are ludicrous little caricatures, of course, but it inoculates +them with love of the corps, and it would be better if that +were synonymous with a love of liberal principals. The <i>Garde +Nationale</i> are supposed to be more than half "Carlists" at this +moment.</p> + +<p>We passed out by the guarded gate of the Tuileries to the +<i>Place Louis XV.</i> This square is a most beautiful spot, as a +centre of unequalled views, and yet a piece of earth so foully +polluted with human blood probably does not exist on the face of +the globe. It divides the Tuileries from the <i>Champs Elysées</i>, +and ranges of course, in the long broad avenue of two miles, +stretching between the king's palace and the <i>Arc de l'Etoile</i>. +It is but a list of names to write down the particular objects to +be seen in such a view, but it commands, at the extremities of +its radii, the most princely edifices, seen hence with the most advantageous +foregrounds of space and avenue, and softened by +distance into the misty and unbroken surface of engraving. The +king's palace is on one hand, Napoleon's Arch at a distance of +nearly two miles on the other, Prince Talleyrand's regal dwelling +behind, with the church of Madelaine seen through the <i>Rue Royale</i>, +while before you, to the south, lies a picture of profuse splendor: +the broad Seine, spanned by bridges that are the admiration of +Europe, and crowded by specimens of architectural magnificence; +the Chamber of Deputies; and the <i>Palais Bourbon</i>, approached +by the <i>Pont Louis XVI.</i> with its gigantic statues and simple +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">98</a></span> +majesty of structure; and, rising over all, the grand dome of the +"<i>Invalides</i>," which Napoleon gilded, to divert the minds of his +subjects from his lost battle, and which Peter the Great admired +more than all Paris beside. What a spot for a man to stand +upon, with but one bosom to feel and one tongue to express his +wonder!</p> + +<p>And yet, of what, that should make a spot of earth sink to +perdition, has it not been the theatre? Here were beheaded the +unfortunate Louis XVI.—his wife, Marie Antoinette—his kinsman, +Philip duke of Orleans, and his sister Elizabeth; and here +were guillotined the intrepid Charlotte Corday, the deputy Brissot, +and twenty of his colleagues, and all the victims of the revolution +of 1793, to the amount of two thousand eight hundred; and here +Robespierre and his cursed crew met at last with their insufficient +retribution; and, as if it were destined to be the very blood-spot +of the earth, here the fireworks, which were celebrating the marriage +of the same Louis that was afterward brought hither to the +scaffold, exploded, and killed fourteen hundred persons. It has +been the scene, also, of several minor tragedies not worth mentioning +in such a connexion. Were I a Bourbon, and as unpopular +as King Philippe I. at this moment, the view of the Place +Louis XV. from my palace windows would very much disturb the +beauty of the perspective. Without an <i>equivoque</i>, I should look +with a very ominous dissatisfaction on the "Elysian fields" that +lie beyond.</p> + +<p>We loitered slowly on to the <i>Barrier Neuilly</i>, just outside of +which, and right before the city gates, stands the Triumphal Arch. +It has the stamp of Napoleon—simple grandeur. The broad +avenue from the Tuileries swells slowly up to it for two miles, and +the view of Paris at its foot, even, is superb. We ascended to +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">99</a></span> +the unfinished roof, a hundred and thirty-five feet from the +ground, and saw the whole of the mighty capital of France at a +<i>coup d'œil</i>—churches, palaces, gardens; buildings heaped upon +buildings clear over the edge of the horizon, where the spires of +the city in which you stand are scarcely visible for the distance.</p> + +<p>I dined, a short time since, with the editors of the <i>Revue +Encyclopedique</i> at their monthly reunion. This is a sort of club +dinner, to which the eminent contributors of the review invite +once a month all the strangers of distinction who happen to be in +Paris. I owed my invitation probably to the circumstance of my +living with Dr. Howe, who is considered the organ of American +principles here, and whose force of character has given him a +degree of respect and prominence not often attained by foreigners. +It was the most remarkable party, by far, that I had ever seen. +There were nearly a hundred guests, twenty or thirty of whom +were distinguished Poles, lately arrived from Warsaw. Generals +Romarino and Langermann were placed beside the president, and +another general, whose name is as difficult to remember as his +face is to forget, and who is famous for having been the last on +the field, sat next to the head seat. Near him were General +Bernard and Dr. Bowring, with Sir Sidney Smith (covered with +orders, from every quarter of the world), and the president of +Colombia. After the usual courses of a French dinner, the president, +Mons. Julien, a venerable man with snow-white hair, addressed +the company. He expressed his pleasure at the meeting, +with the usual courtesies of welcome, and in the fervent manner +of the old school of French politeness; and then pausing a little, +and lowering his voice, with a very touching cadence, he looked +around to the Poles, and began to speak of their country. Every +movement was instantly hushed about the table—the guests +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">100</a></span> +leaned forward, some of them half rising in their earnestness to +hear; the old man's voice trembled, and sunk lower; the Poles +dropped their heads upon their bosoms, and the whole company +were strongly affected. His manner suddenly changed at this +moment, in a degree that would have seemed too dramatic, if the +strong excitement had not sustained him. He spoke indignantly +of the Russian barbarity toward Poland—assured the exiles of +the strong sympathy felt by the great mass of the French people +in their cause, and expressed his confident belief that the struggle +was not yet done, and the time was near when, with France at +her back, Poland would rise and be free. He closed, amid +tumultuous acclamation, and all the Poles near him kissed the old +man, after the French manner, upon both his cheeks.</p> + +<p>This speech was followed by several others, much to the same +effect. Dr. Bowring replied handsomely, in French, to some +compliment paid to his efforts on the "question of reform," in +England. <i>Cesar Moreau</i>, the great schemist, and founder of +the <i>Academie d'Industrie</i>, said a few very revolutionary things +quite emphatically, rolling his fine visionary-looking eyes about +as if he saw the "shadows cast before" of coming events; and +then rose a speaker, whom I shall never forget. He was a young +Polish noble, of about nineteen, whose extreme personal beauty +and enthusiastic expression of countenance had particularly arrested +my attention in the drawing-room, before dinner. His +person was slender and graceful—his eye and mouth full of beauty +and fire, and his manner had a quiet native superiority, that +would have distinguished him anywhere. He had behaved very +gallantly in the struggle, and some allusion had been made to him +in one of the addresses. He rose modestly, and half unwillingly, +and acknowledged the kind wishes for his country in language of +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">101</a></span> +great elegance. He then went on to speak of the misfortunes of +Poland, and soon warmed into eloquence of the most vivid earnestness +and power. I never was more moved by a speaker—he +seemed perfectly unconscious of everything but the recollections +of his subject. His eyes swam with tears and flashed with +indignation alternately, and his refined, spirited mouth assumed a +play of varied expression, which, could it have been arrested, +would have made a sculptor immortal. I can hardly write extravagantly +of him, for all present were as much excited as myself. +One ceases to wonder at the desperate character of the attempt +to redeem the liberty of a land when he sees such specimens of +its people. I have seen hundreds of Poles, of all classes, in Paris, +and I have not yet met with a face of even common dulness +among them.</p> + +<p>You have seen by the papers, I presume, that a body of several +thousand Poles fled from Warsaw, after the defeat, and took +refuge in the northern forests of Prussia. They gave up their +arms under an assurance from the king that they should have all +the rights of Prussian subjects. He found it politic afterward to +recall his protection, and ordered them back to Poland. They +refused to go, and were surrounded by a detachment of his army, +and the orders given to fire upon them. The soldiers refused, +and the Poles, taking advantage of the sympathy of the army, +broke through the ranks, and escaped to the forest, where, at the +last news, they were armed with clubs, and determined to defend +themselves to the last. The consequence of a return to Poland +would be, of course, an immediate exile to Siberia. The Polish +committee, American and French, with General Lafayette at +their head, have appropriated a great part of their funds to the +relief of this body, and our countryman, Dr. Howe, has undertaken +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">102</a></span> +the dangerous and difficult task of carrying it to them. He +left Paris for Brussels, with letters from the Polish generals, and +advices from Lafayette to all Polish committees upon his route, +that they should put all their funds into his hands. He is a gallant +fellow, and will succeed if any one can; but he certainly runs +great hazard. God prosper him! +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103"></a></span></p> + +<h3>LETTER XIII.</h3> + +<p class="ch_sum">THE GAMBLING-HOUSES OF PARIS.</p> + +<p>I accepted, last night, from a French gentleman of high standing, +a polite offer of introduction to one of the exclusive gambling +clubs of Paris. With the understanding, of course, that it was +only as a spectator, my friend, whom I had met at a dinner party, +despatched a note from the table, announcing to the temporary +master of ceremonies his intention of presenting me. We went +at eleven, in full dress. I was surprised at the entrance with the +splendor of the establishment—gilt balustrades, marble staircases, +crowds of servants in full livery, and all the formal announcement +of a court. Passing through several ante-chambers, a +heavy folding-door was thrown open, and we were received by +one of the noblest-looking men I have seen in France—Count +——. I was put immediately at my ease by his dignified and +kind politeness; and after a little conversation in English, which +he spoke fluently, the entrance of some other person left me at +liberty to observe at my leisure. Everything about me had the +impress of the studied taste of high life. The lavish and yet soft +disposition of light, the harmony of color in the rich hangings +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">104</a></span> +and furniture, the quiet manners and subdued tones of conversation, +the respectful deference of the servants, and the simplicity +of the slight entertainment, would have convinced me, without +my Asmodeus, that I was in no every-day atmosphere. Conversation +proceeded for an hour, while the members came dropping in +from their evening engagements, and a little after twelve a glass +door was thrown open, and we passed from the reception-room +to the spacious suite of apartments intended for play. One or +two of the gentlemen entered the side rooms for billiards and +cards, but the majority closed about the table of hazard in the +central hall. I had never conceived so beautiful an apartment. +It can be described in two words—<i>columns</i> and <i>mirrors</i>. There +was nothing else between the exquisitely-painted ceiling and the +floor. The form was circular, and the wall was laid with glass, +interrupted only with pairs of Corinthian pillars, with their rich +capitals reflected and re-reflected innumerably. It seemed like +a hall of colonnades of illimitable extent—the multiplication of +the mirrors into each other was so endless and illusive. I felt an +unconquerable disposition to abandon myself to a waking revery +of pleasure; and as soon as the attention of the company was perfectly +engrossed by the silent occupation before them, I sank +upon a sofa, and gave my senses up for a while to the fascination +of the scene. My eye was intoxicated. As far as my sight could +penetrate, stretched apparently interminable halls, carpeted with +crimson, and studded with graceful columns and groups of courtly +figures, forming altogether, with its extent and beauty, and in the +subdued and skilfully-managed light, a picture that, if real, would +be one of unsurpassable splendor. I quite forgot my curiosity to +see the game. I had merely observed, when my companion reminded +me of the arrival of my own appointed hour for departure +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">105</a></span> +that, whatever was lost or won, the rustling bills were passed +from one to the other with a quiet and imperturbable politeness, +that betrayed no sign either of chagrin or triumph; though, from +the fact that the transfers were in paper only, the stakes must +have been anything but trifling. Refusing a polite invitation to +partake of the supper, always in waiting, we took leave about two +hours after midnight.</p> + +<p>As we drove from the court, my companion suggested to me, +that, since we were out at so late an hour, we might as well +look in for a moment at the more accessible "hells," and, +pulling the <i>cordon</i>, he ordered to "<i>Frascati's</i>." This, you know +of course, is the fashionable place of ruin, and here the heroes of +all novels, and the rakes of all comedies, mar or make their fortunes. +An evening dress, and the look of a gentleman, are the +only required passport. A servant in attendance took our hats +and canes, and we walked in without ceremony. It was a different +scene from the former. Four large rooms, plainly but +handsomely furnished, opened into each other, three of which +were devoted to play, and crowded with players. Elegantly-dressed +women, some of them with high pretensions to French +beauty, sat and stood at the table, watching their own stakes in +the rapid games with fixed attention. The majority of the +gentlemen were English. The table was very large, marked as +usual with the lines and figures of the game, and each person +playing had a small rake in his hand, with which he drew toward +him his proportion of the winnings. I was disappointed at the +first glance in the faces: there was very little of the high-bred +courtesy I had seen at the club-house, but there was no very +striking exhibition of feeling, and I should think, in any but an +extreme case, the whispering silence and general quietness of the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">106</a></span> +room would repress it. After watching the variations of luck +awhile, however, I selected one or two pretty desperate losers, +and a young Frenchman who was a large winner, and confined +my observation to them only. Among the former was a girl of +about eighteen, a mild, quiet-looking creature, with her hair +curling long on her neck, and hands childishly small and white, +who lost invariably. Two piles of five-franc pieces and a small +heap of gold lay on the table beside her, and I watched her till +she laid the last coin upon the losing color. She bore it very +well. By the eagerness with which, at every turn of the last +card, she closed her hand upon the rake which she held, it was +evident that her hopes were high; but when her last piece was +drawn into the bank, she threw up her little fingers with a playful +desperation, and commenced conversation even gayly with a +gentleman who stood leaning over her chair. The young +Frenchman continued almost as invariably to win. He was +excessively handsome; but there was a cold, profligate, unvarying +hardness of expression in his face, that made me dislike him. +The spectators drew gradually about his chair; and one or two +of the women, who seemed to know him well, selected a color for +him occasionally, or borrowed of him and staked for themselves. +We left him winning. The other players were mostly English, +and very uninteresting in their exhibition of disappointment. +My companion told me that there would be more desperate playing +toward morning, but I had become disgusted with the cold +selfish faces of the scene, and felt no interest sufficient to detain +me. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107"></a></span></p> + +<h3>LETTER XIV.</h3> + +<p class="ch_sum"> +THE GARDEN OF THE TUILERIES—PRINCE MOSCOWA—SONS OF +NAPOLEON—COOPER AND MORSE—SIR SIDNEY SMITH—FASHIONABLE +WOMEN—CLOSE OF THE DAY—THE FAMOUS EATING-HOUSES—HOW +TO DINE WELL IN PARIS, ETC.</p> + +<p>It is March, and the weather has all the characteristics of +New-England May. The last two or three days have been +deliciously spring-like, clear, sunny, and warm. The gardens of +the Tuileries are crowded. The chairs beneath the terraces are +filled by the old men reading the gazettes, mothers and nurses +watching their children at play, and, at every few steps, circles +of whole families sitting and sewing, or conversing, as unconcernedly +as at home. It strikes a stranger oddly. With the +<i>privacy</i> of American feelings, we cannot conceive of these out-of-door +French habits. What would a Boston or New York mother +think of taking chairs for her whole family, grown-up daughters +and all, in the Mall or upon the Battery, and spending the day in +the very midst of the gayest promenade of the city? People of +all ranks do it here. You will see the powdered, elegant gentleman +of the <i>ancien régime</i>, handing his wife or daughter to a +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">108</a></span> +straw-bottomed chair, with all the air of drawing-room courtesy; +and, begging pardon for the liberty, pull his journal from his +pocket, and sit down to read beside her; or a tottering old man, +leaning upon a stout Swiss servant girl, goes bowing and +apologizing through the crowd, in search of a pleasant neighbor, +or some old compatriot, with whom he may sit and nod away the +hours of sunshine. It is a beautiful custom, positively. The +gardens are like a constant <i>féte</i>. It is a holiday revel, without +design or disappointment. It is a masque, where every one +plays his character unconsciously, and therefore naturally and +well. We get no idea of it at home. We are too industrious a +nation to have idlers enough. It would even pain most of the +people of our country to see so many thousands of all ages and +conditions of life spending day after day in such absolute +uselessness.</p> + +<p>Imagine yourself here, on the fashionable terrace, the promenade, +two days in the week, of all that is distinguished and gay +in Paris. It is a short raised walk, just inside the railings, and +the only part of all these wide and beautiful gardens where a +member of the <i>beau monde</i> is ever to be met. The hour is four, +the day Friday, the weather heavenly. I have just been long +enough in Paris to be an excellent walking dictionary, and I will +tell you who people are. In the first place, all the well-dressed +men you see are English. You will know the French by those +flaring coats, laid clear back on their shoulders, and their +execrable hats and thin legs. Their heads are fresh from the +hair-dresser; their hats are <i>chapeaux de soie</i> or imitation beaver; +they are delicately rouged, and wear very white gloves; and +those who are with ladies, lead, as you observe, a small dog by +a string, or carry it in their arms. No French lady walks out +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">109</a></span> +without her lap-dog. These slow-paced men you see in brown +mustaches and frogged coats are refugee Poles. The short, +thick, agile-looking man before us is General ——, celebrated +for having been the last to surrender on the last field of that +brief contest. His handsome face is full of resolution, and unlike +the rest of his countrymen, he looks still unsubdued and in good +heart. He walks here every day an hour or two, swinging his +cane round his forefinger, and thinking, apparently of anything +but his defeat. Observe these two young men approaching us. +The short one on the left, with the stiff hair and red mustache, +is <i>Prince Moscowa</i>, the son of Marshal Ney. He is an object of +more than usual interest just now, as the youngest of the new +batch of peers. The expression of his countenance is more bold +than handsome, and indeed he is anything but a carpet knight; a +fact of which he seems, like a man of sense, quite aware. He is +to be seen at the parties standing with his arms folded, leaning +silently against the wall for hours together. His companion is, +I presume to say, quite the handsomest man you ever saw. A +little over six feet, perfectly proportioned, dark silken-brown +hair, slightly curling about his forehead, a soft curling mustache, +and beard just darkening the finest cut mouth in the world, and +an olive complexion, of the most golden richness and clearness—Mr. +—— is called the handsomest man in Europe. What is +more remarkable still, he looks like the most modest man in +Europe, too; though, like most modest <i>looking</i> men, his reputation +for constancy in the gallant world is somewhat slender. +And here comes a fine-looking man, though of a different order +of beauty—a natural son of Napoleon. He is about his father's +height, and has most of his features, though his person and air +must be quite different. You see there Napoleon's beautiful +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">110</a></span> +mouth and thinly chiselled nose, but I fancy that soft eye is his +mother's. He is said to be one of the most fascinating men in +France. His mother was the Countess Waleski, a lady with +whom the Emperor became acquainted in Poland. It is singular +that Napoleon's talents and love of glory have not descended upon +any of the eight or ten sons whose claims to his paternity are admitted. +And here come two of our countrymen, who are to be +seen constantly together—<i>Cooper</i> and <i>Morse</i>. That is Cooper +with the blue surtout buttoned up to his throat, and his hat over +his eyes. What a contrast between the faces of the two men! +Morse with his kind, open, gentle countenance, the very picture +of goodness and sincerity; and Cooper, dark and corsair-looking, +with his brows down over his eyes, and his strongly lined mouth +fixed in an expression of moodiness and reserve. The two faces, +however, are not equally just to their owners—Morse is all that +he looks to be, but Cooper's features do him decided injustice. +I take a pride in the reputation which this distinguished countryman +of ours has for humanity and generous sympathy. The +distress of the refugee liberals from all countries comes home +especially to Americans, and the untiring liberality of Mr. +Cooper particularly, is a fact of common admission and praise. +It is pleasant to be able to say such things. Morse is taking a +sketch of the Gallery of the Louvre, and he intends copying +some of the best pictures also, to accompany it as an exhibition, +when he returns. Our artists do our country credit abroad. +The feeling of interest in one's country artists and authors +becomes very strong in a foreign land. Every leaf of laurel +awarded to them seems to touch one's own forehead. And, +talking of laurels, here comes <i>Sir Sidney Smith</i>—the short, fat, +old gentleman yonder, with the large aquiline nose and keen eye. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">111</a></span> +He is one of the few men who ever opposed Napoleon successfully, +and that should distinguish him, even if he had not won by +his numerous merits and achievements the gift of almost every +order in Europe. He is, among other things, of a very +mechanical turn, and is quite crazy just now about a six-wheeled +coach, which he has lately invented, and of which nobody sees +the exact benefit but himself. An invitation to his rooms, to +hear his description of the model, is considered the last new +bore.</p> + +<p>And now for ladies. Whom do you see that looks distinguished? +Scarce one whom you would take positively for a lady, I +venture to presume. These two, with the velvet pelisses and +small satin bonnets, are rather the most genteel-looking people +in the garden. I set them down for ladies of rank, in the first +walk I ever took here; and two who have just passed us, with +the curly lap-dog, I was equally sure were persons of not very +dainty morality. It is precisely <i>au contraire</i>. The velvet +pelisses are gamblers from Frascati's, and the two with the lap-dog +are the Countess N. and her unmarried daughter—two of +the most exclusive specimens of Parisian society. It is very odd—but +if you see a remarkably modest-looking woman in Paris, +you may be sure, as the periphrasis goes, that "she is no better +than she should be." Everything gets <i>travestied</i> in this artificial +society. The general ambition seems to be, to appear that which +one is not. White-haired men cultivate their sparse mustaches, +and dark-haired men shave. Deformed men are successful in +gallantry, where handsome men despair. Ugly women dress and +dance, while beauties mope and are deserted. Modesty looks +brazen, and vice looks timid; and so all through the calendar. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">112</a></span> +Life in Paris is as pretty a series of astonishment, as an <i>ennuyé</i> +could desire.</p> + +<p>But there goes the palace-bell—five o'clock! The sun is just +disappearing behind the dome of the "Invalides," and the crowd +begins to thin. Look at the atmosphere of the gardens. How +deliciously the twilight mist softens everything. Statues, people, +trees, and the long perspectives down the alleys, all mellowed +into the shadowy indistinctness of fairy-land. The throng is +pressing out at the gates, and the guard, with his bayonet +presented, forbids all re-entrance, for the gardens are cleared at +sundown. The carriages are driving up and dashing away, and +if you stand a moment you will see the most vulgar-looking +people you have met in your promenade, waited for by <i>chasseurs</i>, +and departing with indications of rank in their equipages, which +nature has very positively denied to their persons. And now all +the world dines and dines well. The "<i>chef</i>" stands with his +gold repeater in his hand, waiting for the moment to decide the +fate of the first dish; the <i>garçons</i> at the restaurants have +donned their white aprons, and laid the silver forks upon the +napkins; the pretty women are seated on their thrones in the +saloons, and the interesting hour is here. Where shall we dine? +We will walk toward the Palais Royal, and talk of it as we go +along.</p> + +<p>That man would "deserve well of his country" who should +write a "Paris Guide" for the palate. I would do it myself if I +could elude the immortality it would occasion me. One is compelled +to pioneer his own stomach through the endless <i>cartes</i> of +some twelve eating-houses, all famous, before he half knows +whether he is dining well or ill. I had eaten for a week at +Very's, for instance, before I discovered that, since Pelham's +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">113</a></span> +day, that gentleman's reputation has gone down. He is a subject +for history at present. I was misled also by an elderly gentleman +at Havre, who advised me to eat at <i>Grignon's</i>, in the <i>Passage +Vivienne</i>. Not liking my first <i>coquilles aux huitres</i>, I made +some private inquiries, and found that his <i>chef</i> had deserted him +about the time of Napoleon's return from Elba. A stranger +gets misguided in this way. And then, if by accident you hit +upon the right house, you may be eating for a month before you +find out the peculiar triumphs which have stamped its celebrity. +No mortal man can excel in everything, and it is as true of +cooking as it is of poetry. The "<i>Rochers de Cancale</i>," is now +the first eating-house in Paris, yet they only excel in fish. The +"<i>Trois Fréres Provençaux</i>," have a high reputation, yet their +<i>cotelettes provençales</i> are the only dish which you can not get +equally well elsewhere. A good practice is to walk about in the +Palais Royal for an hour before dinner, and select a master. +You will know a <i>gourmet</i> easily—a man slightly past the prime +of life, with a nose just getting its incipient blush, a remarkably +loose, voluminous white cravat, and a corpulence more of suspicion +than fact. Follow him to his restaurant, and give the <i>garçon</i> +a private order to serve you with the same dishes as the <i>bald</i> +gentleman. (I have observed that dainty livers universally lose +their hair early.) I have been in the wake of such a person now +for a week or more, and I never lived, comparatively, before. +Here we are, however, at the "<i>Trois Fréres</i>," and there goes +my unconscious model deliberately up stairs. We'll follow him, +and double his orders, and if we dine not well, there is no eating +in France. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114"></a></span></p> + +<h3>LETTER XV.</h3> + +<p class="ch_sum"> +HOPITAL DES INVALIDES—MONUMENT OF TURENNE—MARSHAL +NEY—A POLISH LADY IN UNIFORM—FEMALES MASQUERADING +IN MEN'S CLOTHES—DUEL BETWEEN THE SONS OF GEORGE IV. +AND OF BONAPARTE—GAMBLING PROPENSITIES OF THE FRENCH.</p> + +<p>The weather still holds warm and bright, as it has been all the +month, and the scarcely "premature white pantaloons" appeared +yesterday in the Tuileries. The ladies loosen their +"boas;" the silken greyhounds of Italy follow their mistresses +without shivering; the birds are noisy and gay in the clipped +trees—who that had known February in New England would +recognize him by such a description?</p> + +<p>I took an indolent stroll with a friend this morning to the +<i>Hopital des Invalides</i>, on the other side of the river. Here, not +long since, were twenty-five thousand old soldiers. There are +but five thousand now remaining, most of them having been dismissed +by the Bourbons. It is of course one of the most interesting +spots in France; and of a pleasant day there is no lounge +where a traveller can find so much matter for thought, with so +much pleasure to the eye. We crossed over by the <i>Pons Louis</i> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">115</a></span> +<i>Quinze</i>, and kept along the bank of the river to the esplanade in +front of the hospital. There was never a softer sunshine, or a +more deliciously-tempered air; and we found the old veterans +out of doors, sitting upon the cannon along the rampart, or halting +about, with their wooden legs, under the trees, the pictures +of comfort and contentment. The building itself, as you know, +is very celebrated for its grandeur. The dome of the <i>Invalides</i> +rises upon the eye from all parts of Paris, a perfect model of +proportion and beauty. It was this which Bonaparte ordered to +be gilded, to divert the people from thinking too much upon his +defeat. It is a living monument of the most touching recollections +of him now. Positively the blood mounts, and the tears +spring to the eyes of the spectator, as he stands a moment, and +remembers what is around him in that place. To see his maimed +followers, creeping along the corridors, clothed and fed by the +bounty he left, in a place devoted to his soldiers alone, their old +comrades about them, and all glowing with one feeling of devotion +to his memory, to speak to them, to hear their stories of—"<i>L'Empereur</i>" +it is better than a thousand histories to make +one <i>feel</i> the glory of "the great captain." The interior of +the dome is vast, and of a splendid style of architecture, +and out from one of its sides extends a superb chapel, hung +all round with the tattered flags taken in <i>his</i> victories alone. +Here the veterans of his army worship, beneath the banners for +which they fought. It is hardly appropriate, I should think, to +adorn thus the church of a "religion of peace;" but while there, +at least, we feel strangely certain, somehow, that it is right and +fitting; and when, as we stood deciphering the half-effaced insignia +of the different nations, the organ began to peal, there certainly +was anything but a jar between this grand music, consecrated +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">116</a></span> +as it is by religious associations, and the thrilling and +uncontrolled sense in my bosom of Napoleon's glory. The +anthem seemed to <i>him</i>!</p> + +<p>The majestic sounds were still rolling through the dome when +we came to the monument of <i>Turenne</i>. Here is another comment +on the character of Bonaparte's mind. There was once a +long inscription on this monument, describing, in the fulsome +style of an epitaph, the deeds and virtues of the distinguished +man who is buried beneath. The emperor removed and replaced +it by a small slab, graven with the single word <span class="smcap">Turenne</span>. You +acknowledge the sublimity of this as you stand before it. Everything +is in keeping with its grandeur. The lofty proportions +and magnificence of the dome, the tangible trophies of glory, +and the maimed and venerable figures, kneeling about the altar, +of those who helped to win them, are circumstances that make +that eloquent word as articulate as if it were spoken in thunder. +You feel that Napoleon's spirit might walk the place, and read +the hearts of those who should visit it, unoffended.</p> + +<p>We passed on to the library. It is ornamented with the portraits +of all the generals of Napoleon, save one. <i>Ney's</i> is not +there. It should, and will be, at some time or other, doubtless; +but I wonder that, in a day when such universal justice is done to +the memory of this brave man, so obvious and it would seem +necessary a reparation should not be demanded. Great efforts +have been making of late to get his sentence publicly reversed, +but, though they deny his widow and children nothing else, this +melancholy and unavailing satisfaction is refused them. Ney's +memory little needs it, it is true. No visiter looks about the +gallery at the <i>Invalides</i> without commenting feelingly on the +omission of his portrait; and probably no one of the scarred +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">117</a></span> +veterans who sit there, reading their own deeds in history, looks +round on the faces of the old leaders of whom it tells, without +remembering and feeling that the brightest name upon the page +is wanting. I would rather, if I were his son, have the regret +than the justice.</p> + +<p>We left the hospital, as all must leave it, full of Napoleon. +France is full of him. The monuments and the hearts of the +people, all are alive with his name and glory. Disapprove and +detract from his reputation as you will (and as powerful minds, +with apparent justice, <i>have</i> done), as long as human nature is +what it is, as long as power and loftiness of heart hold their present +empire over the imagination, Napoleon is immortal.</p> + +<hr class="l15" /> + +<p>The promenading world is amused just now with the daily appearance +in the Tuileries of a Polish lady, dressed in the Polonaise +undress uniform, decorated with the order of distinction +given for bravery at Warsaw. She is not very beautiful, but she +wears the handsome military cap quite gallantly; and her small +feet and full chest are truly captivating in boots and a frogged +coat. It is an exceedingly spirited, well-charactered face, with +a complexion slightly roughened by her new habits. Her hair is +cut short, and brushed up at the sides, and she certainly handles +the little switch she carries with an air which entirely forbids +insult. She is ordinarily seen lounging very idly along between +two polytechnic boys, who seem to have a great admiration for +her. I observe that the Polish generals touch their hats very +respectfully as she passes, but as yet I have been unable to come +at her precise history.</p> + +<p>By the by, masquerading in men's clothes is not at all uncommon +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">118</a></span> +in Paris. I have sometimes seen two or three women at a +time dining at the restaurants in this way. No notice is taken of +it, and the lady is perfectly safe from insult, though every one +that passes may penetrate the disguise. It is common at the +theatres, and at the public balls still more so. I have noticed +repeatedly at the weekly <i>soirées</i> of a lady of high respectability, +two sisters in boy's clothes, who play duets upon the piano for the +dance. The lady of the house told me they preferred it, to avoid +attention, and the awkwardness of position natural to their vocation, +in society. The tailors tell me it is quite a branch of trade—making +suits for ladies of a similar taste. There is one +particularly, in the <i>Rue Richelieu</i>, who is famed for his nice fits +to the female figure. It is remarkable, however, that instead of +wearing their new honors meekly, there is no such impertinent +puppy as a <i>femme deguisée</i>. I saw one in a <i>café</i>, not long ago, +rap the <i>garçon</i> very smartly over the fingers with a rattan, for +overrunning her cup; and they are sure to shoulder you off the +sidewalk, if you are at all in the way. I have seen several +amusing instances of a probable quarrel in the street, ending in a +gay bow, and a "<i>pardon, madame!</i>"</p> + +<hr class="l15" /> + +<p>There has been a great deal of excitement here for the past +two days on the result of a gambling quarrel. An English gentleman, +a fine, gay, noble-looking fellow, whom I have often met +at parties, and admired for his strikingly winning and elegant +manners, lost fifty thousand francs on Thursday night at cards. +The Count St. Leon was the winner. It appears that Hesse, the +Englishman, had drank freely before sitting down to play, and +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">119</a></span> +the next morning his friend, who had bet upon the game, persuaded +him that there had been some unfairness on the part of +his opponent. He refused consequently to pay the debt, and +charged the Frenchman, and another gentleman who backed +him, with deception. The result was a couple of challenges, +which were both accepted. Hesse fought the Count on Friday, +and was dangerously wounded at the first fire. His friend +fought on Saturday (yesterday), and is reported to be mortally +wounded. It is a little remarkable that both the <i>losers</i> are shot, +and still more remarkable, that Hesse should have been, as he +was known to be, a natural son of George the Fourth; and +Count Leon, as was equally well known, a natural son of Bonaparte!</p> + +<p>Everybody gambles in Paris. I had no idea that so desperate +a vice could be so universal, and so little deprecated as it is. +The gambling-houses are as open and as ordinary a resort as any +public promenade, and one may haunt them with as little danger +to his reputation. To dine from six to eight, gamble from eight +to ten, go to a ball, and return to gamble till morning, is as common +a routine for married men and bachelors both, as a system +of dress, and as little commented on. I sometimes stroll into +the card-room at a party, but I can not get accustomed to the +sight of ladies losing or winning money. Almost all Frenchwomen, +who are too old to dance, play at parties; and their +daughters and husbands watch the game as unconcernedly as if +they were turning over prints. I have seen English ladies play, +but with less philosophy. They do not lose their money gayly. +It is a great spoiler of beauty, the vexation of a loss. I think I +never could respect a woman upon whose face I had remarked +the shade I often see at an English card-table. It is certain that +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">120</a></span> +vice walks abroad in Paris, in many a shape that would seem, to +an American eye, to show the fiend too openly. I am not over +particular, I think, but I would as soon expose a child to the +plague as give either son or daughter a free rein for a year in +Paris. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121"></a></span></p> + +<h3>LETTER XVI.</h3> + +<p class="ch_sum"> +THE CHOLERA—A MASQUE BALL—THE GAY WORLD—MOBS—VISIT +TO THE HOTEL DIEU.</p> + +<p>You see by the papers, I presume, the official accounts of the +cholera in Paris. It seems very terrible to you, no doubt, at +your distance from the scene, and truly it is terrible enough, if +one could realize it, anywhere; but many here do not trouble +themselves about it, and you might be in this metropolis a month, +and if you observed the people only, and frequented only the +places of amusement, and the public promenades, you might +never suspect its existence. The weather is June-like, deliciously +warm and bright; the trees are just in the tender green +of the new buds, and the public gardens are thronged all day +with thousands of the gay and idle, sitting under the trees in +groups, laughing and amusing themselves, as if there were no +plague in the air, though hundreds die every day. The churches +are all hung in black; there is a constant succession of funerals; +and you cross the biers and hand-barrows of the sick, hurrying to +the hospitals at every turn, in every quarter of the city. It is +very hard to realize such things, and, it would seem, very hard +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">122</a></span> +even to treat them seriously. I was at a masque ball at the +<i>Théatre des Varietés</i>, a night or two since, at the celebration of +the <i>Mi-Careme</i>, or half-Lent. There were some two thousand +people, I should think, in fancy dresses, most of them grotesque +and satirical, and the ball was kept up till seven in the morning, +with all the extravagant gaiety, noise, and fun, with which the +French people manage such matters. There was a <i>cholera-waltz</i>, +and a <i>cholera-galopade</i>, and one man, immensely tall, dressed as +a personification of the <i>Cholera</i> itself, with skeleton armor, +bloodshot eyes, and other horrible appurtenances of a walking +pestilence. It was the burden of all the jokes, and all the cries +of the hawkers, and all the conversation; and yet, probably, +nineteen out of twenty of those present lived in the quarters most +ravaged by the disease, and many of them had seen it face to +face, and knew perfectly its deadly character!</p> + +<p>As yet, with few exceptions, the higher classes of society have +escaped. It seems to depend very much on the manner in +which people live, and the poor have been struck in every quarter, +often at the very next door to luxury. A friend told me this +morning, that the porter of a large and fashionable hotel, in +which he lives, had been taken to the hospital; and there have +been one or two cases in the airy quarter of St. Germain, in the +same street with Mr. Cooper, and nearly opposite. Several +physicians and medical students have died too, but the majority +of these live with the narrowest economy, and in the parts of the +city the most liable to impure effluvia. The balls go on still in +the gay world; and I presume they <i>would</i> go on if there were +only musicians enough left to make an orchestra, or fashionists +to compose a quadrille. I was walking home very late from a +party the night before last, with a captain in the English army. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">123</a></span> +The gray of the morning was just stealing into the sky; and +after a stopping a moment in the <i>Place Vendome</i>, to look at the +column, stretching up apparently unto the very stars, we bade +good morning, and parted. He had hardly left me, he said, +when he heard a frightful scream from one of the houses in the +<i>Rue St. Honoré</i>, and thinking there might be some violence +going on, he rang at the gate and entered, mounting the first +staircase that presented. A woman had just opened a door, and +fallen on the broad stair at the top, and was writhing in great +agony. The people of the house collected immediately; but the +moment my friend pronounced the word cholera, there was a +general dispersion, and he was left alone with the patient. He +took her in his arms, and carried her to a coach-stand, without +assistance, and, driving to the <i>Hotel Dieu</i>, left her with the +<i>Sœurs de Charité</i>. She has since died.</p> + +<p>As if one plague were not enough, the city is still alive in the +distant faubourgs with revolts. Last night, the <i>rappel</i> was beat +all over the town, the national guard called to arms, and marched +to the <i>Porte St. Denis</i>, and the different quarters where the +mobs were collected.</p> + +<p>Many suppose there is no cholera except such as is produced +by poison; and the <i>Hotel Dieu</i>, and the other hospitals, are besieged +daily by the infuriated mob, who swear vengeance against +the government for all the mortality they witness.</p> + +<hr class="l15" /> + +<p>I have just returned from a visit to the <i>Hotel Dieu</i>—the hospital +for the cholera. Impelled by a powerful motive, which it is +not now necessary to explain, I had previously made several attempts +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">124</a></span> +to gain admission in vain; but yesterday I fell in fortunately +with an English physician, who told me I could pass with +a doctor's diploma, which he offered to borrow for me of some +medical friend. He called by appointment at seven this morning, +to accompany me on my visit.</p> + +<p>It was like one of our loveliest mornings in June—an inspiriting, +sunny, balmy day, all softness and beauty—and we crossed +the Tuileries by one of its superb avenues, and kept down the +bank of the river to the island. With the errand on which we +were bound in our minds, it was impossible not to be struck very +forcibly with our own exquisite enjoyment of life. I am sure I +never felt my veins fuller of the pleasure of health and motion; +and I never saw a day when everything about me seemed better +worth living for. The splendid palace of the Louvre, with its +long <i>façade</i> of nearly half a mile, lay in the mellowest sunshine +on our left; the lively river, covered with boats, and spanned +with its magnificent and crowded bridges on our right; the view +of the island, with its massive old structures below, and the fine +gray towers of the church of <i>Notre Dame</i> rising, dark and +gloomy, in the distance, rendered it difficult to realize anything +but life and pleasure. That under those very towers, which +added so much to the beauty of the scene, there lay a thousand +and more of poor wretches dying of a plague, was a thought my +mind would not retain a moment.</p> + +<p>Half an hour's walk brought us to the <i>Place Notre Dame</i>, on +one side of which, next this celebrated church, stands the hospital. +My friend entered, leaving me to wait till he had found +an acquaintance of whom he could borrow a diploma. A hearse +was standing at the door of the church, and I went in for a moment. +A few mourners, with the appearance of extreme poverty, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">125</a></span> +were kneeling round a coffin at one of the side altars; and a +solitary priest, with an attendant boy, was mumbling the prayers +for the dead. As I came out, another hearse drove up, with a +rough coffin, scantily covered with a pall, and followed by one +poor old man. They hurried in, and I strolled around the +square. Fifteen or twenty water-carriers were filling their +buckets at the fountain opposite, singing and laughing; and at +the same moment four different litters crossed toward the hospital, +each with its two or three followers, women and children, +friends or relatives of the sick, accompanying them to the door, +where they parted from them, most probably for ever. The +litters were set down a moment before ascending the steps; the +crowd pressed around and lifted the coarse curtains; farewells +were exchanged, and the sick alone passed in. I did not see any +great demonstration of feeling in the particular cases that were +before me; but I can conceive, in the almost deadly certainty of +this disease, that these hasty partings at the door of the hospital +might often be scenes of unsurpassed suffering and distress.</p> + +<p>I waited, perhaps, ten minutes more. In the whole time that +I had been there, twelve litters, bearing the sick, had entered the +<i>Hotel Dieu</i>. As I exhibited the borrowed diploma, the thirteenth +arrived, and with it a young man, whose violent and uncontrolled +grief worked so far on the soldier at the door, that he allowed +him to pass. I followed the bearers to the yard, interested exceedingly +to observe the first treatment and manner of reception. +They wound slowly up the stone staircase to the upper story, and +entered the female department—a long low room, containing +nearly a hundred beds, placed in alleys scarce two feet from each +other. Nearly all were occupied, and those which were empty +my friend told me were vacated by deaths yesterday. They set +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">126</a></span> +down the litter by the side of a narrow cot, with coarse but +clean sheets, and a <i>Sœur de Charité</i>, with a white cap, and a +cross at her girdle, came and took off the canopy. A young woman, +of apparently twenty-five, was beneath, absolutely convulsed +with agony. Her eyes were started from their sockets, +her mouth foamed, and her face was of a frightful, livid purple. +I never saw so horrible a sight. She had been taken in perfect +health only three hours before, but her features looked to me +marked with a year of pain. The first attempt to lift her produced +violent vomiting, and I thought she must die instantly. +They covered her up in bed, and leaving the man who came with +her hanging over her with the moan of one deprived of his +senses, they went to receive others, who were entering in the +same manner. I inquired of my companion how soon she would +be attended to. He said, "possibly in an hour, as the physician +was just commencing his rounds." An hour after this I passed +the bed of this poor woman, and she had not yet been visited. +Her husband answered my question with a choking voice and a +flood of tears.</p> + +<p>I passed down the ward, and found nineteen or twenty in the +last agonies of death. They lay perfectly still, and seemed benumbed. +I felt the limbs of several, and found them quite cold. +The stomach only had a little warmth. Now and then a half +groan escaped those who seemed the strongest; but with the +exception of the universally open mouth and upturned ghastly +eye, there were no signs of much suffering. I found two who +must have been dead half an hour, undiscovered by the attendants. +One of them was an old woman, nearly gray, with a very +bad expression of face, who was perfectly cold—lips, limbs, body, +and all. The other was younger, and looked as if she had died +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">127</a></span> +in pain. Her eyes appeared as if they had been forced half out +of the sockets, and her skin was of the most livid and deathly +purple. The woman in the next bed told me she had died since +the <i>Sœur de Charité</i> had been there. It is horrible to think +how these poor creatures may suffer in the very midst of the provisions +that are made professedly for their relief. I asked why +a simple prescription of treatment might not be drawn up the +physicians, and administered by the numerous medical students +who were in Paris, that as few as possible might suffer from delay. +"Because," said my companion, "the chief physicians +must do everything <i>personally</i>, to study the complaint." And +so, I verily believe, more human lives are sacrificed in waiting +for experiments, than ever will be saved by the results. My +blood boiled from the beginning to the end of this melancholy +visit.</p> + +<p>I wandered about alone among the beds till my heart was sick, +and I could bear it no longer; and then rejoined my friend, who +was in the train of one of the physicians, making the rounds. +One would think a dying person should be treated with kindness. +I never saw a rougher or more heartless manner than that of the +celebrated Dr. ——, at the bedsides of these poor creatures. A +harsh question, a rude pulling open of the mouth, to look at the +tongue, a sentence or two of unsuppressed comments to the students +on the progress of the disease, and the train passed on. +If discouragement and despair are not medicines, I should think +the visits of such physicians were of little avail. The wretched +sufferers turned away their heads after he had gone, in every +instance that I saw, with an expression of visibly increased +distress. Several of them refused to answer his questions altogether. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">128</a></span></p> + +<p>On reaching the bottom of the <i>Salle St. Monique</i>, one of the +male wards, I heard loud voices and laughter. I had noticed +much more groaning and complaining in passing among the men, +and the horrible discordance struck me as something infernal. +It proceeded from one of the sides to which the patients had +been removed who were recovering. The most successful treatment +has been found to be <i>punch</i>, very strong, with but little +acid, and being permitted to drink as much as they would, they +had become partially intoxicated. It was a fiendish sight, positively. +They were sitting up, and reaching from one bed to the +other, and with their still pallid faces and blue lips, and the hospital +dress of white, they looked like so many carousing corpses. +I turned away from them in horror.</p> + +<p>I was stopped in the door-way by a litter entering with a sick +woman. They set her down in the main passage between the +beds, and left her a moment to find a place for her. She +seemed to have an interval of pain, and rose up on one hand, and +looked about her very earnestly. I followed the direction of her +eyes, and could easily imagine her sensations. Twenty or thirty +death-like faces were turned toward her from the different beds, +and the groans of the dying and the distressed came from every +side. She was without a friend whom she knew, sick of a mortal +disease, and abandoned to the mercy of those whose kindness is +mercenary and habitual, and of course without sympathy or feeling. +Was it not enough alone, if she had been far less ill, to imbitter +the very fountains of life, and kill her with mere fright and +horror? She sank down upon the litter again, and drew her +shawl over her head. I had seen enough of suffering, and I left +the place.</p> + +<p>On reaching the lower staircase, my friend proposed to me to +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">129</a></span> +look into the <i>dead-room</i>. We descended to a large dark apartment +below the street-level, lighted by a lamp fixed to the wall. +Sixty or seventy bodies lay on the floor, some of them quite uncovered, +and some wrapped in mats. I could not see distinctly +enough by the dim light, to judge of their discoloration. They +appeared mostly old and emaciated.</p> + +<p>I can not describe the sensation of relief with which I breathed +the free air once more. I had no fear of the cholera, but the +suffering and misery I had seen, oppressed and half smothered +me. Every one who has walked through an hospital, will remember +how natural it is to subdue the breath, and close the nostrils +to the smells of medicine and the close air. The fact, too, that +the question of contagion is still disputed, though I fully believe +the cholera <i>not</i> to be contagious, might have had some effect. +My breast heaved, however, as if a weight had risen from my +lungs, and I walked home, blessing God for health, with undissembled +gratitude.</p> + +<hr class="l15" /> + +<p>P. S.—I began this account of my visit to the <i>Hotel Dieu</i> yesterday. +As I am perfectly well this morning, I think the point +of non-contagion, in my own case at least, is clear. I breathed +the same air with the dying and the diseased for two hours, and +felt of nearly a hundred to be satisfied of the curious phenomena +of the vital heat. Perhaps an experiment of this sort in a man +not professionally a physician, may be considered rash or useless; +and I would not willingly be thought to have done it from any +puerile curiosity. I have been interested in such subjects always; +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">130</a></span> +and I considered the fact that the king's sons had been permitted +to visit the hospital, a sufficient assurance that the physicians +were seriously convinced there could be no possible danger. If I +need an apology, it may be found in this. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131"></a></span></p> + +<h3>LETTER XVII.</h3> + +<p class="ch_sum"> +LEGION OF HONOR—PRESENTATION TO THE KING—THE THRONE +OF FRANCE—THE QUEEN AND THE PRINCESSES—COUNTESS GUICCIOLI—THE +LATE DUEL—THE SEASON OF CARNIVAL—ANOTHER +FANCY BALL—DIFFERENCE BETWEEN PRIVATE AND PUBLIC +MASKERS—STREET MASKING—BALL AT THE PALACE—THE YOUNG +DUKE OF ORLEANS—PRINCESS CHRISTINE—LORD HARRY VANE—HEIR +OF CARDINAL RICHELIEU—VILLIERS—BERNARD, FABVIER, +COUSIN, AND OTHER DISTINGUISHED CHARACTERS—THE SUPPER—THE +GLASS VERANDAH, ETC.</p> + +<p>As I was getting out of a <i>fiacre</i> this morning on the Boulevard, +I observed that the driver had the cross of the legion of honor, +worn very modestly under his coat. On taking a second look at +his face, I was struck with its soldier-like, honest expression; +and with the fear that I might imply a doubt by a question, I +simply observed, that he probably received it from Napoleon. +He drew himself up a little as he assented, and with half a smile +pulled the coarse cape of his coat across his bosom. It was done +evidently with a mixed feeling of pride and a dislike of ostentation, +which showed the nurture of Napoleon. It is astonishing +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">132</a></span> +how superior every being seems to have become that served +under him. Wherever you find an old soldier of the "emperor," +as they delight to call him, you find a noble, brave, unpretending +man. On mentioning this circumstance to a friend, he informed +me, that it was possibly a man who was well known, from rather +a tragical circumstance. He had driven a gentleman to a party +one night, who was dissatisfied with him, for some reason or +other, and abused him very grossly. The <i>cocher</i> the next morning +sent him a challenge; and, as the cross of honor levels all +distinctions, he was compelled to fight him, and was shot dead at +the first fire.</p> + +<p>Honors of this sort must be a very great incentive. They are +worn very proudly in France. You see men of all classes, with +the striped riband in their button-hole, marking them as the +heroes of the three days of July. The Poles and the French +and English, who fought well at Warsaw, wear also a badge; +and it certainly produces a feeling of respect as one passes them +in the street. There are several very young men, lads really, +who are wandering about Paris, with the latter distinction on +their breasts, and every indication that it is all they have +brought away from their unhappy country. The Poles are coming +in now from every quarter. I meet occasionally in society +the celebrated Polish countess, who lost her property and was +compelled to flee, for her devotion to the cause. Louis Philippe +has formed a regiment of the refugees, and sent them to Algiers. +He allows no liberalists to remain in Paris, if he can help it. +The Spaniards and Italians, particularly, are ordered off to +Tours, and other provincial towns, the instant they become pensioners +upon the government. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">133</a></span></p> + +<p>I was presented last night, with Mr. Carr and Mr. Ritchie, +two of our countrymen, to the king. We were very naturally +prepared for an embarrassing ceremony—an expectation which +was not lessened, in my case, by the necessity of a laced coat, +breeches, and sword. We drove into the court of the Tuileries, +as the palace clock struck nine, in the costume of courtiers of +the time of Louis the Twelfth, very anxious about the tenacity +of our knee-buckles, and not at all satisfied as to the justice done +to our unaccustomed proportions by the tailor. To say nothing +of my looks, I am sure I should have <i>felt</i> much more like a +gentleman in my <i>costume bourgeois</i>. By the time we had been +passed through the hands of all the chamberlains, however, and +walked through all the preparatory halls and drawing-rooms, each +with its complement of gentlemen in waiting, dressed like ourselves +in lace and small-clothes, I became more reconciled to +myself, and began to <i>feel</i> that I might possibly have looked out +of place in my ordinary dress. The atmosphere of a court is +very contagious in this particular.</p> + +<p>After being sufficiently astonished with long rooms, frescoes, +and guardsmen apparently seven or eight feet high, (the tallest +men I ever saw, standing with halberds at the doors), we were +introduced into the <i>Salle du Tróne</i>—a large hall lined with +crimson velvet throughout, with the throne in the centre of one +of the sides. Some half dozen gentlemen were standing about +the fire, conversing very familiarly, among whom was the British +ambassador, Lord Grenville, and the Brazilian minister, both of +whom I had met before. The king was not there. The Swedish +minister, a noble-looking man, with snow-white hair, was the +only other official person present, each of the ministers having +come to present one or two of his countrymen. The king +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">134</a></span> +entered in a few moments, in the simple uniform of the line, and +joined the group at the fire, with the most familiar and cordial +politeness; each minister presenting his countrymen as occasion +offered, certainly with far less ceremony than one sees at most +dinner-parties in America. After talking a few minutes with +Lord Grenville, inquiring the progress of the cholera, he turned +to Mr. Rives, and we were presented. We stood in a little circle +round him, and he conversed with us about America for ten or +fifteen minutes. He inquired from what States we came, and +said he had been as far west as Nashville, Tennessee, and had +often slept in the woods, quite as soundly as he ever did in more +luxurious quarters. He begged pardon of Mr. Carr, who was +from South Carolina, for saying that he had found the southern +taverns not particularly good. He preferred the north. All +this time I was looking out for some accent in the "king's +English." He speaks the language with all the careless correctness +and fluency of a vernacular tongue. We were all +surprised at it. It is <i>American</i> English, however. He has not +a particle of the cockney drawl, half Irish and half Scotch, with +which many Englishmen speak. He must be the most cosmopolite +king that ever reigned. He even said he had been at +Tangiers, the place of Mr. Carr's consulate. After some pleasant +compliments to our country, he passed to the Brazilian minister, +who stood on the other side, leaving us delighted with his +manner; and, probably, in spite of our independence, much more +inclined than before to look indulgently upon his politics. The +queen had entered, meantime, with the king's sister, Lady +Adelaide, and one or two of the ladies of honor; and, after saying +something courteous to all, in her own language, and assuring <i>us</i> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">135</a></span> +that his majesty was very fond of America, the royal group bowed +out, and left us once more to ourselves.</p> + +<p>We remained a few minutes, and I occupied myself with looking +at the gold and crimson throne before me, and recalling to +my mind the world of historical circumstances connected with it. +You can easily imagine it all. The throne of France is, perhaps, +the most interesting one in the world. But, of all its associations, +none rushed upon me so forcibly, or retained my imagination so +long, as the accidental drama of which it was the scene during +the three days of July. It was here that the people brought the +polytechnic scholar, mortally wounded in the attack on the +palace, to die. He breathed his last on the throne of France, +surrounded with his comrades and a crowd of patriots. It is +one of the most striking and affecting incidents, I think, in all +history.</p> + +<p>As we passed out I caught a glimpse, through a side door, of +the queen and the princesses sitting round a table covered with +books, in a small drawing-room, while a servant, in the gaudy +livery of the court, was just entering with tea. The careless +attitudes of the figures, the mellow light of the shade-lamp, and +the happy voices of children coming through the door, reminded +me more of home than anything I have seen in France. It is +odd, but really the most aching sense of home-sickness I have +felt since I left America, was awakened at that moment—in the +palace of a king, and at the sight of his queen and daughters!</p> + +<p>We stopped in the antechamber to have our names recorded +in the visiting-book—a ceremony which insures us invitations to +all the balls given at court during the winter. The first has +already appeared in the shape of a printed note, in which we are +informed by the "aide-de-camp of the king and the lady of +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">136</a></span> +honor of the queen," that we are invited to a ball at the palace +on Monday night. To my distress there is a little direction at +the bottom, "<i>Les hommes seront en uniforme</i>," which subjects +those of us who are not military, once more to the awkwardness +of this ridiculous court dress. I advise all Americans coming +abroad to get a commission in the militia to travel with. It is +of use in more ways than one.</p> + +<hr class="l15" /> + +<p>I met the <i>Countess Guiccioli</i>, walking yesterday in the Tuileries. +She looks much younger than I anticipated, and is a +handsome <i>blonde</i>, apparently about thirty. I am told by a gentleman +who knows her, that she has become a great flirt, and is +quite spoiled by admiration. The celebrity of Lord Byron's +attachment would, certainly, make her a very desirable acquaintance, +were she much less pretty than she really is; and I am told +her drawing-room is thronged with lovers of all nations, contending +for a preference, which, having been once given, as it has, +should be buried, I think, for ever. So, indeed, should have +been the Empress Maria Louisa's, and that of the widow of +Bishop Heber; and yet the latter has married a Greek count, +and the former a German baron!</p> + +<hr class="l15" /> + +<p>I find I was incorrect in the statement I gave you of the duel +between Mr. Hesse and Count Leon. The particulars have come +out more fully, and from the curious position of the parties (Mr. +Hesse, as I stated, being the natural son of George the Fourth, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">137</a></span> +and Count Leon of Napoleon) are worth recapitulating. Count +Leon had lost several thousand francs to Mr. Hesse, which he +refused to pay, alleging that there had been unfair dealing in the +game. The matter was left to arbitration, and Mr. Hesse fully +cleared of the charge. Leon still refused to pay, and for fifteen +days practised with the pistol from morning till night. At the +end of this time he paid the money, and challenged Hesse. The +latter had lost the use of his right arm in the battle of Waterloo, +(fighting of course against Count Leon's father), but accepted +his challenge, and fired with his left hand. Hesse was shot +through the body, and has since died, and Count Leon was not +hurt. The affair has made a great sensation here, for Hesse had +a young and lovely wife, only seventeen, and was unusually beloved +and admired; while his opponent is a notorious gambler, +and every way detested. People meet at the gaming-table +here, however, as they meet in the street, without question of +character.</p> + +<hr class="l15" /> + +<p>Carnival is over. Yesterday was "<i>Mardi Gras</i>"—the last +day of the reign of Folly. Paris has been like a city of grown-up +children for a week. What with masking all night, supping, +or breakfasting, (which you please), at sunrise, and going to bed +between morning and noon, I feel that I have done my <i>devoir</i> +upon the experiment of French manners.</p> + +<p>It would be tedious, not to say improper, to describe all the +absurdities I have seen and mingled in for the last fortnight; but +I must try to give you some idea of the meaning the French +attach to the season of carnival, and the manner in which it is +celebrated. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">138</a></span></p> + +<p>In society it is the time for universal gaiety and freedom. +Parties, fancy balls, and private masques, are given, and kept up +till morning. The etiquette is something more free, and gallantry +is indulged and followed with the privileges, almost, of a +Saturnalia. One of the gayest things I have seen was a fancy +ball, given by a man of some fashion, in the beginning of the season. +Most of the <i>distingués</i> of Paris were there; and it was, +perhaps, as fair a specimen of the elegant gaiety of the French +capital, as occurred during the carnival. The rooms were full +by ten. Everybody was in costume, and the ladies in dresses of +unusual and costly splendor. At a <i>bal costumé</i> there are no +masks, of course, and dancing, waltzing, and galopading followed +each other in the ordinary succession, but with all the heightened +effect and additional spirit of a magnificent spectacle. It was +really beautiful. There were officers from all the English regiments, +in their fine showy uniforms; and French officers who had +brought dresses from their far-off campaigns; Turks, Egyptians, +Mussulmans, and Algerine rovers—every country that had been +touched by French soldiers, represented in its richest costume +and by men of the finest appearance. There was a colonel of the +English Madras cavalry, in the uniform of his corps—one mass +of blue and silver, the most splendidly dressed man I ever saw; +and another Englishman, who is said to be the successor of Lord +Byron in the graces of the gay and lovely Countess Guiccioli, +was dressed as a Greek; and between the exquisite taste and +richness of his costume, and his really excessive personal beauty, +he made no ordinary sensation. The loveliest woman there was +a young baroness, whose dancing, figure, and face, so resembled +a celebrated Philadelphia belle, that I was constantly expecting +her musical French voice to break into English. She was +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">139</a></span> +dressed as an eastern dancing-girl, and floated about with the +lightness and grace of a fairy. Her motion intoxicated the eye +completely. I have seen her since at the Tuileries, where, in a +waltz with the handsome Duke of Orleans, she was the single +object of admiration for the whole court. She is a small, lightly-framed +creature, with very little feet, and a face of more brilliancy +than regular beauty, but all airiness and spirit. A very +lovely, indolent-looking English girl, with large sleepy eyes, was +dressed as a Circassian slave, with chains from her ankles to her +waist. She was a beautiful part of the spectacle, but too passive +to interest one. There were sylphs and nuns, broom-girls and +Italian peasants, and a great many in rich Polonaise dresses. It +was unlike any other fancy ball I ever saw, in the variety and +novelty of the characters represented, and the costliness with +which they were dressed. You can have no idea of the splendor +of a waltz in such a glittering assemblage. It was about time for +an early breakfast when the ball was over.</p> + +<p>The private masks are amusing to those who are intimate with +the circle. A stranger, of course, is neither acquainted enough +to amuse himself within proper limits, nor incognito enough to +play his gallantries at hazard. I never have seen more decidedly +<i>triste</i> assemblies than the balls of this kind which I have attended, +where the uniform black masks and dominoes gave the party the +aspect of a funeral, and the restraint made it quite as melancholy.</p> + +<p>The public masks are quite another affair. They are given at +the principal theatres, and commence at midnight. The pit and +stage are thrown into a brilliant hall, with the orchestra in the +centre; the music is divine, and the etiquette perfect liberty. +There is, of course, a great deal of vulgar company, for every +one is admitted who pays the ten francs at the door; but all +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">140</a></span> +classes of people mingle in the crowd; and if one is not amused, +it is because he will neither listen nor talk. I think it requires +one or two masks to get one's eye so much accustomed to the +sight, that he is not disgusted with the exteriors of the women. +There was something very diabolical to me at first in a dead, +black representation of the human face, and the long black +domino. Persuading one's self that there is beauty under such +an outside, is like getting up a passion for a very ugly woman, +for the sake of her mind—difficult, rather. I soon became used +to it, however, and amused myself infinitely. One is liable to +waste his wit, to be sure; for in a crowd so rarely <i>bien composée</i>, +as they phrase it, the undistinguishing dress gives every one the +opportunity of bewildering you; but the feet and manner of walking, +and the tone and mode of expression, are indices sufficiently +certain to decide, and give interest to a pursuit; and, with +tolerable caution, one is paid for his trouble, in nineteen cases +out of twenty.</p> + +<p>At the public masks, the visitors are not all in domino. One +half at least are in caricature dresses, men in petticoats, and +women in boots and spurs. It is not always easy to detect the +sex. An English lady, a carnival-acquaintance of mine, made +love successfully, with the aid of a tall figure and great spirit, to +a number of her own sex. She wore a half uniform, and was +certainly a very elegant fellow. France is so remarkable indeed, +for effeminate-looking men and masculine-looking women, that +half the population might change costume to apparent advantage. +The French are fond of caricaturing English dandies, and they do +it with great success. The imitation of Bond-street dialect in +another language is highly amusing. There were two imitation +exquisites at the "<i>Varietés</i>" one night, who were dressed to +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">141</a></span> +perfection, and must have studied the character thoroughly. +The whole theatre was in a roar when they entered. Malcontents +take the opportunity to show up the king and ministers, +and these are excellent, too. One gets weary of fun. It is a +life which becomes tedious long before carnival is over. It is a +relief to sit down once more to books and pen.</p> + +<p>The three last days are devoted to street-masking. This is the +most ridiculous of all. Paris pours out its whole population upon +the Boulevards, and guards are stationed to keep the goers and +comers in separate lines, and prevent all collecting of groups on +the <i>pavé</i>. People in the most grotesque and absurd dress pass +on foot, and in loaded carriages, and all is nonsense and obscenity. +It is difficult to conceive the motive which can induce +grown-up people to go to the expense and trouble of such an exhibition, +merely to amuse the world. A description of these +follies would be waste of paper.</p> + +<p>On the last night but one of the carnival, I went to a ball at +the palace. We presented our invitations at the door, and +mounted through piles of soldiers of the line, crowds of servants +in the king's livery, and groves of exotics at the broad landing +places, to the reception room. We were ushered into the <i>Salle +des Marechals</i>—a large hall, the ceiling of which rises into the +dome of the Tuileries, ornamented with full-length portraits of +the living marshals of France. A gallery of a light airy structure +runs round upon the capitals of the pillars, and this, when +we entered, and at all the after hours of the ball, was crowded +with loungers from the assembly beneath—producing a splendid +effect, as their glittering uniforms passed and repassed under the +flags and armor with which the ceilings were thickly hung. The +royal train entered presently, and the band struck up a superb +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">142</a></span> +march. Three rows of velvet-covered seats, one above another, +went round the hall, leaving a passage behind, and, in front of +these, the queen and her family made a circuit of courtesy, followed +by the wives of the ambassadors, among whom was our +countrywoman, Mrs. Rives. Her majesty went smiling past, +stopping here and there to speak to a lady whom she recognized, +and the king followed her with his eternal and painfully forced +smile, saying something to every second person he encountered. +The princesses have good faces, and the second one has an expression +of great delicacy and tenderness, but no beauty. As +soon as the queen was seated, the band played a quadrille, and +the crowd cleared away from the centre for the dance. The +Duke of Orleans selected his partner, a pretty girl, who, I believe +was English, and forward went the head couples to the exquisite +music of the new opera—Robert le Diable.</p> + +<p>I fell into the little <i>cortége</i> standing about the queen, and +watched the interesting party dancing the head quadrille for an +hour. The Duke of Orleans, who is nearly twenty, and seems a +thoughtless, good-natured, immature young man, moved about +very gracefully with his handsome figure, and seemed amused, +and quite unconscious of the attention he drew. The princesses +were <i>vis-a-vis</i>, and the second one, a dark-haired, slender, interesting +girl of nineteen, had a polytechnic scholar for her partner. +He was a handsome, gallant-looking fellow, who must have distinguished +himself to have been invited to court, and I could not +but admire the beautiful mixture of respect and self-confidence +with which he demanded the hand of the princess from the lady +of honor, and conversed with her during the dance. If royalty +does not seal up the affections, I could scarce conceive how a +being so decidedly of nature's best nobility, handsome, graceful, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">143</a></span> +and confident, could come within the sphere of a sensitive-looking +girl, like the princess Christine, and not leave more than a +transient recollection upon her fancy. The music stopped, and I +had been so occupied with my speculations upon the polytechnic +boy, that I had scarcely noticed any other person in the dance. +He led the princess back to her seat by the <i>dame d'honneur</i>, +bowing low, colored a little, and mingled with the crowd. A +few minutes after, I saw him in the gallery, quite alone, leaning +over the railing, and looking down upon the scene below, having +apparently abandoned the dance for the evening. From something +in his face, and in the manner of resuming his sword, I was +certain he had come to the palace with that single object, and +would dance no more. I kept him in my eye most of the night, +and am very sure he did not. If the little romance I wove out +of it was not a true one, it was not because the material was improbable.</p> + +<p>As I was looking still at the quadrille dancing before the +queen, Dr. Bowring took my arm and proposed a stroll through +the other apartments. I found that the immense crowd in the +<i>Salle des Marechals</i> was but about one fifth of the assembly. +We passed through hall after hall, with music and dancing in +each, all crowded and gay alike, till we came at last to the <i>Salle +du Tróne</i> where the old men were collected at card-tables and in +groups for conversation. My distinguished companion was of +the greatest use to me here, for he knew everybody, and there +was scarce a person in the room who did not strongly excite my +curiosity. One half of them at least were maimed; some without +arms, and some with wooden legs, and faces scarred and +weather-burnt, but all in full uniform, and nearly all with three +or four orders of honor on the breast. You would have held +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">144</a></span> +your breath to have heard the recapitulation of their names. At +one table sat <i>Marshal Grouchy</i> and <i>General Excelmans</i>; in a +corner stood <i>Marshal Soult</i>, conversing with a knot of peers of +France; and in the window nearest the door, <i>General Bernard</i>, +our country's friend and citizen, was earnestly engaged in talking +to a group of distinguished-looking men, two of whom, my companion +said, were members of the chamber of deputies. We +stood a moment, and a circle was immediately formed around Dr. +Bowring, who is a great favorite among the literary and liberal +people of France. The celebrated <i>General Fabvier</i> came up +among others, and <i>Cousin</i> the poet. Fabvier, as you know, +held a chief command in Greece, and was elected governor of +Paris <i>pro tem.</i> after the "three days." He is a very remarkable-looking +man, with a head almost exactly resembling that of the +bust of Socrates. The engravings give him a more animated +and warlike expression than he wears in private. <i>Cousin</i> is a +mild, retired-looking man, and was one of the very few persons +present not in the court uniform. Among so many hundred +coats embroidered with gold, his plain black dress looked singularly +simple and poet-like.</p> + +<p>I left the diplomatist-poet conversing with his friends, and +went back to the dancing rooms. Music and female beauty are +more attractive metal than disabled generals playing at cards; +and encountering in my way an <i>attaché</i> to the American legation, +I inquired about one or two faces that interested me, and collecting +information enough to pass through the courtesies of a +dance, I found a partner and gave myself up, like the rest, to +amusement.</p> + +<p>Supper was served at two, and a more splendid affair could not +be conceived. A long and magnificent hall on the other side of +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">145</a></span> +the <i>Salle du Tróne</i> was set with tables, covered with everything +that France could afford, in the royal services of gold and silver, +and in the greatest profusion. There was room enough for all +the immense assemblage, and when the queen was seated with +her daughters and ladies of honor, the company sat down and all +was as quiet and well regulated as a dinner party of four.</p> + +<p>After supper the dancing was resumed, and the queen remained +till three o'clock. At her departure the band played <i>cotillons</i> or +waltzes with figures, in which the Duke of Orleans displayed the +grace for which he is celebrated, and at four, quite exhausted +with fatigue and heat, I went with a friend or two into the long +glass verandah, built by Napoleon as a promenade for the Empress +Maria Louisa during her illness, where tea, coffee, and +ices were served to those who wished them after supper. It was +an interesting place enough, and had my eyes and limbs ached +less, I should have liked to walk up and down, and muse a little +upon its recollections, but swallowing my tea as hastily as possible, +I was but too happy to make my escape and get home to bed. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146"></a></span></p> + +<h3>LETTER XVIII.</h3> + +<p class="ch_sum"> +CHOLERA—UNIVERSAL TERROR—FLIGHT OF THE INHABITANTS—CASES +WITHIN THE WALLS OF THE PALACE—DIFFICULTY OF +ESCAPE—DESERTED STREETS—CASES NOT REPORTED—DRYNESS +OF THE ATMOSPHERE—PREVENTIVES RECOMMENDED—PUBLIC +BATHS, ETC. +</p> + +<p><i>Cholera! Cholera!</i> It is now the only topic. There is no +other interest—no other dread—no other occupation, for Paris. +The invitations for parties are <i>at last</i> recalled—the theatres are +<i>at last</i> shut or languishing—the fearless are beginning to be +afraid—people walk the streets with camphor bags and vinaigrettes +at their nostrils—there is a universal terror in all classes, +and a general flight of all who can afford to get away. I never +saw a people so engrossed with one single and constant thought. +The waiter brought my breakfast this morning with a pale face, +and an apprehensive question, whether I was quite well. I sent +to my boot-maker yesterday, and he was dead. I called on a +friend, a Hanoverian, one of those broad-chested, florid, immortal-looking +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">147</a></span> +men, of whose health for fifty years, violence apart, one +is absolutely certain, and he was at death's door with the cholera. +Poor fellow! He had fought all through the revolution in +Greece; he had slept in rain and cold, under the open sky, +many a night, through a ten years' pursuit of the profession of +a soldier of fortune, living one of the most remarkable lives, +hitherto, of which I ever heard, and to be taken down here in +the midst of ease and pleasure, reduced to a shadow with so +vulgar and unwarlike a disease as this, was quite too much for +his philosophy. He had been ill three days when I found him. +He was emaciated to a skeleton in that short time, weak and +helpless, and, though he is not a man to exaggerate suffering, he +said he never had conceived such intense agony as he had endured. +He assured me, that if he recovered, and should ever be +attacked with it again, he would blow out his brains at the first +symptom. Nothing but his iron constitution protracted the disorder. +Most people who are attacked die in from three to +twenty-four hours.</p> + +<p>For myself, I have felt and still feel quite safe. My rooms +are in the airiest quarter of Paris, facing the gardens of the +Tuileries, with windows overlooking the king's; and, as far as +<i>air</i> is concerned, if his majesty considers himself well situated, it +would be quite ridiculous in so insignificant a person as myself to +be alarmed. With absolute health, confident spirits, and tolerably +regular habits, I have usually thought one may defy almost +anything but love or a bullet. To-day, however, there have been, +they say, two cases <i>within the palace-walls</i>, members of the royal +household, and Casimir Perier, who probably lives well and has +enough to occupy his mind, is very low with it, and one cannot +help feeling that he has no certain exemption, when a disease has +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">148</a></span> +touched both above and below him. I went to-day to the Messagerie +to engage my place for Marseilles, on the way to Italy, +but the seats are all taken, in both mail-post and diligence, for a +fortnight to come, and, as there are no <i>extras</i> in France, one +must wait his turn. Having done my duty to myself by the inquiry, +I shall be content to remain quiet.</p> + +<hr class="l15" /> + +<p>I have just returned from a social tea-party at a house of one +of the few English families left in Paris. It is but a little after +ten, and the streets, as I came along, were as deserted and still +as if it were a city of the dead. Usually, until four or five in +the morning, the same streets are thronged with carriages hurrying +to and fro, and always till midnight the <i>trottoirs</i> are crowded +with promenaders. To-night I scarce met a foot-passenger, and +but one solitary cabriolet in a walk of a mile. The contrast was +really impressive. The moon was nearly full, and high in the +heavens, and the sky absolutely without a trace of a cloud; nothing +interrupted the full broad light of the moon, and the +empty streets were almost as bright as at noon-day; and, as I +crossed the <i>Place Vendome</i>, I could hear, for the first time since +I have been in Paris, though I have passed it at every hour of +the night, the echo of my footsteps reverberated from the walls +around. You should have been in these crowded cities of +Europe to realize the impressive solemnity of such solitude.</p> + +<p>It is said that fifty thousand people have left Paris within the +past week. Adding this to the thousand a day who are struck +with the cholera, and the attendance necessary to the sick, and a +thinned population is sufficiently accounted for. There are, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">149</a></span> +however, hundreds ill of this frightful disease, whose cases are +not reported. It is only those who are taken to the hospitals, +the poor and destitute, who are numbered in the official statements. +The physicians are wearied out with their <i>private</i> practice. +The medical lectures are suspended, and a regular physician is +hardly to be had at all. There is scarce a house in which some +one has not been taken. You see biers and litters issuing from +almost every gate, and the better ranks are no longer spared. A +sister of the premier, M. Perier, died yesterday; and it was +reported at the <i>Bourse</i>, that several distinguished persons, who +have been ill of it, are also dead. No one feels safe; and the +consternation and dread on every countenance you meet, is +enough to chill one's very blood. I went out to-day for a little +exercise, not feeling very well, and I was glad to get home again. +Every creature looks stricken with a mortal fear. And this +among a French population, the gayest and merriest of people +under all depressions ordinarily, is too strong a contrast not to +be felt painfully. There is something singular in the air, too; +a disagreeable, depressing dryness, which the physicians say +must change, or all Paris will be struck with the plague. It is +clear and cold, but almost suffocating with dryness.</p> + +<p>It is very consoling in the midst of so much that is depressing, +that the preventives recommended against the cholera are so +agreeable. "Live well," say the doctors, "and bathe often. +Abstain from excesses, keep a clear head and good spirits, and +amuse yourself as much and as rationally as possible." It is a +very excellent recipe for happiness, let alone the cholera. There +is great room for a nice observance of this system in Paris, particularly +the eating and bathing. The baths are delightful. +You are received in handsome saloons, opening upon a garden in +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">150</a></span> +the centre of the building, ornamented with statues and fountains, +the journals lying upon the sofas, and everything arranged with +quite the luxury of a palace. The bathing-rooms are furnished +with taste; the baths are of marble, and covered inside with spotlessly +white linen cloths; the water is perfumed, and you may +lie and take your coffee, or have your breakfast served upon the +mahogany cover which shuts you in—a union of luxuries which +is enough to enervate a cynic. When you are ready to come out, +a pull of the bell brings a servant, who gives you a <i>peignoir</i>—a +long linen wrapper, heated in an oven, in the warm folds of +which you are enveloped, and in three minutes are quite dry. In +this you may sit, at your ease, reading, or musing, or lie upon +the sofa without the restraint of a tight dress, till you are ready +to depart; and then four or five francs, something less than a +dollar, pays for all. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151"></a></span></p> + +<h3>LETTER XIX.</h3> + +<p class="ch_sum"> +MORNING VIEW FROM THE RUE RIVOLI—THE BOIS DE BOULOGNE—GUICCIOLI—SISMONDI +THE HISTORIAN, ETC.</p> + +<p>It is now the middle of April, and, sitting at my window on +the <i>Rue Rivoli</i>, I look through one of the long, clipped avenues +of the Tuileries, and see an arch of green leaves, the sun of eight +o'clock in the morning just breaking through the thin foliage and +dappling the straight, even gravel-walk below, with a look of +summer that makes my heart leap. The cholera has put an end +to dissipation, and one gets up early, from necessity. It is +delicious to step out before breakfast, and cross the street into +those lovely gardens, for an hour or two of fresh air and reflection. +It is warm enough now to sit on the stone benches about +the fountains, by the time the dew is dry; and I know nothing so +contemplative as the occupation of watching these royal swans, in +the dreamy, almost imperceptible motion with which they glide +around the edges of the basins. The gold fish swim up and +circle about the breast of the imperial birds with a motion almost +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">152</a></span> +as idle; and the old wooden-legged soldier, who has been made +warden of the gardens for his service, sits nodding on one of the +chairs, or drawing fortifications with his stick in the gravel; and +so it happens, that, in the midst of a gay and busy city one may +feel always a luxurious solitude; and, be he ever so poor, loiter +all day if he will, among scenes which only regal munificence could +provide for him. With the <i>Seine</i> bounding them on one side, the +splendid uniform <i>façade</i> of the <i>Rue Rivoli</i> on the other, the +palace stretching across the southern terrace, and the thick woods +of the <i>Champs Elysées</i> at the opposite gate, where could one go +in the world to give his taste or his eye a more costly or delightful +satisfaction?</p> + +<p>The <i>Bois de Boulogne</i>, about which the Parisians talk so much, +is less to my taste. It is a level wood of small trees, covering a +mile or two square, and cut from corner to corner with straight +roads for driving. The soil is sandy, and the grass grows only in +tufts, the walks are rough, and either muddy or dusty always; +and, barring the equipages and the pleasure of a word in passing +an acquaintance, I find a drive to this famous wood rather a dull +business. I want either one thing or the other—cultivated +grounds like the Tuileries, or the wild wood.</p> + +<hr class="l15" /> + +<p>I have just left the Countess Guiccioli, with whom I have been +acquainted for some two or three weeks. She is very much +frightened at the cholera, and thinks of going to America. The +conversation turned principally upon Shelley, whom of course she +knew intimately; and she gave me one of his letters to herself as +an autograph. She says at times he was a little crazy—"<i>fou</i>," +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">153</a></span> +as she expressed it—but that there never was a nobler or a better +man. Lord Byron, she says, loved him like a brother. She is +still in correspondence with Shelley's wife, of whom also she +speaks with the greatest affection. There were several miniatures +of Byron hanging up in the room, and I asked her if any of them +were perfect in the resemblance. "No," she said, "this was the +most like him," taking down an exquisitely-finished miniature by +an Italian artist, "<i>mais il etaît beaucoup plus beau—beaucoup! +beaucoup!</i>" She reiterated the word with a very touching +tenderness, and continued to look at the picture for some time, +either forgetting our presence, or affecting it. She speaks English +sweetly, with a soft, slow, honeyed accent, breaking into +French when ever she gets too much interested to choose her +words. She went on talking in French of the painters who had +drawn Byron, and said the American, West's was the best +likeness. I did not like to tell her that West's picture of herself +was excessively flattered. I am sure no one would know her +from the engraving of it, at least. Her cheek bones are high, +her forehead is badly shaped, and, altogether, the <i>frame</i> of her +features is decidedly ugly. She dresses in the worst taste, too, +and yet, with all this, and poetry and celebrity aside, the +Countess Guiccioli is both a lovely and a fascinating woman, +and one whom a man of sentiment would admire, even at this +age, very sincerely, but not for beauty. She has white and +regular teeth, however, and her hair is incomparably the most +beautiful I ever saw. It is of the richest and glossiest gold, +silken and luxuriant, and changes, as the light falls upon it, with +a mellow softness, than which nothing could be lovelier. It is +this and her indescribably winning manner which are lost in a +picture, and therefore, it is perhaps fair that she should be +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">154</a></span> +otherwise flattered. Her drawing-room is one of the most +agreeable in Paris at present, and is one of the chief <i>agrémens</i> +which console me for a detention in an atmosphere so triste as well +as dangerous.</p> + +<hr class="l15" /> + +<p>My bed-room window opens upon the court in the interior of +the hotel Rivoli, in which I lodge. In looking out occasionally +upon my very near neighbors opposite, I have frequently +observed a gray-headed, scholar-like, fine-looking old man, writing +at a window in the story below. One does not trouble himself +much about his fellow-lodgers, and I had seen this gentleman at +his work at all hours, for a month or more, without curiosity +enough to inquire even his name. This morning the servant +came in, with a <i>Mon Dieu!</i> and said <i>M. Sismondi</i> was frightened +by the cholera, and was leaving his lodgings at that moment. +The name startled me, and making some inquiries, I found that +my gray-headed neighbor was no other than the celebrated +historian of Italian literature, and that I had been living under +the same roof with him for weeks, and watching him at his +classical labors, without being at all aware of the honor of his +neighborhood. He is a kind, benevolent-looking man, of about +sixty, I should think; and always had a peculiarly affectionate +manner to his wife, who, I am told by the valet, is an Englishwoman. +I regretted exceedingly the opportunity I had lost of +knowing him, for there are few writers of whom one retains a +more friendly and agreeable remembrance.</p> + +<p>In a conversation with Mr. Cooper, the other day he was remarking +of how little consequence any one individual found himself +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">155</a></span> +in Paris, even the most distinguished. We were walking in +the Tuileries, and the remark was elicited by my pointing out to +him one or two celebrated persons, whose names are sufficiently +known, but who walk the public promenades, quite unnoticed and +unrecognised. He said he did not think there were five people in +Paris who knew him at sight, though his works were advertised +in all the bookstores, and he had lived in Paris one or two years, +and walked there constantly. This was putting a strong case, for +the French idolize Cooper; and the peculiarly translateable +character of his works makes them read even better in a good +translation than in the original. It is so all over the continent, I +am told. The Germans, Italians, and Spaniards, prefer Cooper +to Scott; and it is easily accounted for when one remembers how +much of the beauty of the Waverly novels depends on their exquisite +style, and how peculiarly Cooper's excellence lies in his +accurate, definite, tangible descriptions. There is not a more admired +author in Europe than Cooper, it is very certain; and I +am daily asked whether he is in America at present—so little +do the people of these crowded cities interest themselves about +that which is immediately at their elbows. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156"></a></span></p> + +<h3>LETTER XX.</h3> + +<p class="ch_sum"> +GENERAL BERTRAND—FRIEND OF LADY MORGAN—PHRENOLOGY—DR. +SPURZHEIM—HIS LODGINGS—PROCESS OF TAKING A CAST OF +THE HEAD—INCARCERATION OF DR. BOWRING AND DE POTTER—DAVID +THE SCULPTOR—VISIT OF DR. SPURZHEIM TO THE UNITED +STATES.</p> + +<p>My room-mate called a day or two since on General Bertrand, +and yesterday he returned the visit, and spent an hour at our +lodgings. He talked of Napoleon with difficulty, and became +very much affected when my friend made some inquiries about +the safety of the body at St. Helena. The inquiry was suggested +by some notice we had seen in the papers of an attempt to rob +the tomb of Washington. The General said that the vault was +fifteen feet deep, and covered by a slab that could not be moved +without machinery. He told us that Madame Bertrand had +many mementoes of the Emperor, which she would be happy to +show us, and we promised to visit him.</p> + +<p>At a party, a night or two since, I fell into conversation with +an English lady, who had lived several years in Dublin, and was +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">157</a></span> +an intimate friend of Lady Morgan. She was an uncommonly +fine woman, both in appearance and conversational powers, and +told me many anecdotes of the authoress, defending her from all +the charges usually made against her, except that of vanity, which +she allowed. I received, on the whole, the impression that Lady +Morgan's goodness of heart was more than an offset to her certainly +very innocent weaknesses. My companion was much +amused at an American's asking after the "fender in Kildare +street;" though she half withdrew her cordiality when I told her +I knew the countryman of mine who wrote the account of Lady +Morgan, of which she complains so bitterly in the "Book of the +Boudoir." It was this lady with whom the fair authoress "dined +in the <i>Chaussée d'Antin</i>," so much to her satisfaction.</p> + +<p>While we were conversing, the lady's husband came up, and +finding that I was an American, made some inquiries about the +progress of <i>phrenology</i> on the other side of the water. Like most +enthusiasts in the science, his own head was a remarkably beautiful +one; and I soon found that he was the bosom friend of Dr. +Spurzheim, to whom he offered to introduce me. We made an +engagement for the next day, and the party separated.</p> + +<p>My new acquaintance called on me the next morning, according +to appointment, and we went together to Dr. Spurzheim's +residence. The passage at the entrance was lined with cases, in +which stood plaster casts of the heads of distinguished men, +orators, poets, musicians—each class on its particular shelf—making +altogether a most ghastly company. The doctor received +my companion with great cordiality, addressing him in French, +and changing to very good German-English when he made any +observation to me. He is a tall, large-boned man, and resembles +Harding, the American artist, very strikingly. His head is +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">158</a></span> +finely marked; his features are bold, with rather a German +look; and his voice is particularly winning, and changes its +modulations, in argument, from the deep, earnest tone of a man, +to an almost child-like softness. The conversation soon turned +upon America, and the doctor expressed, in ardent terms, his +desire to visit the United States, and said he had thought of +accomplishing it the coming summer. He spoke of Dr. Channing—said +he had read all his works with avidity and delight, +and considered him one of the clearest and most expansive +minds of the age. If Dr. Channing had not strong developments +of the organs of <i>ideality</i> and <i>benevolence</i>, he said, he should doubt +his theory more than he had ever found reason to. He knew +Webster and Professor Silliman by reputation, and seemed to be +familiar with our country, as few men in Europe are. One +naturally, on meeting a distinguished phrenologist, wishes to have +his own developments pronounced upon; but I had been warned +by my friend that Dr. Spurzheim refused such examinations as a +general principle, not wishing to deceive people, and unwilling to +run the risk of offending them. After a half hour's conversation, +however, he came across the room, and putting his hands under +my thick masses of hair, felt my head closely all over, and mentioned +at once a quality, which, right or wrong, has given a tendency +to all my pursuits in life. As he knew absolutely nothing +of me, and the gentleman who introduced me knew no more, I +was a little startled. The doctor then requested me to submit to +the operation of having a cast taken of my head, an offer which +was too kind and particular to be declined; and, appointing an +hour to be at his rooms the following day, we left him.</p> + +<p>I was there again at twelve, the morning after, and found +De Potter (the Belgian patriot) and Dr. Bowring, with the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">159</a></span> +phrenologist, waiting to undergo the same operation. The +preparations looked very formidable, A frame, of the length +of the human body, lay in the middle of the room, with a +wooden bowl to receive the head, a mattress, and a long white +dress to prevent stain to the clothes. As I was the youngest, I +took my turn first. It was very like a preparation for being +beheaded. My neck was bared, my hair cut, and the long white +dress put on. The back of the head is taken first; and, as I was +only immersed up to the ears in the liquid plaster, this was not +very alarming. The second part, however, demanded more +patience. My head was put once more into the stiffened mould +of the first half, and as soon as I could get my features composed +I was ordered to shut my eyes; my hair was oiled and laid smooth, +and the liquid plaster poured slowly over my mouth, eyes, and +forehead, till I was cased completely in a stiffening mask. The +material was then poured on thickly, till the mask was two or +three inches thick, and the voices of those standing over me were +scarcely audible. I breathed pretty freely through the orifices at +my nose; but the dangerous experiment of Mademoiselle Sontag, +who was nearly smothered in the same operation, came across my +mind rather vividly; and it seemed to me that the doctor handled +the plaster quite too ungingerly, when he came to mould about +my nostrils. After a half hour's imprisonment, the plaster +became sufficiently hardened, and the thread which was laid upon +my face was drawn through, dividing the mask into two parts. +It was then gradually removed, pulling very tenaciously upon my +eyelashes and eyebrows, and leaving all the cavities of my face +filled with particles of lime. The process is a tribute to vanity, +which one would not be willing to pay very often.</p> + +<p>I looked on at Dr. Bowring's incarceration with no great feeling +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">160</a></span> +of relief. It is rather worse to see than to experience, I +think. The poet is a nervous man; and as long as the muscles +of his face were visible, his lips, eyelids, and mouth, were quivering +so violently that I scarcely believed it would be possible to +get an impression of them. He has a beautiful face for a scholar—clear, +well-cut, finished features, expressive of great purity of +thought; and a forehead of noble amplitude, white and polished +as marble. His hair is black and curling (indicating in most +cases, as Dr. Spurzheim remarked, activity of mind), and forms a +classical relief to his handsome temples. Altogether, his head +would look well in a picture, though his ordinary and ungraceful +dress, and quick, bustling manner, rather destroy the effect of it +in society.</p> + +<p>De Potter is one of the noblest-looking men I ever saw. He +is quite bald, with a broad, ample, majestic head, the very model +of dignity and intellect. Dr. Spurzheim considers his head one +of the most extraordinary he has met. <i>Firmness</i> is the great development +of its organs. His tone and manner are calm and +very impressive, and he looks made for great occasions—a man +stamped with the superiority which others acknowledge when circumstances +demand it. He employs himself in literary pursuits +at Paris, and has just published a pamphlet on "the manner of +conducting a revolution, so that no after-revolution shall be +necessary." I have translated the title awkwardly, but that is +the subject.</p> + +<p>I have since heard Dr. Spurzheim lecture twice, and have been +with him to a meeting of the "Anthropological Society" (of +which he is the president and De Potter the secretary), where I +witnessed the dissection of the human brain. It was a most +interesting and satisfactory experiment, as an illustration of phrenology. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">161</a></span> +David the sculptor is a member of the society, and was +present. He looks more like a soldier than an artist, however—wearing +the cross of the Legion of Honor, with a military frock +coat, and an erect, stern, military carriage. Spurzheim lectures +in a free, easy, unconstrained style, with occasionally a little +humor, and draws his arguments from admitted facts only. +Nothing could be more reasonable than his premises, and nothing +more like an axiom than the results, as far as I have heard him. +At any rate, true or false, his theory is one of extreme interest, +and no time can be wasted in examining it; for it is the study of +man, and therefore the most important of studies.</p> + +<p>I have had several long conversations with Dr. Spurzheim +about America, and have at last obtained his positive assurance +that he would visit it. He gave me permission this morning to +say (what I am sure all lovers of knowledge will be pleased to +hear) that he should sail for New York in the course of the +ensuing summer, and pass a year or more in lecturing and travelling +in the United States. He is a man to obtain the immediate +confidence and respect of a people like ours, of the highest moral +worth, and the most candid and open mind. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162"></a></span></p> + +<h3>LETTER XXI.</h3> + +<p class="ch_sum">DEPARTURE FROM PARIS—DESULTORY REMARKS.</p> + +<p>I take my departure from Paris to-morrow. I have just been +making preparations to pack, and it has given me a fit of bad +spirits. I have been in France only a few months, but if I had +lived my life here, I could not be more at home. In my almost +universal acquaintance, I have of course made pleasant friends, +and, however time and travel should make us indifferent to such +volant attachments, I can not now cast off these threads of intimacy, +without pulling a little upon very sincere feelings. I have +been burning the mass of papers and cards that have accumulated +in my drawers; and the sight of these French invitations, mementoes, +as they are, of delightful and fascinating hours, almost +staggers my resolution of departure. It has been an intoxicating +time to me. Aside from lighter attractions, this metropolis +collects within itself so much of the distinction and genius of the +world; and gifted men in Paris, coming here merely for pleasure, +are so peculiarly accessible, that one looks upon them as friends +to whom he has become attached and accustomed, and leaves the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">163</a></span> +sphere in which he has met them, as if he had been a part of it, +and had a right to be regretted. I do not think I shall ever +spend so pleasant a winter again. And then my local interest is +not a light one. I am a great lover of out-of-doors, and I have +ransacked Paris thoroughly. I know it all from its broad faubourgs +to its obscurest <i>cul de sac</i>. I have hunted with antiquaries +for coins and old armor; with lovers of adventure for the +amusing and odd; with the curious for traces of history; with the +romantic for the picturesque. Paris is a world for research. It +contains more odd places, I believe, more odd people, and every +way more material for uncommon amusement, than any other city +in the universe. One might live a life of novelty without +crossing the barrier. All this insensibly attaches one. My eye +wanders at this moment from my paper to these lovely gardens +lying beneath my window, and I could not feel more regret if +they were mine. Just over the long line of low clipped trees, +edging the fashionable terrace, I see the windows of the king +within half a stone's throw—the windows at which Napoleon has +stood, and the long line of the monarchs of France, and it has +become to me so much a habit of thought, sitting here in the +twilight and musing on the thousand, thousand things linked with +the spot my eye embraces, that I feel as if I had grown to it—as +if Paris had become to me, what it is proverbially and naturally +enough to a Frenchman—"the world."</p> + +<p>I have other associations which I part from less painfully, +because I hope at some future time to renew them—those with +my own countrymen. There are few pleasanter circles than that +of the Americans in Paris. Lafayette and his numerous family +make a part of them. I could not learn to love this good man +more, but seeing him often brings one's reverence more within +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">164</a></span> +the limits of the affections; and I consider the little of his +attention that has fallen to my share the honored part of my life, +and the part best worth recording and remembering. He called +upon me a day or two ago, to leave with me some copies of a +translation of Mr. Cooper's letter on the finances of our government, +to be sent to my friend Dr. Howe; but, to my regret, I +did not see him. He neglects no American, and is ever busied +about some project connected with their welfare. May God +continue to bless him!</p> + +<p>And speaking of Mr. Cooper, no one who loves or owns a pride +in his native land, can live abroad without feeling every day what +we owe to the patriotism as well as the genius of this gifted man. +If there is an individual who loves the soil that gave him birth, +and so shows it that we are more respected for it, it is he. Mr. +Cooper's position is a high one; he has great advantages, and he +improves them to the uttermost. His benevolence and activity +in all enterprises for the relief of suffering, give him influence, +and he employs it like a true philanthropist and a real lover of +his country. I say this particularly, though it may look like +too personal a remark, because Americans abroad are <i>not</i> +always <i>national</i>. I am often mortified by reproaches from +foreigners, quoting admissions made by my countrymen, which +should be the last on their lips. A very distinguished person +told me a day or two since, that "the Americans abroad were +the worst enemies we had in Europe." It is difficult to +conceive at home how such a remark stings. Proportionately, +one takes a true patriot to his heart and I feel it right to say +here, that the love of country and active benevolence of Mr. +Cooper distinguish him abroad, even more than his genius. His +house is one of the most hospitable and agreeable in Paris; and +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">165</a></span> +with Morse and the circle of artists and men of distinction and +worth about him, he is an acquaintance sincerely to regret +leaving.</p> + +<p>From Mr. Rives, our Minister, I have received every possible +kindness. He has attached me to his legation, to facilitate my +access to other courts and the society of other cities, and to free +me from all delays and annoyances at frontiers and custom-houses. +It is a particular and valuable kindness, and I feel a pleasure in +acknowledging it. Then there is Dr. Bowring, the lover and +defender of the United States, who, as the editor of the Westminster +Review, should be well remembered in America, and of +him I have seen much, and from him I have received great kindness. +Altogether, as I said before, Paris is a home to me, and +I leave it with a heavy heart.</p> + +<p>I have taken a place on the top of the diligence <i>for a week</i>. +It is a long while to occupy one seat, but the weather and the +season are delicious; and in the covered and roomy cabriolet, +with the <i>conducteur</i> for a living reference, and all the appliances +for comfort, I expect to live very pleasantly, night and day, till I +reach Marseilles. <i>Vaucluse</i> is on the way, and I shall visit it if +I have time and good weather, perhaps. At Marseilles I propose +to take the steamboat for Leghorn, and thence get directly to +Florence, where I shall remain till I become familiar with the +Italian, at least. I lay down my pen till all this plan of travel is +accomplished, and so, for the present, adieu! +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166"></a></span></p> + +<h3>LETTER XXII.</h3> + +<p class="ch_st"><span class="smcap">Chalons, on the saone.</span>—I have broken my route to stop at +this pretty town, and take the steamboat which goes down the +Saone to Lyons to-morrow morning. I have travelled two days +and nights; but an excellent dinner and a quickened imagination +indispose me for sleep, and, for want of better amusement in a +strange city at night, I will pass away an hour in transcribing the +hurried notes I have made at the stopping places.</p> + +<p>I chose, by advice, the part of the diligence called the <i>banquette</i>—a +covered seat over the front of the carriage, commanding +all the view, and free from the dust of the lower apartments. +The <i>conducteur</i> had the opposite corner, and a very ordinary-looking +man sat between us; the seat holding three very comfortably. +A lady and two gentlemen occupied the <i>coupé</i>; a +dragoon and his family, going to join his regiment, filled the +<i>rotonde</i>; and in the interior was a motley collection, whom I +scarce saw after starting; the occupants of the different parts of +a diligence having no more association, even in a week's travel, +than people living in adjoining houses in the city. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">167</a></span></p> + +<p>We rolled out of Paris by the <i>faubourg St. Antoine</i>, and at +the end of the first post passed the first object that interested me—a +small brick pavilion, built by Henri Quatre for the beautiful +Gabrielle d'Estrees. It stands on a dull, level plain, not far +from the banks of the river; and nothing but the fact that it was +once occupied by the woman who most enslaved the heart of the +most chivalrous and fickle of the French monarchs, would call +your attention to it for a moment.</p> + +<p>For the twenty or thirty miles which we travelled by daylight, +I saw nothing particularly curious or beautiful. The guide-book +is very diffuse upon the chateaux and villages on the road, but I +saw nothing except very ordinary country-houses, and the same +succession of small and dirty villages, steeped to the very chimneys +in poverty. If ever I return to America, I shall make a journey to +the west, for the pure refreshment of seeing industry and thrift. +I am sick to the heart of pauperism and misery. Everything +that is near the large towns in France is either splendid or +disgusting. There is no medium in condition—nothing that +looks like content—none of that class we define in our country +as the "respectable."</p> + +<p>The moon was a little in the wane, but bright, and the night +lovely. As we got further into the interior, the towns began to +look more picturesque and antique; and, with the softening +touch of the moonlight, and the absence of beggars, the old low-browed +buildings and half-ruined churches assumed the beauty +they wear in description. I slept on the road, but the echo of +the wheels in entering a post-town woke me always; and I rarely +have felt the picturesque more keenly than, at these sudden +wakings from dreams, perhaps, of familiar things, finding myself +opposite some shadowy relic of another age; as if it were by +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">168</a></span> +magical transportation, from the fireside to some place of which I +had heard or read the history.</p> + +<p>I awoke as we drove into <i>Sens</i> at broad daylight. We +were just passing a glorious old pile of a cathedral, which I ran +back to see while the diligence stopped to change horses. It is +of pointed architecture, black with age, and crusted with moss. +It was to this town that Thomas a Becket retired in disgrace at +his difference with Henry the Second. There is a chapel in the +cathedral, dedicated to his memory. The French certainly +should have the credit of leaving things alone. This old pile +stands as if the town in which it is built had been desolate for +centuries: not a letter of the old sculptures chiselled out, not a +bird unnested, not a filament of the gathering moss pulled away. +All looks as if no human hand had been near it—almost as if no +human eye had looked upon it. In America they would paint +such an old church white or red, shove down the pillars, and put +up pews, sell the pictures for fireboards, and cover the tesselated +pavement with sand, or a home-made carpet.</p> + +<p>As we passed under a very ancient gate, crowning the old +Roman ramparts of the town, a door opened, and a baker, in +white cap and apron, thrust out his head to see us pass. His +oven was blazing bright, and he had just taken out a batch of hot +bread, which was smoking on the table; and what with the +chill of the morning air and having fasted for some fourteen +hours, I quite envied him his vocation. The diligence, however, +pushed on most mercilessly till twelve o'clock, the French never +dreaming of eating before their late <i>dejeuner</i>—a mid-day meal +always. When we did get it, it was a dinner in every respect—meats +of all kinds, wine, and dessert, certainly as solid and +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">169</a></span> +various as any of the American breakfasts, at which travellers +laugh so universally.</p> + +<p>Auxerre is a pretty town, on a swelling bank of the river +Yonne; and I had admired it as one of the most improved-looking +villages of France. It was not till I had breakfasted +there, and travelled a league or two towards Chalons, that I +discovered by the guide book it was the ancient capital of Auxerrois, +a famous town in the time of Julius Cæsar, and had the +honor of being ravaged "at different times by Attila, the +Saracens, the Normans, and the Calvinists, vestiges of whose +devastations may still be seen." If I had not eaten of a positively +modern <i>paté foie gras</i>, and an <i>omelette soufflé</i>, at a nice little hotel, +with a mistress in a cap, and a coquettish French apron, I should +forgive myself less easily for not having detected antiquity in the +atmosphere. One imagines more readily than he realizes the +charm of mere age without beauty.</p> + +<p>We were now in the province of Burgundy, and, to say +nothing of the historical recollections, the vineyards were all +about us that delighted the palates of the world. One does not +dine at the <i>Trois Fréres</i>, in the Palais Royal, without contracting +a tenderness for the very name of Burgundy. I regretted +that I was not there in the season of the grape. The vines were +just budding, and the <i>paysans</i>, men and women, were scattered +over the vineyards, loosening the earth about the roots, and +driving stakes to support the young shoots. At Saint Bris I +found the country so lovely, that I left the diligence at the post-house, +and walked on to mount a long succession of hills on foot. +The road sides were quite blue with the violets growing thickly +among the grass, and the air was filled with perfume. I soon +got out of sight of the heavy vehicle, and made use of my leisure +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">170</a></span> +to enter the vineyards and talk to the people at their work. I +found one old man, with all his family about him; the little ones +with long baskets on their backs, bringing manure, and one or +two grown-up boys and girls raking up the earth with the +unhandy hoe of the country, and setting it firmly around the +roots with their wooden shoes. It was a pretty group, and I was +very much amused with their simplicity. The old man asked my +country, and set down his hoe in astonishment when I told him I +was an American. He wondered I was not more burnt, living in +such a hot country, and asked me what language we spoke. I +could scarce get away from his civilities when I bade him "Good +day." No politeness could have been more elegant than the +manner and expression of this old peasant, and certainly nothing +could have appeared sincerer or kinder. I kept on up the hill till +I reached a very high point, passing on my way a troop of +Italians, going to Paris with their organs and shows—a set of as +ragged specimens of the picturesque as I ever saw in a picture. +A lovely scene lay before me when I turned to look back. The +valley, on one side of which lies St. Bris, is as round as a bowl, +with an edge of mountain-tops absolutely even all around the +horizon. It slopes down from every side to the centre, as if it +had been measured and hollowed by art; and there is not a fence +to be seen from one side to the other, and scarcely a tree, but one +green and almost unbroken carpet of verdure, swelling up in broad +green slopes to the top, and realizing, with a slight difference, the +similitude of Madame de Genlis, of the place of satiety, eternal +green meadow and eternal blue sky. St. Bris is a little handful +of stone buildings around an old church; just such a thing as a +painter would throw into a picture—and the different-colored +grain, and here and there a ploughed patch of rich yellow earth, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">171</a></span> +and the road crossing the hollow from hill to hill like a white +band; and then for the life of the scene, the group of Italians, +the cumbrous diligence, and the peasants in their broad straw +hats, scattered over the fields—it was something quite beyond +my usual experience of scenery and accident. I had rarely +before found so much in one view to delight me.</p> + +<p>After looking a while, I mounted again, and stood on the very +top of the hill; and, to my surprise, there, on the other side lay +just such another valley, with just such a village in its bosom, +and the single improvement of a river—the Yonne stealing +through it, with its riband-like stream; but all the rest of the +valley almost exactly as I have described the other. I crossed +a vineyard to get a view to the southeast, and <i>once more</i> there +lay a deep hollow valley before me, formed like the other two, +with its little hamlet and its vineyards and mountains—as if there +had been three lakes in the hills, with their edges touching like +three bowls, and the terrace on which I stood was the platform +between them. It is a most singular formation of country, really, +and as beautiful as it is singular. Each of these valleys might +be ten miles across; and if the dukes of Burgundy in feudal +times rode ever to St. Bris, I can conceive that their dukedom +never seemed larger to them than when crossing this triple apex +of highland.</p> + +<p>At Saulieu we left the usual route, and crossed over to Chagny. +Between these two places lay a spot, which, out of my own country, +I should choose before all others for a retreat from the +world. As it was off the route, the guide-book gave me not +even the name, and I have discovered nothing but that the little +hamlet is called <i>Rochepot</i>. It is a little nest of wild scenery, a +mimic valley shut in by high overhanging crags, with the ruins +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">172</a></span> +of a battlemented and noble old castle, standing upon a rock in +the centre, with the village of some hundred stone cottages at its +very foot. You might stand on the towers of the ruins, and toss +a biscuit into almost every chimney in the village. The strong +round towers are still perfect, and the turrets and loop-holes and +windows are still there; and rank green vines have overrun the +whole mass everywhere; and nothing but the prodigious solidity +with which it was built could have kept it so long from falling, +for it is evidently one of the oldest castles in Burgundy. I never +before saw anything, even in a picture, which realized perfectly +my idea of feudal position. Here lived the lord of the domain, a +hundred feet in the air in his rocky castle, right over the heads +of his retainers, with the power to call in every soul that served +him at a minute's warning, and with a single blast of his trumpet. +I do not believe a stone has been displaced in the village for a +hundred years. The whole thing was redolent of antiquity. We +wound out of the place by a sharp narrow pass, and there, within +a mile of this old and deserted fortress, lay the broad plains +of Beaune and Chagny—one of the most fertile and luxurious +parts of France. I was charmed altogether. How many things +I have seen this side the water that I have made an involuntary +vow in my heart to visit again, and at more leisure, before I die!</p> + +<p>From Chagny it was but one post to Chalons, and here I am +in a pretty, busy town, with broad beautiful quays, where I have +promenaded till dark, observing this out-of-doors people; and +now, having written a long letter for a sleepy man, I will get to +bed, and redeem some portion of my two nights' wakefulness. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173"></a></span></p> + +<h3>LETTER XXIII.</h3> + +<p class="ch_sum"> +PASSAGE DOWN THE SAONE—AN ODD ACQUAINTANCE—LYONS—CHURCH +OF NOTRE DAME DE FOURVIERES—VIEW FROM THE +TOWER.</p> + +<p>I looked out of my window the last thing before going to bed +at Chalons, and the familiar constellation of <i>Ursa Major</i> never +shone brighter, and never made me a more agreeable promise +than that of fair weather the following day for my passage down +the Saone. I was called at four, and it rained in torrents. The +steamboat was smaller than the smallest I have seen in our country, +and crowded to suffocation with children, women, and lap-dogs. +I appropriated my own trunk, and spreading my umbrella, +sat down upon it, to endure my disappointment with what philosophy +I might. A dirty-looking fellow, who must have slept in +his clothes for a month, came up, with a loaf of coarse bread +under his arm, and addressed me, to my sufficient astonishment, +<i>in Latin</i>! He wanted to sit under my umbrella. I looked at +him a second time, but he had touched my passion. Latin is +the only thing I have been driven to, in this world, that I ever +really loved; and the clear, mellow, unctuous pronunciation of +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">174</a></span> +my dirty companion equally astonished and pleased me. I made +room for him on my trunk, and, though rusted somewhat since I +philosophized over Lucretius, we got on very tolerably. He was +a German student, travelling to Italy, and a fine specimen of the +class. A dirtier man I never saw, and hardly a finer or more +intellectual face. He knew everything, and served me as a talking +guide to the history of all the places on the river.</p> + +<p>Instead of eating all at once, as we do on board the steamboats +in America, the French boats have a <i>restaurant</i>, from which you +order what you please, and at any hour. The cabin was set +round with small tables, and the passengers made little parties, +and breakfasted and dined at their own time. It is much the +better method. I descended to the cabin very hungry about +twelve o'clock, and was looking about for a place, when a +French gentleman politely rose, and observing that I was alone, +(my German friend living on bread and water only,) requested +me to join his party at breakfast. Two young ladies and a lad +of fourteen sat at the table, and addressing them by their familiar +names, my polite friend requested them to give me a place; and +then told me that they were his daughters and son, and that he +was travelling to Italy for the health of the younger girl, a pale, +slender creature, apparently about eighteen. I was very well +pleased with my position, and rarely have passed an hour more +agreeably. French girls of the better classes never talk, but the +father was very communicative, and a Parisian, with the cross of +the Legion of Honor, and we found abundance of matter for conversation. +They have stopped at Lyons, where I write at present, +and I shall probably join their party to Marseilles.</p> + +<p>The clouds broke away after mid-day, and the banks of the +river brightened wonderfully with the change. The Saone is +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">175</a></span> +about the size of the Mohawk, but not half so beautiful; at least +for the greater part of its course. Indeed, you can hardly compare +American with European rivers, for the charm is of another +description, quite. With us it is nature only, here it is almost +all art. Our rivers are lovely, because the outline of the shore is +graceful, and particularly because the vegetation is luxuriant. +The hills are green, the foliage deep and lavish, the rocks grown +over with vines or moss, the mountains in the distance covered +with pines and other forest-trees; everything is wild, and nothing +looks bare or sterile. The rivers of France are crowned on every +height with ruins, and in the bosom of every valley lies a cluster +of picturesque stone cottages; but the fields are naked, and there +are no trees; the mountains are barren and brown, and everything +looks as if the dwellings had been deserted by the people, and +nature had at the same time gone to decay. I can conceive +nothing more melancholy than the views upon the Saone, seen, +as I saw them, though vegetation is out everywhere, and the +banks should be beautiful if ever. As we approached Lyons the +river narrowed and grew bolder, and the last ten miles were +enchanting. Naturally the shores at this part of the Saone are +exceedingly like the highlands of the Hudson above West Point. +Abrupt hills rise from the river's edge, and the windings are +sharp and constant. But imagine the highlands of the Hudson +crowned with antique chateaux, and covered to the very top with +terraces and summer-houses and hanging-gardens, gravel walks +and beds of flowers, instead of wild pines and precipices, and you +may get a very correct idea of the Saone above Lyons. You +emerge from one of the dark passes of the river by a sudden +turn, and there before you lies this large city, built on both banks, +at the foot and on the sides of mountains. The bridges are fine, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176">176</a></span> +and the broad, crowded quays, all along the edges of the river, +have a beautiful effect. We landed at the stone stairs, and +I selected a hotel by chance, where I have found seven Americans +of my acquaintance. We have been spending the evening +at the rooms of a townsman of mine, very pleasantly.</p> + +<hr class="l15" /> + +<p>There is a great deal of magnificence at Lyons, in the way of +quays, promenades, and buildings; but its excessive filthiness +spoils everything. One could scarce admire a Venus in such an +atmosphere; and you cannot find room to stand in Lyons where +you have not some nauseating odor. I was glad to escape from +the lower streets, and climb up the long staircases to the observatory +that overhangs the town. From the base of this elevation +the descent of the river is almost a precipice. The houses +hang on the side of the steep hill, and their doors enter from the +long alleys of stone staircases by which you ascend. On every +step, and at almost every foot of the way, stood a beggar. They +might have touched hands from the quay to the summit. If +they were not such objects of real wretchedness, it would be +laughable to hear the church calendar of saints repeated so +volubly. The lame hobble after you, the blind stumble in your +way, the sick lie and stretch out their hands from the wall, and +all begin in the name of the Virgin Mary, and end with "<i>Mon +bon Monsieur</i>," and "<i>un petit sous</i>." I confined my charities to +a lovely child, that started out from its mother's lap, and ran +down to meet us—a dirty and ragged little thing, but with the +large dark eyes of the province; and a skin, where one could see +it, of the clearest nut-brown teint. Her mother had five such, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">177</a></span> +and each of them, to any one who loved children, would have +been a treasure of beauty and interest.</p> + +<p>It was holy-week, and the church of <i>Notre Dame de Fourvières</i>, +which stands on the summit of the hill, was crowded with +people. We went in for a moment, and sat down on a bench to +rest. My companion was a Swiss captain of artillery, who was +a passenger in the boat, a very splendid fellow, with a mustache +that he might have tied behind his ears. He had addressed me +at the hotel, and proposed that we should visit the curiosities of +the town together. He was a model of a manly figure, athletic, +and soldier-like, and standing near him was to get the focus of all +the dark eyes in the congregation.</p> + +<p>The new square tower stands at the side of the church, and +rises to the height of perhaps sixty feet. The view from it is +said to be one of the finest in the world. I have seen more extensive +ones, but never one that comprehended more beauty and +interest. Lyons lies at the foot, with the Saone winding through +its bosom in abrupt curves; the Rhone comes down from the +north on the other side of the range of mountains, and meeting +the Saone in a broad stream below the town, they stretch off to +the south, through a diversified landscape; the Alps rise from +the east like the edges of a thunder-cloud, and the mountains of +Savoy fill up the interval to the Rhone. All about the foot of +the monument lie gardens, of exquisite cultivation; and above +and below the city the villas of the rich; giving you altogether +as delicious a nucleus for a broad circle of scenery as art and +nature could create, and one sufficiently in contrast with the barrenness +of the rocky circumference to enhance the charm, and +content you with your position. Half way down the hill lies an +old monastery, with a lovely garden walled in from the world; +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">178</a></span> +and several of the brotherhood were there, idling up and down +the shaded alleys, with their black dresses sweeping the ground, +possibly in holy contemplation. The river was covered with +boats, the bells were ringing to church, the glorious old cathedral, +so famous for its splendor, stood piled up, with its arches and +gray towers, in the square below; the day was soft, sunny, and +warm, and existence was a blessing. I leaned over the balustrade, +I know not how long, looking down upon the scene about +me; and I shall ever remember it as one of those few unalloyed +moments, when the press of care was taken off my mind, and the +chain of circumstances was strong enough to set aside both the +past and the future, and leave me to the quiet enjoyment of the +present. I have found such hours "few and far between." +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179"></a></span></p> + +<h3>LETTER XXIV.</h3> + +<p class="ch_sum"> +DEPARTURE FROM LYONS—BATTEAUX DE POSTE—RIVER SCENERY—VILLAGE +OF CONDRIEU—VIENNE—VALENCE—POINT ST. ESPRIT—DAUPHINY +AND LANGUEDOC—DEMI-FETE DAY, ETC.</p> + +<p>I found a day and a half quite enough for Lyons. The views +from the mountain and the river were the only things that +pleased me. I made the usual dry visit to the library and the +museum, and admired the Hotel de Ville, and the new theatre, +and the front of the <i>Maison de Tolosan</i>, that so struck the fancy +of Joseph II., and having "despatched the lions," like a true +cockney traveller, I was too happy to escape the offensive smells +of the streets, and get to my rooms. One does not enjoy much +comfort within doors either. Lyons is a great imitation metropolis—a +sort of second-hand Paris. I am not very difficult to +please, but I found the living intolerable. It was an affectation +of abstruse cookery throughout. We sat down to what is called +the best table in the place, and it was a series of ludicrous travesties, +from the soup to the salad. One can eat well in the country, +because the dishes are simple, and he gets the natural taste of +things; but to come to a table covered with artificial dishes, +which he has been accustomed to see in their perfection, and to +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">180</a></span> +taste and send away everything in disgust, is a trial of temper +which is reserved for the traveller at Lyons.</p> + +<p>The scenery on the river, from Lyons to Avignon, has great +celebrity, and I had determined to take that course to the south. +Just at this moment, however, the Rhone had been pronounced +too low, and the steamboats were stopped. I probably made the +last passage by steam on the Saone, for we ran aground repeatedly, +and were compelled to wait till horses could be procured to draw +the boat into deep water. It was quite amusing to see with what +a regular, business-like air, the postillions fixed their traces to +the prow, and whipped into the middle of the river. A small +boat was my only resource, and I found a man on the quay who +plied the river in what is called <i>batteaux de poste</i>, rough shallops +with flat bottoms, which are sold for firewood on their arrival, the +rapidity of the Rhone rendering a return against the current next +to impossible. The sight of the frail contrivance in which I was +to travel nearly two hundred miles, rather startled me, but the +man assured me he had several other passengers, and two ladies +among them. I paid the <i>arrhes</i>, or earnest money, and was at +the river-stairs punctually at four the next morning.</p> + +<p>To my very sincere pleasure the two ladies were the daughters +of my polite friend and fellow passenger from Chalons. They +were already on board, and the little shallop sat deep in the water +with her freight. Besides these, there were two young French +chasseurs going home on leave of absence, a pretty Parisian dress-maker +flying from the cholera, a masculine woman, the wife of a +dragoon, and my friend the captain. We pushed out into the +current, and drifted slowly down under the bridges, without oars +the padrone quietly smoking his pipe at the helm. In a few +minutes we were below the town, and here commenced again the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">181</a></span> +cultivated and ornamented banks I had so much admired on my +approach to Lyons from the other side. The thin haze was just +stirring from the river's surface, the sunrise flush was on the sky, +the air was genial and impregnated with the smell of grass and +flowers, and the little changing landscapes, as we followed the +stream, broke upon us like a series of exquisite dioramas. The +atmosphere was like Doughty's pictures, exactly. I wished a +thousand times for that delightful artist, that he might see how +richly the old <i>chateaux</i> and their picturesque appurtenances filled +up the scene. It would have given a new turn to his pencil.</p> + +<p>We soon arrived at the junction of the rivers, and, as we +touched the rapid current of the Rhone, the little shallop yielded +to its sway, and redoubled its velocity. The sun rose clear, the +cultivation grew less and less, the hills began to look distant and +barren, and our little party became sociable in proportion. We +closed around the invalid, who sat wrapped in a cloak in the +stern, leaning on her father's shoulder, and talked of Paris and +its pleasures—a theme of which the French are never weary. +Time passed delightfully. Without being decidedly pretty, our +two Parisiennes were quiet-mannered and engaging; and the +younger one particularly, whose pale face and deeply-sunken eyes +gave her a look of melancholy interest, seemed to have thought +much, and to feel, besides, that her uncertain health gave her a +privilege of overstepping the rigid reserve of an unmarried girl. +She talks freely, and with great delicacy of expression and +manner.</p> + +<p>We ran ashore at the little village of Condrieu to breakfast. +We were assailed on stepping out of the boat by the <i>demoiselles</i> +of two or three rival <i>auberges</i>—nice-looking, black-eyed girls, in +white aprons, who seized us by the arm, and pulled each to her +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">182</a></span> +own door, with torrents of unintelligible <i>patois</i>. We left it to +the captain, who selected the best-looking leader, and we were +soon seated around a table covered with a lavish breakfast; the +butter, cheese, and wine excellent, at least. A merrier party, I +am sure, never astonished the simple people of Condrieu. The +pretty dress-maker was full of good-humor and politeness, and +delighted at the envy with which the rural belles regarded her +knowing Parisian cap; the chasseurs sang the popular songs of +the army, and joked with the maids of the <i>auberge</i>; the captain +was inexhaustibly agreeable, and the hour given us by the +padrone was soon gone. We embarked with a thousand adieus +from the pleased people, and altogether it was more like a scene +from Wilhelm Meister, than a passage from real life.</p> + +<p>The wind soon rose free and steady from the north-west, and +with a spread sail we ran past <i>Vienne</i>, at ten miles in the hour. +This was the metropolis of my old friends, "the Allobrogues," in +Cesar's Commentaries. I could not help wondering at the +feelings with which I was passing over such classic ground. The +little dress-maker was giving us an account of her fright at the +cholera, and every one in the boat was in agonies of laughter. I +looked at the guide-book to find the name of the place, and the +first glance at the word carried me back to my old school-desk at +Andover, and conjured up for a moment the redolent classic +interest with which I read the history of the land I was now +hurrying through. That a laugh with a modern <i>grisette</i> should +engross me entirely, at the moment I was traversing such a spot, +is a possibility the man may realize much more readily than the +school-boy. A new roar of merriment from my companions +plucked me back effectually from Andover to the Rhone, and I +thought no more of Gaul or its great historian. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">183</a></span></p> + +<p>We floated on during the day, passing <i>chateaux</i> and ruins +constantly; but finding the country barren and rocky to a dismal +degree, I can not well imagine how the Rhone has acquired its +reputation for beauty. It has been sung by the poets more than +any other river in France, and the various epithets that have +been applied to it have become so common, that you can not +mention it without their rising to your lips; but the Saone and +the Seine are incomparably more lovely, and I am told the +valleys of the Loire are the most beautiful part of France. +From its junction with the Saone to the Mediterranean, the +Rhone is one stretch of barrenness.</p> + +<p>We passed a picturesque chateau, built very widely on a rock +washed by the river, called "<i>La Roche de Glun</i>," and twilight +soon after fell, closing in our view to all but the river edge. The +wind died away, but the stars were bright and the air mild; and, +quite fatigued to silence, our little party leaned on the sides of +the boat, and waited till the current should float us down to our +resting-place for the night. We reached <i>Valence</i> at ten, and with +a merry dinner and supper in one, which kept us up till after +midnight, we got to our coarse but clean beds, and slept soundly.</p> + +<p>The following forenoon we ran under the <i>Pont St. Esprit</i>, an +experiment the guide-book calls very dangerous. The Rhone is +rapid and noisy here, and we shot under the arches of the fine old +structure with great velocity; but the "Rapids of the St. +Lawrence" are passed constantly without apprehension by +travellers in America, and those of the Rhone are a mere millrace +in comparison. We breakfasted just below, at a village +where we could scarce understand a syllable, the <i>patois</i> was so +decided, and at sunset we were far down between the provinces +of <i>Dauphiny</i> and <i>Languedoc</i>, with the villages growing thicker +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184">184</a></span> +and greener, and a high mountain within ten or fifteen miles, +covered with snow nearly to the base. We stopped opposite the +old castle of <i>Rocheméuse</i> to pay the <i>droit</i>. It was a <i>demi-fete</i> +day, and the inhabitants of a village back from the river had +come out to the green bank in their holyday costume for a revel. +The bank swelled up from the stream to a pretty wood, and the +green sward between was covered with these gay people, arrested +in their amusements by our arrival. We jumped out for a +moment, and I walked up the bank and endeavored to make the +acquaintance of a strikingly handsome woman about thirty, but +the <i>patois</i> was quite too much. After several vain attempts to +understand each other, she laughed and turned on her heel, and +I followed the call of the padrone to the batteau. For five or six +miles below, the river passed through a kind of meadow, and an +air more loaded with fragrance I never breathed. The sun was +just down, and with the mildness of the air, and quiet glide of +the boat on the water, it was quite enchanting. Conversation +died away, and I went forward and lay down in the bow alone, +with a fit of desperate musing. It is as singular as it is certain, +that the more one enjoys the loveliness of a foreign land, the +more he feels how absolutely his heart is at home in his own +country. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185"></a></span></p> + +<h3>LETTER XXV.</h3> + +<p class="ch_sum"> +INFLUENCE OF A BOATMAN—THE TOWN OF ARLES—ROMAN RUINS—THE +CATHEDRAL—MARSEILLES—THE PASS OF OLLIOULES—THE +VINEYARDS—TOULON—ANTIBES—LAZARETTO—VILLA FRANCA, +ETC.</p> + +<p>I entered Avignon after a delicious hour on the Rhone, quite +in the mood to do poetical homage to its associations. My +dreams of Petrarch and Vaucluse were interrupted by a scene +between my friend the captain, and a stout boatman, who had +brought his baggage from the batteau. The result was an appeal +to the mayor, who took the captain aside after the matter was +argued, and told him in his ear that he must compromise the +matter, for he <i>dared not give a judgment in his favor</i>! The +man had demanded <i>twelve</i> francs where the regulations allowed +him but <i>one</i>, and palpable as the imposition was, the magistrate +refused to interfere. The captain curled his mustache and +walked the room in a terrible passion, and the boatman, an +herculean fellow, eyed him with a look of assurance which quite +astonished me. After the case was settled, I asked an explanation +of the mayor. He told me frankly, that the fellow belonged +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186">186</a></span> +to a powerful class of men of the lowest description, who, having +declared first for the present government, were and would be +supported by it in almost any question where favor could be +shown—that all the other classes of inhabitants were malcontents, +and that, between positive strength and royal favor, the +boatmen and their party had become too powerful even for the +ordinary enforcement of the law.</p> + +<p>The following day was so sultry and warm, that I gave up all +idea of a visit to Vaucluse. We spent the morning under the +trees which stand before the door of the <i>café</i> in the village +square, and at noon we took the steamboat upon the Rhone for +<i>Arles</i>. An hour or two brought us to this ancient town, where +we were compelled to wait till the next day, the larger boat +which goes hence by the mouths of the Rhone to Marseilles, +being out of order.</p> + +<p>We left our baggage in the boat, and I walked up with the +captain to see the town. An officer whom we addressed for +information on the quay politely offered to be our guide, and we +passed three or four hours rambling about, with great pleasure. +Our first object was the Roman ruins, for which the town is +celebrated. We traversed several streets, so narrow, that the +old time-worn houses on either side seemed to touch at the top, +and in the midst of a desolate and poverty-stricken neighborhood, +we came suddenly upon a noble Roman amphitheatre of gigantic +dimensions, and sufficiently preserved to be a picturesque ruin. +It was built on the terrace of a hill, overlooking the Rhone. +From the towers of the gateway, the view across the river into +the lovely province of Languedoc, is very extensive. The arena +is an excavation of perhaps thirty feet in depth, and the rows of +seats, all built of vast blocks of stone, stretch round it in retreating +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187">187</a></span> +and rising platforms to the surface of the hill. The lower +story is surrounded with dens; and the upper terrace is enclosed +with a circle of small apartments, like boxes in a theatre, opening +by handsome arches upon the scene. It is the ruin of a noble +structure, and, even without the help of the imagination, exceedingly +impressive. It seems to be at present turned into a +play-ground. The dens and cavities were full of black-eyed and +happy creatures, hiding and hallooing with all the delightful spirit +and gayety of French children. Probably it was never appropriated +to a better use.</p> + +<p>We entered the cathedral in returning. It is an antique, and +considered a very fine one. The twilight was just falling; +and the candles burning upon the altar, had a faint, dull glare, +making the dimness of the air more perceptible. I walked up +the long aisle to the side chapel, without observing that my +companions had left me, and, quite tired with my walk, seated +myself against one of the Gothic pillars, enjoying the quiet of the +place, and the momentary relief from exciting objects. It struck +me presently that there was a dead silence in the church, and, as +much to hear the sound of English as for any better motive, I +approached the priest's missal, which lay open on a stand near +me, and commenced translating a familiar psalm aloud. My +voice echoed through the building with a fullness which startled +me, and looking over my shoulder, I saw that a simple, poor old +woman was kneeling in the centre of the church, praying alone. +She had looked up at my interruption of the silence of the place, +but her beads still slipped slowly through her fingers, and, feeling +that I was intruding possibly between a sincere worshipper and +her Maker, I withdrew to the side aisle, and made my way softly +out of the cathedral. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188">188</a></span></p> + +<p>Arles appears to have modernized less than any town I have +seen in France. The streets and the inhabitants look as if they +had not changed for a century. The dress of the women is +very peculiar; the waist of the gown coming up to a point +behind, between the shoulder blades, and consequently very short +in front, and the high cap bound to the head with broad velvet +ribands, suffering nothing but the jet black curls to escape over +the forehead. As a class, they are the handsomest women I have +seen. Nothing could be prettier than the small-featured lively +brunettes we saw sitting on the stone benches at every door.</p> + +<p>We ran down the next morning, in a few hours to Marseilles. +It was a cloudy, misty day, and I did not enjoy, as I expected, +the first view of the Mediterranean from the mouths of the +Rhone. We put quite out into the swell of the sea, and the passengers +were all strewn on the deck in the various gradations of +sickness. My friend the captain, and myself, had the only constant +stomachs on board. I was very happy to distinguish Marseilles +through the mist, and as we approached nearer, the rocky +harbor and the islands of <i>Chateau d'If</i> and <i>Pomègue</i>, with the +fortress at the mouth of the harbor, came out gradually from the +mist, and the view opened to a noble amphitheatre of rocky +mountains, in whose bosom lies Marseilles at the edge of the sea. +We ran into the narrow cove which forms the inner harbor, passing +an American ship, the "William Penn," just arrived from +Philadelphia, and lying in quarantine. My blood started at the +sight of the starred flag; and as we passed closer and I read the +name upon her stern, a thousand recollections of that delightful +city sprang to my heart, and I leaned over to her from the boat's +side, with a feeling of interest and pleasure to which the foreign +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189">189</a></span> +tongue that called me to bid adieu to newer friends, seemed an +unwelcome interruption.</p> + +<p>I parted from my pleasant Parisian friend and his family, however, +with real regret. They were polite and refined, and had +given me their intimacy voluntarily and without reserve. I +shook hands with them on the quay, and wished the pale and +quiet invalid better health, with more of feeling than is common +with acquaintances of a day. I believe them kind and sincere, +and I have not found these qualities growing so thickly in the +world that I can thrust aside anything that resembles them, with +a willing mistrust.</p> + +<p>The quay of Marseilles is one of the most varied scenes to be +met with in Europe. Vessels of all nations come trading to its +port, and nearly every costume in the world may be seen in its +busy crowds. I was surprised at the number of Greeks. Their +picturesque dresses and dark fine faces meet you at every step, +and it would be difficult, if it were not for the shrinking eye, to +believe them capable of an ignoble thought. The mould of the +race is one for heroes, but if all that is said of them be true, the +blood has become impure. Of the two or three hundred I must +have seen at Marseilles, I scarce remember one whose countenance +would not have been thought remarkable.</p> + +<hr class="l15" /> + +<p>I have remained six days in Marseilles by the advice of the +Sardinian consul, who assured me that so long a residence in the +south of France, is necessary to escape quarantine for the +cholera, at the ports or on the frontiers of Italy. I have obtained +his certificate to-day, and depart to-morrow for Nice. My forced +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_190" id="Page_190">190</a></span> +<i>sejour</i> here has been far from an amusing or a willing one. The +"<i>mistral</i>" has blown chilly and with suffocating dryness, so that +I have scarce breathed freely since I entered the town, and the +streets, though handsomely laid out and built, are intolerable from +the dust. The sun scorches your skin to a blister, and the wind +chills your blood to the bone. There are beautiful public walks, +which, at the more moist seasons, must be delightful, but at +present the leaves on the trees are all white, and you cannot keep +your eyes open long enough to see from one end of the promenade +to the other. Within doors, it is true, I have found +everything which could compensate for such evils; and I shall +carry away pleasant recollections of the hospitality of the Messrs. +Fitch, and others of my countrymen, living here—gentlemen +whose courtesies are well-remembered by every American +traveller through the south of France.</p> + +<hr class="l15" /> + +<p>I sank into the corner of the <i>coupé</i> of the diligence for Toulon, +at nine o'clock in the evening, and awoke with the gray of the +dawn at the entrance of the pass of <i>Ollioules</i>, one of the wildest +defiles I ever saw. The gorge is the bed of a winter torrent, +and you travel three miles or more between two mountains seemingly +cleft asunder, on a road cut out a little above the stream, +with naked rock to the height of two or three hundred feet +almost perpendicularly above you. Nothing could be more bare +and desolate than the whole pass, and nothing could be richer +or more delightfully cultivated than the low valleys upon which it +opens. It is some four or five miles hence to Toulon, and we +traversed the road by sunrise, the soft, gray light creeping through +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_191" id="Page_191">191</a></span> +the olive and orange trees with which the fields are laden, and the +peasants just coming out to their early labor. You see no brute +animal here except the mule; and every countryman you meet +is accompanied by one of these serviceable little creatures, often +quite hidden from sight by the enormous load he carries, or +pacing patiently along with a master on his back, who is by far +the larger of the two.</p> + +<p>The vineyards begin to look delightfully; for the thick black +stump which was visible over the fields I have hitherto passed, is +in these warm valleys covered already with masses of luxuriant +vine leaves, and the hill sides are lovely with the light and tender +verdure. I saw here for the first time, the olive and date trees +in perfection. They grow in vast orchards planted regularly, and +the olive resembles closely the willow, and reaches about the +same height and shape. The leaves are as slender but not quite +so long, and the color is more dusky, like the bloom upon a +grape. Indeed, at a short distance, the whole tree looks like a +mass of untouched fruit.</p> + +<p>I was agreeably disappointed in Toulon. It is a rural town +with a harbor—not the dirty seaport one naturally expects to find +it. The streets are the cleanest I have seen in France, some of +them lined with trees, and the fountains all over it freshen the +eye delightfully. We had an hour to spare, and with Mr. Doyle, +an Irish gentleman, who had been my travelling companion, since +I parted with my friend the Swiss, I made the circuit of the +quays. They were covered with French naval officers and +soldiers, promenading and conversing in the lively manner of +this gayest of nations. A handsome child, of perhaps six years, +was selling roses at one of the corners, and for a <i>sous</i>, all she +demanded, I bought six of the most superb damask buds just +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_192" id="Page_192">192</a></span> +breaking into flower. They were the first I had seen from the +open air since I left America, and I have not often purchased so +much pleasure with a copper coin.</p> + +<p>Toulon was interesting to me as the place where Napoleon's +career began. The fortifications are very imposing. We passed +out of the town over the draw-bridge, and were again in the +midst of a lovely landscape, with an air of bland and exhilarating +softness, and everything that could delight the eye. The road +runs along the shore of the Mediterranean, and the fields are +green to the water edge.</p> + +<p>We arrived at Antibes to-day at noon, within fifteen miles of +the frontier of Sardinia. We have run through most of the +south of France, and have found it all like a garden. The thing +most like it in our country is the neighborhood of Boston, +particularly the undulated country about Brookline and Dorchester. +Remove all the stone fences from that sweet country, put +here and there an old chateau on an eminence, and change the +pretty white mock cottages of gentlemen, for the real stone +cottages of peasantry, and you have a fair picture of the scenery +of this celebrated shore. The Mediterranean should be added +as a distance, with its exquisite blue, equalled by nothing but an +American sky in a July noon—its crowds of sail, of every shape +and nation, and the Alps in the horizon crested with snow, like +clouds half touched by the sun. It is really a delicious climate. +Out of the scorching sun the air is bracing and cool; and though +my ears have been blistered in walking up the hills in a travelling +cap, I have scarcely experienced an uncomfortable sensation of +heat, and this in my winter dress, with flannels and a surtout, as +I have worn them for the six months past in Paris. The air +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_193" id="Page_193">193</a></span> +could not be tempered more accurately for enjoyment. I regret +to go in doors. I regret to sleep it away.</p> + +<hr class="l15" /> + +<p><i>Antibes</i> was fortified by the celebrated <i>Vauban</i>, and it looks +impregnable enough to my unscientific eye. If the portcullises +were drawn up, I would not undertake to get into the town with +the full consent of the inhabitants. We walked around the +ramparts which are washed by the Mediterranean, and got an +appetite in the sea-breeze, which we would willingly have +dispensed with. I dislike to abuse people, but I must say that +the <i>cuisine</i> of Madame Agarra, at the "Gold Eagle," is rather +the worst I have fallen upon in my travels. Her price, as is +usual in France, was proportionably exorbitant. My Irish friend, +who is one of the most religious gentlemen of his country I ever +met, came as near getting into a passion with his supper and bill, +as was possible for a temper so well disciplined. For myself, +having acquired only polite French, I can but "look daggers" +when I am abused. We depart presently for <i>Nice</i>, in a ricketty +barouche, with post-horses, the <i>courier</i>, or post-coach, going no +farther. It is a roomy old affair, that has had pretensions to +style some time since Henri Quatre, but the arms on its panels +are illegible now, and the ambitious driving-box is occupied by +the humble materials to remedy a probable break-down by the +way. The postillion is cracking his whip impatiently, my friend +has called me twice, and I must put up my pencil. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_194" id="Page_194">194</a></span></p> + +<p><i>Antibes</i> again! We have returned here after an unsuccessful +attempt to enter the Sardinian dominions. We were on the road +by ten in the morning, and drove slowly along the shores of the +Mediterranean, enjoying to the utmost the heavenly weather and +the glorious scenery about us. The driver pointed out to us a +few miles from Antibes, the very spot on which Napoleon landed +on his return from Elba, and the tree, a fine old olive, under +which he slept three hours, before commencing his march. We +arrived at the <i>Pont de Var</i> about one, and crossed the river, but +here we were met by a guard of Sardinian soldiers, and our +passports were demanded. The commissary came from the +guard-house with a long pair of tongs, and receiving them open, +read them at the longest possible distance. They were then +handed back to us in the same manner, and we were told we +could not pass. We then handed him our certificates of quarantine +at Marseilles; but were told it availed nothing, a new +order having arrived from Turin that very morning, to admit no +travellers from infected or suspected places across the frontier. +We asked if there were no means by which we could pass; but +the commissary only shook his head, ordered us not to dismount +on the Sardinian side of the river, and shut his door. We +turned about and recrossed the bridge in some perplexity. The +French commissary at St. Laurent, the opposite village, received +us with a suppressed smile, and informed us that several parties +of travellers, among others an English gentleman and his wife +and sister, were at the <i>auberge</i>, waiting for an answer from the +Prefect of Nice, having been turned back in the same manner +since morning. We drove up, and they advised us to send our +passports by the postillion, with a letter to the consuls of our +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_195" id="Page_195">195</a></span> +respective nations, requesting information, which we did immediately.</p> + +<p>Nice is three miles from St. Laurent, and as we could not +expect an answer for several hours, we amused ourselves with a +stroll along the banks of the Var to the Mediterranean. The +Sardinian side is bold, and wooded to the tops of the hills very +richly. We kept along a mile or more through the vineyards, +and returned in time to receive a letter from the American consul, +confirming the orders of the commissary, but advising us to +return to Antibes, and sail thence for Villa Franca, a lazaretto +in the neighborhood of Nice, whence we could enter Italy, after +<i>seven days quarantine</i>! By this time several travelling-carriages +had collected, and all, profiting by our experience, turned back +together. We are now at the "Gold Eagle," deliberating. +Some have determined to give up their object altogether, but the +rest of us sail to-morrow morning in a fishing-boat for the +lazaretto.</p> + +<hr class="l15" /> + +<p><span class="smcap">Lazaretto, Villa Franca.</span>—There were but eight of the +twenty or thirty travellers stopped at the bridge who thought it +worth while to persevere. We are all here in this pest-house, and +a motley mixture of nations it is. There are two young Sicilians +returning from college to Messina; a Belgian lad of seventeen, +just started on his travels; two aristocratic young Frenchmen, +very elegant and very ignorant of the world, running down to +Italy in their own carriage, to avoid the cholera; a middle-aged +surgeon in the British navy, very cool and very gentlemanly; a +vulgar Marseilles trader, and myself. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_196" id="Page_196">196</a></span></p> + +<p>We were from seven in the morning till two, getting away from +Antibes. Our difficulties during the whole day are such a practical +comparison of the freedom of European states and ours, that +I may as well detail them.</p> + +<p>First of all, our passports were to be vised by the police. We +were compelled to stand an hour with our hats off, in a close, +dirty office, waiting our turn for this favor. The next thing was +to get the permission of the prefect of the <i>marine</i> to embark; and +this occupied another hour. Thence we were taken to the +health-office, where a <i>bill of health</i> was made out for eight persons +<i>going to a lazaretto</i>! The padrone's freight duties were then +to be settled, and we went back and forth between the Sardinian +consul and the French, disputing these for another hour or more. +Our baggage was piled upon the <i>charrette</i>, at last, to be taken to +the boat. The quay is outside the gate, and here are stationed +the <i>douanes</i>, or custom-officers, who ordered our trunks to be +taken from the cart, and searched them from top to bottom. +After a half hour spent in repacking our effects in the open street, +amid a crowd of idle spectators, we were suffered to proceed. +Almost all these various gentlemen expect a fee, and some demand +a heavy one; and all this trouble and expense of time and +money to make a voyage of <i>fifteen miles in a fishing-boat</i>!</p> + +<p>We hoisted the fisherman's latteen sail, and put out of the little +harbor in very bad temper. The wind was fair, and we ran along +the shore for a couple of hours, till we came to Nice, where we +were to stop for permission to go to the lazaretto. We were +hailed, off the mole, with a trumpet, and suffered to pass. +Doubling a little point, half a mile farther on, we ran into the +bay of Villa Franca, a handful of houses at the base of an +amphitheatre of mountains. A little round tower stood in the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_197" id="Page_197">197</a></span> +centre of the harbor, built upon a rock, and connected with the +town by a draw-bridge, and we were landed at a staircase outside, +by which we mounted to show our papers to the health-officer. +The interior was a little circular yard, separated from an office on +the town side by an iron grating, and looking out on the sea by +two embrasures for cannon. Two strips of water and the sky +above was our whole prospect for the hour that we waited here. +The cause of the delay was presently explained by clouds of +smoke issuing from the interior. The tower filled, and a more +nauseating odor I never inhaled. We were near suffocating with +the intolerable smell, and the quantity of smoke deemed necessary +to secure his majesty's officers against contagion.</p> + +<p>A cautious-looking old gentleman, with gray hair, emerged at +last from the smoke, with a long cane-pole in his hand, and, +coughing at every syllable, requested us to insert our passports +in the split at the extremity, which he thrust through the gate. +This being done, we asked him for bread. We had breakfasted +at seven, and it was now sundown—near twelve hours fast. +Several of my companions had been seasick with the swell of the +Mediterranean, in coming from Antibes, and all were faint with +hunger and exhaustion. For myself, the villainous smell of our +purification had made me sick, and I had no appetite; but the +rest ate very voraciously of a loaf of coarse bread, which was +extended to us with a tongs and two pieces of paper.</p> + +<p>After reading our passports, the magistrate informed us that +he had no orders to admit us to the lazaretto, and we must lie in +our boat till he could send a messenger to Nice with our passports +and obtain permission. We opened upon him, however, with such +a flood of remonstrance, and with such an emphasis from hunger +and fatigue, that he consented to admit us temporarily on his own +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_198" id="Page_198">198</a></span> +responsibility, and gave the boatmen orders to row back to a long, +low stone building, which we had observed at the foot of a precipice +at the entrance to the harbor.</p> + +<p>He was there before us, and as we mounted the stone ladder +he pointed through the bars of a large inner gate to a single +chamber, separated from the rest of the building, and promising +to send us something to eat in the course of the evening, left us +to take possession. Our position was desolate enough. The +building was new, and the plaster still soft and wet. There was +not an article of furniture in the chamber, and but a single window; +the floor was of brick, and the air as damp within as a cellar. +The alternative was to remain out of doors, in the small yard, +walled up thirty feet on three sides, and washed by the sea on +the other; and here, on a long block of granite, the softest thing +I could find, I determined to make an <i>al fresco</i> night of it.</p> + +<p>Bread, cheese, wine, and cold meat, seethed, Italian fashion, in +nauseous oil, arrived about nine o'clock; and, by the light of a +candle standing in a boot, we sat around on the brick floor, and +supped very merrily. Hunger had brought even our two French +exquisites to their fare, and they ate well. The navy surgeon +had seen service, and had no qualms; the Sicilians were from a +German university, and were not delicate; the Marseilles trader +knew no better; and we should have been less contented with a +better meal. It was superfluous to abuse it.</p> + +<p>A steep precipice hangs immediately over the lazaretto, and +the horn of the half moon was just dipping below it, as I +stretched myself to sleep. With a folded coat under me, and a +carpet-bag for a pillow, I soon fell asleep, and slept soundly till +sunrise. My companions had chosen shelter, but all were happy +to be early risers. We mounted our wall upon the sea, and +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_199" id="Page_199">199</a></span> +promenaded till the sun was broadly up, and the breeze from the +Mediterranean sharpened our appetites, and then finishing the +relics of our supper, we waited with what patience we might the +appearance of our breakfast.</p> + +<hr class="l15" /> + +<p>The magistrate arrived at twelve, yesterday, with a commissary +from Villa Franca, who is to be our victualler during the quarantine. +He has enlarged our limits, by a stone staircase and an +immense chamber, on condition that we pay for an extra guard, +in the shape of a Sardinian soldier, who is to sleep in our room, +and eat at our table. By the way, we <i>have</i> a table, and four +rough benches, and these, with three single mattresses, are all +the furniture we can procure. We are compelled to sleep <i>across</i> +the latter of course, to give every one his share.</p> + +<p>We have come down very contentedly to our situation, and I +have been exceedingly amused at the facility with which eight +such different tempers can amalgamate, upon compulsion. Our +small quarters bring us in contact continually, and we harmonize +like schoolboys. At this moment the Marseilles trader and the +two Frenchmen are throwing stones at something that is floating +out with the tide; the surgeon has dropped his Italian grammar +to decide upon which is the best shot; the Belgian is fishing off +the wall, with a pin hook and a bit of cheese; and the two +Sicilians are talking <i>lingua franca</i>, at the top of their voices, to +Carolina, the guardian's daughter, who stands coquetting on the +pier just outside the limits. I have got out my books and portfolio, +and taken possession of the broad stair, depending on the +courtesy of my companions to jump over me and my papers when +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_200" id="Page_200">200</a></span> +they go up and down. I sit here most of the day laughing at the +fun below, and writing or reading alternately. The climate is +too delicious for discontent. Every breath is a pleasure. The +hills of the amphitheatre opposite to us are covered with olive, +lemon, and orange trees; and in the evening, from the time +the land breeze commences to blow off shore until ten or eleven, +the air is impregnated with the delicate perfume of the orange-blossom, +than which nothing could be more grateful. Nice is +called the hospital of Europe; and truly, under this divine sky, +and with the inspiriting vitality and softness of the air, and all that +nature can lavish of luxuriance and variety upon the hills, it is +the place, if there is one in the world, where the drooping spirit +of the invalid must revive and renew. At this moment the sun +has crept from the peak of the highest mountain across the bay, +and we shall scent presently the spicy wind from the shore. I +close my book to go upon the wall, which I see the surgeon has +mounted already with the same object, to catch the first breath +that blows seaward.</p> + +<p>It is Sunday, and an Italian summer morning. I do not think +my eyes ever woke upon so lovely a day. The long, lazy swell +comes in from the Mediterranean as smooth as glass; the sails of +a beautiful yacht, belonging to an English nobleman at Nice, +and lying becalmed just now in the bay, are hanging motionless +about the masts; the sky is without a speck, the air just seems to +me to steep every nerve and fibre of the frame with repose and +pleasure. Now and then in America I have felt a June morning +that approached it, but never the degree, the fulness, the sunny +softness of this exquisite clime. It tranquilizes the mind as well +as the body. You cannot resist feeling contented and genial. +We are all out of doors, and my companions have brought down +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_201" id="Page_201">201</a></span> +their mattresses, and are lying along the shade of the east wall, +talking quietly and pleasantly; the usual sounds of the workmen +on the quays of the town are still, our harbor-guard lies asleep in +his boat, the yellow flag of the lazaretto clings to the staff, +everything about us breathes tranquillity. Prisoner as I am, I +would not stir willingly to-day.</p> + +<hr class="l15" /> + +<p>We have had two new arrivals this morning—a boat from +Antibes, with a company of players bound for the theatre at +Milan; and two French deserters from the regiment at Toulon, +who escaped in a leaky boat, and have made this voyage along +the coast to get into Italy. They knew nothing of the quarantine, +and were very much surprised at their arrest. They will, +probably, be delivered up to the French consul. The new +comers are all put together in the large chamber next us, and we +have been talking with them through the grate. His majesty of +Sardinia is not spared in their voluble denunciations.</p> + +<p>Our imprisonment is getting to be a little tedious. We +lengthen our breakfasts and dinners, go to sleep early and get up +late, but a lazaretto is a dull place after all. We have no books +except dictionaries and grammars, and I am on my last sheet of +paper. What I shall do, the two remaining days, I cannot +divine. Our meals were amusing for a while. We have but +three knives and four glasses; and the Belgian, having cut his +plate in two on the first day, has eaten since from the wash-bowl. +The salt is in a brown paper, the vinegar in a shell; and the +meats, to be kept warm during their passage by water, are +brought in the black utensils in which they are cooked. Our +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_202" id="Page_202">202</a></span> +tablecloth appeared to-day of all the colors of the rainbow. We sat +down to breakfast with a general cry of horror. Still, with +youth and good spirits, we manage to be more contented than +one would expect; and our lively discussions of the spot on the +quay where the table shall be laid, and the noise of our dinners <i>en +plein air</i>, would convince the spectator that we were a very merry +and sufficiently happy company.</p> + +<p>I like my companions, on the whole, very much. The surgeon +has been in Canada and the west of New York, and we have +travelled the same routes, and made in several instances, the +same acquaintances. He has been in almost every part of the +world also, and his descriptions are very graphic and sensible. +The Belgian talks of his new king Leopold, the Sicilians of the +German universities; and when I have exhausted all they can tell +me, I turn to our Parisians, whom I find I have met all last +winter without noticing them, at the parties; and we discuss the +belles, and the different members of the <i>beau monde</i>, with all the +touching air and tone of exiles from paradise. In a case of +desperate ennui, wearied with studying and talking, the sea wall +is a delightful lounge, and the blue Mediterranean plays the witch +to the indolent fancy, and beguiles it well. I have never seen +such a beautiful sheet of water. The color is peculiarly rich and +clear, like an intensely blue sky, heaving into waves. I do not +find the often-repeated description of its loveliness exaggerated.</p> + +<p>Our seven days expire to-morrow, and we are preparing to eat +our last dinner in the lazaretto with great glee. A temporary +table is already laid upon the quay, and two strips of board raised +upon some ingenious contrivance, I can not well say what, and +covered with all the private and public napkins that retained any +portion of their maiden whiteness. Our knives are reduced to +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_203" id="Page_203">203</a></span> +two, one having disappeared unaccountably; but the deficiency +is partially remedied. The surgeon has "whittled" a +pine knot, which floated in upon the tide, into a distant imitation; +and one of the company has produced a delicate dagger, that +looks very like a keepsake from a lady; and, by the reluctant +manner in which it was put to service, the profanation cost his +sentiment an effort. Its white handle and silver sheath lie across +a plate, abridged of its proportions by a very formidable segment. +There was no disguising the poverty of the brown paper that +contained the salt. It was too necessary to be made an "aside," +and lies plump in the middle of the table. I fear there has been +more fun in the preparation than we shall feel in eating the +dinner when it arrives. The Belgian stands on the wall, +watching all the boats from town; but they pass off down the +harbor, one after another, and we are destined to keep our +appetites to a late hour. Their detestable cookery needs the +"sauce of hunger."</p> + +<p>The Belgian's hat waves in the air, and the commissary's boat +must be in sight. As we get off at six o'clock to-morrow +morning, my portfolio shuts till I find another resting place, +probably Genoa. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_204" id="Page_204"></a></span></p> + +<h3>LETTER XXVI.</h3> + +<p class="ch_sum"> +SHORE OF THE MEDITERRANEAN—NICE—FUNERAL SERVICES OF +MARIA THERESA, ARCHDUCHESS OF AUSTRIA—PRINCIPALITY OF +MONACO—ROAD TO GENOA—SARDINIA—PRISON OF THE POPE—HOUSE +OF COLUMBUS—GENOA.</p> + +<p>The health-magistrate arrived at an early hour, on the morning +of our departure from the lazaretto of Villa Franca. He was +accompanied by a physician, who was to direct the fumigation. +The iron pot was placed in the centre of the chamber, our clothes +were spread out upon the beds, and the windows shut. The +<i>chlorin</i> soon filled the room, and its detestable odor became so +intolerable that we forced the door, and rushed past the sentinel +into the open air, nearly suffocated. This farce over, we were +permitted to embark, and, rounding the point, put into Nice.</p> + +<p>The Mediterranean curves gracefully into the crescented shore +of this lovely bay, and the high hills lean away from the skirts of +the town in one unbroken slope of cultivation to the top. Large, +handsome buildings face you on the long quay, as you approach; +and white chimneys, and half-concealed parts of country-houses +and suburban villas, appear through the olive and orange trees +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_205" id="Page_205">205</a></span> +with which the whole amphitheatre is covered. We landed amid +a crowd of half-naked idlers, and were soon at a hotel, where we +ordered the best breakfast the town would afford, and sat down +once more to clean cloths and unrepulsive food.</p> + +<p>As we rose from the table, a note, edged with black, and +sealed and enveloped with considerable circumstance, was put +into my hand by the master of the hotel. It was an invitation +from the governor to attend a funeral service, to be performed in +the cathedral that day, at ten o'clock, for the "late Queen-mother, +Maria Theresa, Archduchess of Austria." Wondering +not a little how I came by the honor, I joined the crowd flocking +from all parts of the town to see the ceremony. The central +door was guarded by a file of Sardinian soldiers; and, presenting +my invitation to the officer on duty, I was handed over to the +master of ceremonies, and shown to an excellent seat in the +centre of the church. The windows were darkened, and the +candles of the altar not yet lit; and, by the indistinct light that +came in through the door, I could distinguish nothing clearly. +A little silver bell tinkled presently from one of the side-chapels, +and boys dressed in white appeared, with long tapers, and the +house was soon splendidly illuminated. I found myself in the +midst of a crowd of four or five hundred ladies, all in deep +mourning. The church was hung from the floor to the roof in +black cloth, ornamented gorgeously with silver; and, under the +large dome, which occupied half the ceiling, was raised a +pyramidal altar, with tripods supporting chalices for incense at +the four corners, a walk round the lower base for the priests, and +something in the centre, surrounded with a blaze of light, +representing figures weeping over a tomb. The organ commenced +pealing, there was a single beat on the drum, and a +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_206" id="Page_206">206</a></span> +procession entered. It was composed of the nobility of Nice, +and the military and civil officers, all in uniform and court +dresses. The gold and silver flashing in the light, the tall +plumes of the Sardinian soldiery below, the solemn music, and +the moving of the censers from the four corners of the altar, +produced a very impressive effect. As soon as the procession +had quite entered, the fire was kindled in the four chalices; and, +as the white smoke rolled up to the roof, an anthem commenced +with the full power of the organ. The singing was admirable, +and there was one female voice in the choir, of singular power +and sweetness.</p> + +<p>The remainder of the service was the usual ceremonies of the +Catholic church, and I amused myself with observing the people +about me. It was little like a scene of mourning. The officers +gradually edged in between the seats, and every woman with the +least pretension to prettiness was engaged in anything but her +prayers for the soul of the late Archduchess. Some of these, the +very young girls, were pretty; and the women, of thirty-five or +forty apparently, were fine-looking; but, except a decided air of +style and rank, the fairly grown-up belles seemed to me of very +small attraction.</p> + +<p>I saw little else in Nice to interest me. I wandered about +with my friend the surgeon, laughing at the ridiculous figures and +villainous uniforms of the Sardinian infantry, and repelling the +beggars, who radiated to us from every corner; and, having +traversed the terrace of a mile on the tops of the houses next the +sea, unravelled all the lanes of the old town, and admired all the +splendor of the new, we dined and got early to bed, anxious to +sleep once more between sheets, and prepare for an early start on +the following morning.</p> + +<hr class="l15" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_207" id="Page_207">207</a></span></p> + +<p>We were on the road to Genoa with the first gray of the dawn: +the surgeon, a French officer, and myself, three passengers of +a courier barouche. We were climbing up mountains and sliding +down with locked wheels for several hours, by a road edging on +precipices, and overhung by tremendous rocks, and, descending at +last to the sea-level, we entered <i>Mentone</i>, a town of the little +principality of <i>Monaco</i>. Having paid our twenty sous tribute to +this prince of a territory not larger than a Kentucky farm, we +were suffered to cross his borders once more into Sardinia, having +posted through a whole State in less than half an hour.</p> + +<p>It is impossible to conceive a route of more grandeur than the +famous road along the Mediterranean from Nice to Genoa. It is +near a hundred and fifty miles, over the edges of mountains +bordering the sea for the whole distance. The road is cut into +the sides of the precipice, often hundreds of feet perpendicular +above the surf, descending sometimes into the ravines formed by +the numerous rivers that cut their way to the sea, and mounting +immediately again to the loftiest summits. It is a dizzy business, +from beginning to end. There is no parapet, usually, and there +are thousands of places where half a "shie" by a timid horse, +would drop you at once some hundred fathoms upon rocks wet by +the spray of every sea that breaks upon the shore. The loveliest +little nests of valleys lie between that can be conceived. You +will see a green spot, miles below you in turning the face of a +rock; and right in the midst, like a handful of plaster models on +a carpet, a cluster of houses, lying quietly in the warm southern +exposure, embosomed in everything refreshing to the eye, the +mountain sides cultivated in a large circle around, and the ruins +of an old castle to a certainty on the eminence above. You +descend and descend, and wind into the curves of the shore, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_208" id="Page_208">208</a></span> +losing and regaining sight of it constantly, till, entering a gate on +the sea-level, you find yourself in a filthy, narrow, half-whitewashed +town, with a population of beggars, priests, and soldiers; +not a respectable citizen to be seen from one end to the other, +nor a clean woman, nor a decent house. It is so, all through +Sardinia. The towns from a distance lie in the most exquisitely-chosen +spots possible. A river comes down from the hills and +washes the wall; the uplands above are always of the very +choicest shelter and exposure. You would think man and +nature had conspired to complete its convenience and beauty; +yet, within, all is misery, dirt, and superstition. Every corner +has a cross—every bench a priest, idling in the sun—every door +a picture of the Virgin. You are delighted to emerge once +more, and get up a mountain to the fresh air.</p> + +<p>As we got farther on toward Genoa, the valleys became longer +by the sea, and the road ran through gardens, down to the very +beach, of great richness and beauty. It was new to me to travel +for hours among groves of orange and lemon trees, laden with +both fruit and flower, the ground beneath covered with the +windfalls, like an American apple-orchard. I never saw such a +profusion of fruit. The trees were breaking under the rich +yellow clusters. Among other things, there were hundreds of +tall palms, spreading out their broad fans in the sun, apparently +perfectly strong and at home under this warm sky. They are +cultivated as ornaments for the churches on sacred days.</p> + +<p>I caught some half dozen views on the way that I shall never +get out of my memory. At one place particularly, I think near +Fenale, we ran round the corner of a precipice by a road cut +right into the face of a rock, two hundred feet at least above the +sea; and a long view burst upon us at once of a sweet green +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_209" id="Page_209">209</a></span> +valley, stretching back into the mountains as far as the eye could +go, with three or four small towns, with their white churches, just +checkering the broad sweeps of verdure, a rapid river winding +through its bosom, and a back ground of the Piedmontese Alps, +with clouds half-way up their sides, and snow glittering in the sun +on their summits. Language cannot describe these scenes. It is +but a repetition of epithets to attempt it. You must come and +see them to feel how much one loses to live always at home, and +<i>read</i> of such things only.</p> + +<p>The <i>courier</i> pointed out to us the place in which Napoleon +imprisoned the Pope of Rome—a low house, surrounded with a +wall close upon the sea—and the house a few miles from Genoa, +believed to have been that of Columbus.</p> + +<hr class="l15" /> + +<p>We entered Genoa an hour after sunrise, by a noble gate, +placed at the western extremity of the crescented harbor. +Thence to the centre of the city was one continued succession +of sumptuous palaces. We drove rapidly along the smooth, +beautifully paved streets, and my astonishment was unbroken +till we were set down at the hotel. Congratulating ourselves on +the hindrances which had conspired to bring us here against our +will, we took coffee, and went to bed for a few hours, fatigued +with a journey more wearisome to the body than the mind.</p> + +<hr class="l15" /> + +<p>I have spent two days in merely wandering about Genoa, +looking at the exterior of the city. It is a group of hills, piled +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_210" id="Page_210">210</a></span> +with princely palaces. I scarce know how to commence a +description of it. If there were but one of these splendid +edifices, or if I could isolate a single palace, and describe it to +you minutely, it would be easy to convey an impression of the +surprise and pleasure of a stranger in Genoa. The whole city, to +use the expression of a French guide-book, "<i>respire la magnificence</i>"—breathes +of splendor! The grand street, in which +most of the palaces stand, winds around the foot of a high hill; +and the gardens and terraces are piled back, with palaces above +them; and gardens, and terraces, and palaces still above these; +forming, wherever you can catch a vista, the most exquisite rising +perspective. On the summit of this hill stands the noble fortress +of St. George; and behind it a lovely open garden, just now alive +with millions of roses, a fountain playing into a deep oval basin in +the centre, and a view beneath and beyond of a broad winding +valley, covered with the country villas of the nobility and gentry, +and blooming with all the luxuriant vegetation of a southern +clime.</p> + +<p>My window looks out upon the bay, across which I see the +palace of <i>Andria Doria</i>, the great winner of the best glory of the +Genoese; and just under me floats an American flag, at the peak +of a Baltimore schooner, that sails to-morrow morning for the +United States. I must close my letter, to send by her. I shall +remain in Genoa a week, and will write you of its splendor more +minutely. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_211" id="Page_211"></a></span></p> + +<h3>LETTER XXVII.</h3> + +<p class="ch_sum"> +FLORENCE—THE GALLERY—THE VENUS DE MEDICIS—THE TRIBUNE—THE +FORNARINA—THE CASCINE—AN ITALIAN FESTA—MADAME +CATALANI.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Florence.</span>—It is among the pleasantest things in this very +pleasant world, to find oneself for the first time in a famous city. +We sallied from the hotel this morning an hour after our arrival, +and stopped at the first corner to debate where we should go. I +could not help smiling at the magnificence of the alternatives. +"To the Gallery, of course," said I, "to see the Venus de Medicis." +"To Santa Croce," said one, "to see the tombs of Michael +Angelo, and Alfieri, and Machiavelli." "To the Palazzo Pitti," +said another, "the Grand Duke's palace, and the choicest collection +of pictures in the world." The embarrassment alone was +quite a sensation.</p> + +<p>The Venus carried the day. We crossed the Piazza de +Granduca, and inquired for the gallery. A fine court was shown +us, opening out from the square, around the three sides of which +stood a fine uniform structure, with a colonnade, the lower story +occupied by shops and crowded with people. We mounted a +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_212" id="Page_212">212</a></span> +broad staircase, and requested of the soldier at the door to be +directed to the presence of the Venus, without delay. Passing +through one of the long wings of the gallery, without even a +glance at the statues, pictures, and bronzes that lined the walls, +we arrived at the door of a cabinet, and, putting aside the large +crimson curtain at the entrance, stood before the enchantress. I +must defer a description of her. We spent an hour there, but, +except that her divine beauty filled and satisfied my eye, as +nothing else ever did, and that the statue is as unlike a thing to +the casts one sees of it as one thing could well be unlike another, +I made no criticism. There is an atmosphere of fame and +circumstantial interest about the Venus, which bewilders the +fancy almost as much as her loveliness does the eye. She has +been gazed upon and admired by troops of pilgrims, each of +whom it were worth half a life to have met at her pedestal. The +painters, the poets, the talent and beauty, that have come there +from every country under the sun, and the single feeling of love +and admiration that she has breathed alike into all, consecrate +her mere presence as a place for revery and speculation. Childe +Harold has been here, I thought, and Shelley and Wordsworth +and Moore; and, farther removed from our sympathies, but +interesting still, the poets and sculptors of another age, Michael +Angelo and Alfieri, the men of genius of all nations and times; +and, to stand in the same spot, and experience the same feeling +with them, is an imaginative pleasure, it is true, but as truly a +deep and real one. Exceeding, as the Venus does beyond all +competition, every image of loveliness painted or sculptured that +one has ever before seen, the fancy leaves the eye gazing upon it, +and busies itself irresistibly with its pregnant atmosphere of +recollections. At least I found it so, and I must go there again +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_213" id="Page_213">213</a></span> +and again, before I can look at the marble separately, and with a +merely admiring attention.</p> + +<hr class="l15" /> + +<p>Three or four days have stolen away, I scarce know how. I +have seen but one or two things, yet have felt so unequal to the +description, that but for my promise I should never write a line +about them. Really, to sit down and gaze into one of Titian's +faces for an hour, and then to go away and dream of putting into +language its color and expression, seems to me little short of +superlative madness. I only wonder at the divine faculty of +sight. The draught of pleasure seems to me immortal, and the +eye the only Ganymede that can carry the cup steadily to the +mind. How shall I begin to give you an idea of the Fornarina? +What can I tell you of the St. John in the desert, +that can afford you a glimpse, even, of Raphael's inspired +creations?</p> + +<p>The <i>Tribune</i> is the name of a small octagonal cabinet in the +gallery, devoted to the masterpieces of the collection. There are +five statues, of which one is the Venus de Medicis; and a dozen +or twenty pictures, of which I have only seen as yet Titian's two +Venuses, and Raphael's St. John and Fornarina. People walk +through the other parts of the gallery, and pause here and there +a moment before a painting or a statue; but in the Tribune they +sit down, and you may wait hours before a chair is vacated, or +often before the occupant shows a sign of life. Everybody seems +entranced there. They get before a picture, and bury their eyes +in it, as if it had turned them to stone. After the Venus, the +Fornarina strikes me most forcibly, and I have stood and gazed +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_214" id="Page_214">214</a></span> +at it till my limbs were numb with the motionless posture. +There is no affectation in this. I saw an English girl yesterday +gazing at the St. John. She was a flighty, coquettish-looking +creature, and I had felt that the spirit of the place was profaned +by the way she sailed into the room. She sat down, with half a +glance at the Venus, and began to look at this picture. It is a +glorious thing, to be sure, a youth of apparently seventeen, with +a leopard-skin about his loins, in the very pride of maturing manliness +and beauty. The expression of the face is all human, but +wrought to the very limit of celestial enthusiasm. The wonderful +richness of the coloring, the exquisite ripe fulness of the limbs, +the passionate devotion of the kindling features, combine to make +it the faultless ideal of a perfect human being in youth. I had +quite forgotten the intruder, for an hour. Quite a different picture +had absorbed all my attention. The entrance of some one +disturbed me, and as I looked around I caught a glance of my +coquette, sitting with her hands awkwardly clasped over her guide-book, +her mouth open, and the lower jaw hanging down with a +ludicrous expression of unconsciousness and astonished admiration. +She was evidently unaware of everything in the world except the +form before her, and a more absorbed and sincere wonder I +never witnessed.</p> + +<p>I have been enjoying all day an Italian Festa. The Florentines +have a pleasant custom of celebrating this particular festival, +Ascension-day, in the open air; breakfasting, dining, and dancing +under the superb trees of the Cascine. This is, by the way, +quite the loveliest public pleasure-ground I ever saw—a wood of +three miles in circumference, lying on the banks of the Arno, +just below the town; not, like most European promenades, a +bare field of clay or ground, set out with stunted trees, and cut +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_215" id="Page_215">215</a></span> +into rectangular walks, or without a secluded spot or an +untrodden blade of grass; but full of sward-paths, green and +embowered, the underbrush growing wild and luxuriant between; +ivy and vines of all descriptions hanging from the limbs, and +winding about every trunk; and here and there a splendid +opening of velvet grass for half a mile, with an ornamental +temple in the centre, and beautiful contrivances of perspective +in every direction. I have been not a little surprised with the +enchantment of so public a place. You step into the woods +from the very pavement of one of the most populous streets in +Florence; from dust and noise and a crowd of busy people to +scenes where Boccacio might have fitly laid his "hundred tales +of love." The river skirts the Cascine on one side, and the +extensive grounds of a young Russian nobleman's villa on the +other; and here at sunset come all the world to walk and +drive, and on festas like this, to encamp, and keep holy-day +under the trees. The whole place is more like a half-redeemed +wild-wood in America, than a public promenade in +Europe.</p> + +<p>It is the custom, I am told, for the Grand Duke and the nobles +of Tuscany to join in this festival, and breakfast in the open air +with the people. The late death of the young and beautiful +Grand-Duchess has prevented it this year, and the merry-makings +are diminished of one half their interest. I should not have +imagined it, however, without the information. I took a long +stroll among the tents this morning, with two ladies from Albany, +old friends, whom I have encountered accidentally in Florence. +The scenes were peculiar and perfectly Italian. Everything was +done fantastically and tastefully. The tables were set about the +knolls, the bonnets and shawls hung upon the trees, and the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_216" id="Page_216">216</a></span> +dark-eyed men and girls, with their expressive faces full of +enjoyment, leaned around upon the grass, with the children +playing among them, in innumerable little parties, dispersed as if +it had been managed by a painter. At every few steps a long +embowered alley stretched off to the right or left, with strolling +groups scattered as far as the eye could see under the trees, the +red ribands and bright colored costumes contrasting gayly with +the foliage of every tint, from the dusky leaf of the olive to the +bright soft green of the acacia. Wherever there was a circular +opening there were tents just in the edges of the wood, the white +festoons of the cloth hung from the limbs, and tables spread +under them, with their antique-looking Tuscan pitchers wreathed +with vines, and tables spread with broad green leaves, making the +prettiest cool covering that could be conceived. I have not +come up to the reality in this description, and yet, on reading +it, it sounds half a fiction. One must be here to feel how +little language can convey an idea of this "garden of the +world."</p> + +<p>The evening was the fashionable hour, and, with the addition +of Mr. Greenough, the sculptor, to our party, we drove to the +Cascine about an hour before sunset to see the equipages, and +enjoy the close of the festival. The drives intersect these +beautiful grounds irregularly in every direction, and the spectacle +was even more brilliant than in the morning. The nobility and +the gay world of Florence flew past us, in their showy carriages +of every description, the distinguished occupants differing in but +one respect from well-bred people of other countries—<i>they looked +happy</i>. If I had been lying on the grass, an Italian peasant, +with my kinsmen and friends, I should not have felt that among +the hundreds who were rolling past me, richer and better born. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_217" id="Page_217">217</a></span> +there was one face that looked on me contemptuously or condescendingly. +I was very much struck with the universal air of +enjoyment and natural exhilaration. One scarce felt like a +stranger in such a happy-looking crowd.</p> + +<p>Near the centre of the grounds is an open space, where it is +the custom for people to stop in driving to exchange courtesies +with their friends. It is a kind of fashionable open air <i>soirée</i>. +Every evening you may see from fifty to a hundred carriages at a +time, moving about in this little square in the midst of the +woods, and drawing up side by side, one after another, for +conversation. Gentlemen come ordinarily on horseback, and +pass round from carriage to carriage, with their hats off, talking +gayly with the ladies within. There could not be a more +brilliant scene, and there never was a more delightful custom. +It keeps alive the intercourse in the summer months, when there +are no parties, and it gives a stranger an opportunity of seeing +the lovely and the distinguished without the difficulty and +restraint of an introduction to society. I wish some of these +better habits of Europe were imitated in our country as readily +as worse ones.</p> + +<p>After threading the embowered roads of the Cascine for an +hour, and gazing with constant delight at the thousand pictures +of beauty and happiness that met us at every turn, we came +back and mingled in the gay throng of carriages at the centre. +The <i>valet</i> of our lady-friends knew everybody, and, taking a +convenient stand, we amused ourselves for an hour, gazing at +them as they were named in passing. Among others, several of +the Bonaparte family went by in a splendid barouche; and a +heavy carriage, with a showy, tasselled hammer-cloth, and +servants in dashy liveries, stopped just at our side, containing +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_218" id="Page_218">218</a></span> +Madame Catalani, the celebrated singer. She has a fine face +yet, with large expressive features, and dark, handsome eyes. +Her daughter was with her, but she has none of her mother's +pretensions to good looks. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_219" id="Page_219"></a></span></p> + +<h3>LETTER XXVIII.</h3> + +<p class="ch_sum"> +THE PITTI PALACE—TITIAN'S BELLA—AN IMPROVISATRICE—VIEW +FROM A WINDOW—ANNUAL EXPENSE OF RESIDENCE AT +FLORENCE.</p> + +<p>I have got into the "back-stairs interest," as the politicians +say, and to-day I wound up the staircase of the <i>Pitti Palace</i>, and +spent an hour or two in its glorious halls with the younger +Greenough, without the insufferable and usually inevitable annoyance +of a <i>cicerone</i>. You will not of course, expect a regular +description of such a vast labyrinth of splendor. I could not +give it to you even if I had been there the hundred times that I +intend to go, if I live long enough in Florence. In other +galleries you see merely the Arts, here you are dazzled with the +renewed and costly magnificence of a royal palace. The floors +and ceilings and furniture, each particular part of which it must +have cost the education of a life to accomplish, bewilder you out +of yourself, quite; and, till you can tread on a matchless pavement +or imitated mosaic, and lay your hat on a table of inlaid +gems, and sit on a sofa wrought with you know not what delicate +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_220" id="Page_220">220</a></span> +and curious workmanship, without nervousness or compunction, +you are not in a state to appreciate the pictures upon the walls +with judgment or pleasure.</p> + +<p>I saw but one thing well—Titian's <span class="smcap">Bella</span>, as the Florentines +call it. There are two famous Venuses by the same master, as +you know, in the other gallery, hanging over the Venus de +Medicis—full-length figures reclining upon couches, one of them +usually called Titian's mistress. The <i>Bella</i> in the Pitti gallery, +is a half-length portrait, dressed to the shoulders, and a different +kind of picture altogether. The others are voluptuous, full-grown +women. This represents a young girl of perhaps seventeen; +and if the frame in which it hangs were a window, and the +loveliest creature that ever trod the floors of a palace stood +looking out upon you, in the open air, she could not seem more +real, or give you a stronger feeling of the presence of exquisite, +breathing, human beauty. The face has no particular character. +It is the look with which a girl would walk to the casement in a +mood of listless happiness, and gaze out, she scarce knew why. +You feel that it is the habitual expression. Yet, with all its +subdued quiet and sweetness, it is a countenance beneath which +evidently sleeps warm and measureless passion, capacities for +loving and enduring and resenting everything that makes up a +character to revere and adore. I do not know how a picture can +express so much—but it does express all this, and eloquently +too.</p> + +<p>In a fresco on the ceiling of one of the private chambers, is a +portrait of the late lamented Grand-duchess. On the mantelpiece +in the Duke's cabinet also is a beautiful marble bust of her. It +is a face and head corresponding perfectly to the character given +her by common report, full of nobleness and kindness. The +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_221" id="Page_221">221</a></span> +Duke, who loved her with a devotion rarely found in marriages of +state, is inconsolable since her death, and has shut himself from +all society. He hardly slept during her illness, watching by her +bedside constantly. She was a religious enthusiast, and her +health is said to have been first impaired by too rigid an adherence +to the fasts of the church, and self-inflicted penance. The +Florentines talk of her still, and she appears to have been unusually +loved and honored.</p> + +<hr class="l15" /> + +<p>I have just returned from hearing an <i>improvisatrice</i>. At a +party last night I met an Italian gentleman, who talked very +enthusiastically of a lady of Florence, celebrated for her talent +of improvisation. She was to give a private exhibition to her +friends the next day at twelve, and he offered politely to introduce +me. He called this morning, and we went together.</p> + +<p>Some thirty or forty people were assembled in a handsome +room, darkened tastefully by heavy curtains. They were sitting +in perfect silence when we entered, all gazing intently on the improvisatrice, +a lady of some forty or fifty years, of a fine countenance, +and dressed in deep mourning. She rose to receive us; +and my friend introducing me, to my infinite dismay, as an <i>improvisatore +Americano</i>, she gave me a seat on the sofa at her +right hand, an honor I had not Italian enough to decline. I +regretted it the less that it gave me an opportunity of observing +the effects of the "fine phrensy," a pleasure I should otherwise +certainly have lost through the darkness of the room.</p> + +<p>We were sitting in profound silence, the head of the improvisatrice +bent down upon her breast, and her hands clasped over +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_222" id="Page_222">222</a></span> +her lap, when she suddenly raised herself, and with both hands +extended, commenced in a thrilling voice, "<i>Patria!</i>" Some +particular passage of Florentine history had been given her by +one of the company, and we had interrupted her in the midst of +her conception. She went on with astonishing fluency, in +smooth harmonious rhyme, without the hesitation of a breath, for +half an hour. My knowledge of the language was too imperfect +to judge of the finish of the style, but the Italians present were +quite carried away with their enthusiasm. There was an improvisatore +in company, said to be the second in Italy; a young +man, of perhaps twenty-five, with a face that struck me as the +very <i>beau ideal</i> of genius. His large expressive eyes kindled as +the poetess went on, and the changes of his countenance soon +attracted the attention of the company. She closed and sunk +back upon her seat, quite exhausted; and the poet, looking +round for sympathy, loaded her with praises in the peculiarly +beautiful epithets of the Italian language. I regarded her more +closely as she sat by me. Her profile was beautiful; and her +mouth, which at the first glance had exhibited marks of age, was +curled by her excitement into a firm, animated curve, which +restored twenty years at least by its expression.</p> + +<p>After a few minutes one of the company went out of the room, +and wrote upon a sheet of paper the last words of every line +for a sonnet; and a gentleman who had remained within, gave a +subject to fill it up. She took the paper, and looking at it a moment +or two, repeated the sonnet as fluently as if it had been +written out before her. Several other subjects were then given +her, and she filled the same sonnet with the same terminations. +It was wonderful. I could not conceive of such facility. After +she had satisfied them with this, she turned to me and said, that +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_223" id="Page_223">223</a></span> +in compliment to the American improvisatore she would give an +ode upon America. To disclaim the character and the honor +would have been both difficult and embarrassing even for one +who knew the language better than I, so I bowed and submitted. +She began with the discovery of Columbus, claimed him as her +countryman; and with some poetical fancies about the wild +woods and the Indians, mingled up Montezuma and Washington +rather promiscuously, and closed with a really beautiful apostrophe +to liberty. My acknowledgments were fortunately lost +in the general murmur.</p> + +<p>A tragedy succeeded, in which she sustained four characters. +This, by the working of her forehead and the agitation of her +breast, gave her more trouble, but her fluency was unimpeded; +and when she closed, the company was in raptures. Her gestures +were more passionate in this performance, but, even with +my imperfect knowledge of the language, they always seemed +called for and in taste. Her friends rose as she sunk back on +the sofa, gathered round her, and took her hands, overwhelming +her with praises. It was a very exciting scene altogether, and I +went away with new ideas of poetical power and enthusiasm.</p> + +<hr class="l15" /> + +<p>One lodges like a prince in Florence, and pays like a beggar. +For the information of artists and scholars desirous to come +abroad, to whom exact knowledge on the subject is important, I +will give you the inventory and cost of my whereabout.</p> + +<p>I sit at this moment in a window of what was formerly the +archbishop's palace—a noble old edifice, with vast staircases and +resounding arches, and a hall in which you might put a dozen of +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_224" id="Page_224">224</a></span> +the modern brick houses of our country. My chamber is as +large as a ball-room, on the second story, looking out upon the +garden belonging to the house, which extends to the eastern wall +of the city. Beyond this lies one of the sweetest views in the +world—the ascending amphitheatre of hills, in whose lap lies +Florence, with the tall eminence of <i>Fiesolé</i> in the centre, crowned +with the monastery in which Milton passed six weeks, while +gathering scenery for his Paradise. I can almost count the +panes of glass in the windows of the bard's room; and, between +the fine old building and my eye, on the slope of the hill, lie +thirty or forty splendid villas, half-buried in trees (Madame +Catalani's among them), piled one above another on the steep +ascent, with their columns and porticoes, as if they were mock +temples in a vast terraced garden. I do not think there is +a window in Italy that commands more points of beauty. Cole, +the American landscape painter, who occupied the room before +me, took a sketch from it. For neighbors, the Neapolitan ambassador +lives on the same floor, the two Greenoughs in the +ground-rooms below, and the palace of one of the wealthiest +nobles of Florence overlooks the garden, with a front of eighty-five +windows, from which you are at liberty to select any two or +three, and imagine the most celebrated beauty of Tuscany behind +the crimson curtains—the daughter of this same noble bearing +that reputation. She was pointed out to me at the Opera a +night or two since, and I have seen as famous women with less +pretensions.</p> + +<p>For the interior, my furniture is not quite upon the same +scale, but I have a clean snow-white bed, a calico-covered sofa, +chairs and tables enough, and pictures three deep from the wall +to the floor. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_225" id="Page_225">225</a></span></p> + +<p>For all this, and the liberty of the episcopal garden, I pay +<i>three dollars a month</i>! A dollar more is charged for lamps, +boots, and service, and a dark-eyed landlady of thirty-five +mends my gloves, and pays me two visits a day—items not mentioned +in the bill. Then for the feeding, an excellent breakfast +of coffee and toast is brought me for six cents; and, without +wine, one may dine heartily at a fashionable restaurant for twelve +cents, and with wine, quite magnificently for twenty-five. Exclusive +of postage and pleasures, this is all one is called upon to +spend in Florence. Three hundred dollars a year would fairly +and largely cover the expenses of a man living at this rate; and +a man who would not be willing to live half as well for the sake +of his art, does not deserve to see Italy. I have stated these +unsentimental particulars, because it is a kind of information I +believe much wanted. I should have come to Italy years ago if +I had known as much, and I am sure there are young men in our +country, dreaming of this paradise of art in half despair, who will +thank me for it, and take up at once "the pilgrim's sandal-shoon +and scollop-shell." +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_226" id="Page_226"></a></span></p> + +<h3>LETTER XXIX.</h3> + +<p class="ch_sum"> +EXCURSION TO VENICE—AMERICAN ARTISTS—VALLEY OF FLORENCE—MOUNTAINS +OF CARRARA—TRAVELLING COMPANIONS—HIGHLAND +TAVERN—MIST AND SUNSHINE—ITALIAN VALLEYS—VIEW +OF THE ADRIATIC—BORDER OF ROMAGNA—SUBJECTS +FOR THE PENCIL—HIGHLAND ITALIANS—ROMANTIC +SCENERY—A PAINFUL OCCURRENCE—AN ITALIAN HUSBAND—A +DUTCHMAN, HIS WIFE AND CHILDREN—BOLOGNE—THE +PILGRIM—MODEL FOR A MAGDALEN.</p> + +<p>I started for Venice yesterday, in company with Mr. Alexander +and Mr. Cranch, two American artists. We had taken the +vetturino for Bologna, and at daylight we were winding up the +side of the amphitheatre of Appenines that bends over Florence, +leaving Fiesolé rising sharply on our right. The mist was creeping +up the mountain just in advance of us, retreating with a +scarcely perceptible motion to the summits, like the lift of a +heavy curtain; Florence, and its long, heavenly valley, full of +white palaces sparkling in the sun, lay below us, more like a +vision of a better world than a scene of human passion; away in +the horizon the abrupt heads of the mountains of Carrara rose +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_227" id="Page_227">227</a></span> +into the sky; and with the cool, fresh breeze of the hills, and the +excitement of the pleasant excursion before us, we were three of +as happy travellers probably as were to be met on any highway +in this garden of the world.</p> + +<p>We had six companions, and a motley crew they were—a little +effeminate Venetian, probably a tailor, with a large, noble-looking, +handsome contadina for a wife; a sputtering Dutch merchant, a +fine, little, coarse, good-natured fellow, with <i>his</i> wife, and two +very small and very disagreeable children; an Austrian corporal +in full uniform; and a fellow in a straw hat, speaking some +unknown language, and a nondescript in every respect. The +women and children, and my friends, the artists, were my +companions inside, the double dicky in front accommodating the +others. Conversation commenced with the journey. The Dutch +spoke their dissonant language to each other, and French to us, +the contadina's soft Venetian dialect broke in like a flute in a +chorus of harsh instruments, and our own hissing English added +to a mixture already sufficiently various.</p> + +<p>We were all day ascending mountains, and slept coolly under +three or four blankets at a highland tavern, on a very wild +Appenine. Our supper was gaily eaten, and our mirth served +to entertain five or six English families, whose chambers were +only separated from the rough raftered dining hall by double +curtains. It was pleasant to hear the children and nurses +speaking English unseen. The contrast made us realize forcibly +the eminently foreign scene about us. The next morning, after +travelling two or three hours in a thick, drizzling mist, we +descended a sharp hill, and emerged at its foot into a sunshine so +sudden and clear, that it seemed almost as if the night had burst +into mid-day in a moment. We had come out of a black cloud. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_228" id="Page_228">228</a></span> +The mountain behind us was capped with it to the summit. +Beneath us lay a map of a hundred valleys, all bathed and +glowing in unclouded light, and on the limit of the horizon, far +off as the eye could span, lay a long sparkling line of water, like +a silver frame around the landscape. It was our first view of the +<i>Adriatic</i>. We looked at it with the singular and indefinable +emotion with which one always sees a celebrated <i>water</i> for the +first time—a sensation, it seems to me, which is like that of no +other addition to our knowledge. The Mediterranean at Marseilles, +the Arno at Florence, the Seine at Paris, affected me in +the same way. Explain it who will, or can!</p> + +<p>An hour after, we reached the border of <i>Romagna</i>, the +dominions of the Pope running up thus far into the Appenines. +Here our trunks were taken off and searched more minutely. +The little village was full of the dark-skinned, romantic-looking +Romagnese, and my two friends, seated on a wall, with a dozen +curious gazers about them, sketched the heads looking from the +old stone windows, beggars, buildings, and scenery, in a mood of +professional contentment. Dress apart, these highland Italians +are like North American Indians—the same copper complexions, +high cheek bones, thin lips, and dead, black hair. The old +women particularly, would pass in any of our towns for full-blooded +squaws.</p> + +<p>The scenery, after this, grew of the kind "which savage Rosa +dashed"—the only landscape I ever saw <i>exactly</i> of the tints +so peculiar to Salvator's pictures. Our painters were in ecstasies +with it, and truly, the dark foliage, and blanched rocks, the wild +glens, and wind-distorted trees, gave the country the air of a +home for all the tempests and floods of a continent. The +Kaatskills are tame to it. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_229" id="Page_229">229</a></span></p> + +<p>The forenoon came on, hot and sultry, and our little republic +began to display its character. The tailor's wife was taken sick; +and fatigue, and heat, and the rough motion of the vetturino in +descending the mountains, brought on a degree of suffering which +it was painful to witness. She was a woman of really extraordinary +beauty, and dignified and modest as few women are in any +country. Her suppressed groans, her white, tremulous lips, the +tears of agony pressing thickly through her shut eyelids, and the +clenching of her sculpture-like hands, would have moved anything +but an Italian husband. The little effeminate villain +treated her as if she had been a dog. She bore everything from +him till he took her hand, which she raised faintly to intimate that +she could not rise when the carriage stopped, and threw it back +into her face with a curse. She roused, and looked at him with +a natural majesty and calmness that made my blood thrill. +"<i>Aspetta?</i>" was her only answer, as she sunk back and fainted.</p> + +<p>The Dutchman's wife was a plain, honest, affectionate creature, +bearing the humors of two heated and ill-tempered children, +with a patience we were compelled to admire. Her husband +smoked and laughed, and talked villainous French and worse +Italian, but was glad to escape to the cabriolet in the hottest of +the day, leaving his wife to her cares. The baby screamed, and +the child blubbered and fretted, and for hours the mother was a +miracle of kindness. The "drop too much," came in the shape +of a new crying fit from both children, and the poor little Dutchwoman, +quite wearied out, burst into a flood of tears, and hiccupped +her complaints in her own language, weeping unrestrainedly +for a quarter of an hour. After this she felt better, took a +gulp of wine from the black bottle, and settled herself once more +quietly and resignedly to her duties. We had certainly opened +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_230" id="Page_230">230</a></span> +one or two very fresh veins of human character, when we stopped +at the gates.</p> + +<p>There is but one hotel for American travellers in Bologna, of +course. Those who have read Rogers's Italy, will remember his +mention of "The Pilgrim," the house where the poet met Lord +Byron by appointment, and passed the evening with him which +he describes so exquisitely. We took leave of our motley friends +at the door, and our artists who had greatly admired the lovely +Venetian, parted from her with the regret of old acquaintances. +She certainly was, as they said, a splendid model for a Magdalen, +"majestical and sad," and, always in attitudes for a picture: +sleeping or waking, she afforded a succession of studies of which +they took the most enthusiastic advantage. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_231" id="Page_231"></a></span></p> + +<h3>LETTER XXX.</h3> + +<p class="ch_sum"> +EXCURSION TO VENICE CONTINUED—BRIEF DESCRIPTION OF BOLOGNA—GALLERY +OF THE FINE ARTS—RAPHAEL'S ST. CECILIA—PICTURES +OF CARRACCI—DOMENICHINOS' MADONNA DEL ROSARIO—GUIDO'S +MASSACRE OF THE INNOCENTS—THE CATHEDRAL +AND THE DUOMO—EFFECTS OF THESE PLACES OF WORSHIP, +AND THE CEREMONIES, UPON THE MIND—RESORT OF THE +ITALIAN PEASANTRY—OPEN CHURCHES—SUBTERRANEAN-CONFESSION +CHAPEL—THE FESTA—GRAND PROCESSIONS—ILLUMINATIONS—AUSTRIAN +BANDS OF MUSIC—DEPORTMENT OF THE +PEOPLE TO A STRANGER.</p> + +<p>Another evening is here, and my friends have crept to bed +with the exclamation, "how much we may live in a day." +Bologna is unlike any other city we have ever seen, in a multitude +of things. You walk all over it under arcades, sheltered on +either side from the sun, the elegance and ornament of the lines +of pillars depending on the wealth of the owner of the particular +house, but columns and arches, simple or rich, everywhere. +Imagine porticoes built on the front of every house in Philadelphia +or New York, so as to cover the sidewalks completely, and, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_232" id="Page_232">232</a></span> +down the long perspective of every street, continued lines of airy +Corinthian, or simple Doric pillars, and you may faintly conceive +the impression of the streets of Bologna. With Lord Byron's +desire to forget everything English, I do not wonder at his +selection of this foreign city for a residence, so emphatically +unlike, as it is, to everything else in the world.</p> + +<p>We inquired out the gallery after breakfast, and spent two or +three hours among the celebrated master-pieces of the <i>Carracci</i>, +and the famous painters of the Bolognese school. The collection is +small, but said to be more choice than any other in Italy. There +certainly are five or six among its forty or fifty gems, that deserve +each a pilgrimage. The pride of the place is the St. Cecilia, by +Raphael. This always beautiful personification of music, a +woman of celestial beauty, stands in the midst of a choir who +have been interrupted in their anthem by a song, issuing from a +vision of angels in a cloud from heaven. They have dropped +their instruments, broken, upon the ground, and are listening +with rapt attention, all, except the saint, with heads dropped +upon their bosoms, overcome with the glory of the revelation. +She alone, with her harp hanging loosely from her fingers, gazes +up with the most serene and cloudless rapture beaming from her +countenance, yet with a look of full and angelic comprehension, +and understanding of the melody and its divine meaning. You +feel that her beauty is mortal, for it is all woman; but you see +that, for the moment, the spirit that breathes through, and +mingles with the harmony in the sky, is seraphic and immortal. +If there ever was inspiration, out of holy writ, it touched the +pencil of Raphael.</p> + +<p>It is tedious to read descriptions of pictures. I liked everything +in the gallery. The Bolognese style of color suits my eye. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_233" id="Page_233">233</a></span> +It is rich and forcible, without startling or offending. Its +delicious mellowness of color, and vigor and triumphant power of +conception, show two separate triumphs of the art, which in the +same hand are delightful. The pictures of Ludovico Carracci +especially fired my admiration. And Domenichino, who died of +a broken heart at Rome, because his productions were neglected, +is a painter who always touches me nearly. His <i>Madonna del +Rosario</i> is crowded with beauty. Such children I never saw in +painting—the very ideals of infantile grace and innocence. It is +said of him, that, after painting his admirable frescoes in the +church of St. Andrew, at Rome, which, at the time, were +ridiculed unsparingly by the artists, he used to walk in on his +return from his studio, and gazing at them with a dejected air, +remark to his friend, that he "could not think they were <i>quite</i> +so bad—they <i>might</i> have been worse." How true it is, that, +"the root of a great name is in the dead body."</p> + +<p>Guido's celebrated picture of the "Massacre of the Innocents," +hangs just opposite the St. Cecilia. It is a powerful and painful +thing. The marvel of it to me is the simplicity with which its +wonderful effects are produced, both of expression and color. +The kneeling mother in the foreground, with her dead children +before her, is the most intense representation of agony I ever saw. +Yet the face is calm, her eyes thrown up to heaven, but her lips +undistorted, and the muscles of her face, steeped as they are in +suffering, still and natural. It is the look of a soul overwhelmed—that +has ceased to struggle because it is full. Her gaze is on +heaven, and in the abandonment of her limbs, and the deep, but +calm agony of her countenance, you see that nothing between +this and heaven can move her more. One suffers in seeing such +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_234" id="Page_234">234</a></span> +pictures. You go away exhausted, and with feelings harassed +and excited.</p> + +<p>As we returned, we passed the gates of the university. On +the walls were pasted a sonnet printed with some flourish, in +honor of <i>Camillo Rosalpina</i>, the laureate of one of the academical +classes.</p> + +<p>We visited several of the churches in the afternoon. The +cathedral and the Duomo are glorious places—both. I wish I +could convey, to minds accustomed to the diminutive size and +proportions of our churches in America, an idea of the enormous +and often almost supernatural grandeur of those in Italy. Aisles +in whose distance the figure of a man is almost lost—pillars, +whose bases you walk round in wonder, stretching into the lofty +vaults of the roof, as if they ended in the sky—arches of gigantic +dimensions, mingling and meeting with the fine tracery of a +cobweb—altars piled up on every side with gold, and marble, and +silver—private chapels ornamented with the wealth of nobles, let +into the sides, each large enough for a communion—and through +the whole extent of the interior, an unencumbered breadth of +floor, with here and there a solitary worshipper on his knees, or +prostrated on his face—figures so small in comparison with the +immense dome above them, that it seems as if, could distance +drown a prayer, they were as much lost as if they prayed under +the open sky! Without having even a leaning to the Catholic +faith, I love to haunt their churches, and I am not sure that the +religious awe of the sublime ceremonies and places of worship +does not steal upon me daily. Whenever I am heated, or +fatigued, or out of spirits, I go into the first cathedral, and sit +down for an hour. They are always dark, and cool, and quiet; +and the distant tinkling of the bell from some distant chapel and +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_235" id="Page_235">235</a></span> +the grateful odor of the incense, and the low, just audible +murmur of prayer, settles on my feelings like a mist, and softens +and soothes and refreshes me, as nothing else will. The Italian +peasantry who come to the cities to sell or bargain, pass their +noons in these cool places. You see them on their knees asleep +against a pillar, or sitting in a corner, with their heads upon their +bosoms; and, if it were as a place of retreat and silence alone, the +churches are an inestimable blessing to them. It seems to me, +that any sincere Christian, of whatever faith, would find a +pleasure in going into a sacred place and sitting down in the +heat of the day, to be quiet and devotional for an hour. It +would promote the objects of any denomination in our country, I +should think, if the churches were thus left always open.</p> + +<p>Under the cathedral of Bologna is a <i>subterranean confession-chapel</i>—as +singular and impressive a device as I ever saw. It is +dark like a cellar, the daylight faintly struggling through a +painted window above the altar, and the two solitary wax candles +giving a most ghastly intensity to the gloom. The floor is paved +with tombstones, the inscriptions and death's heads of which +you feel under your feet as you walk through. The roof is so +vaulted that every tread is reverberated endlessly in hollow +tones. All around are the confession-boxes, with the pierced +plates, at which the priest within puts his ear, worn with the lips +of penitents, and at one of the sides is a deep cave, far within +which, as in a tomb, lies a representation on limestone of our +Saviour, bleeding as he came from the cross, with the apostles, +made of the same cadaverous material, hanging over him! +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_236" id="Page_236">236</a></span></p> + +<p>We have happened, by a fortunate chance, upon an extraordinary +day in Bologna—a <i>festa</i>, that occurs but once in ten years. +We went out as usual after breakfast this morning, and found the +city had been decorated over-night in the most splendid and +singular manner. The arcades of some four or five streets in the +centre of the town were covered with rich crimson damask, the +pillars completely bound, and the arches dressed and festooned +with a degree of gorgeousness and taste as costly as it was +magnificent. The streets themselves were covered with cloths +stretched above the second stories of the houses from one side to +the other, keeping off the sun entirely, and making in each street +one long tent of a mile or more, with two lines of crimson +columns at the sides, and festoons of gauze, of different colors, +hung from window to window in every direction. It was by far +the most splendid scene I ever saw. The people were all there +in their gayest dresses, and we probably saw in the course of the +day every woman in Bologna. My friends, the painters, give it +the palm for beauty over all the cities they had seen. There was +a grand procession in the morning, and in the afternoon the +bands of the Austrian army made the round of the decorated +streets, playing most delightfully before the principal houses. In +the evening there was an illumination, and we wandered up and +down till midnight through the fairy scene, almost literally +"dazzled and drunk with beauty."</p> + +<p>The people of Bologna have a kind of earnest yet haughty +courtesy, very different from that of most of the Italians I have +seen. They bow to the stranger, as he enters the <i>café</i>; and if +they rise before him, the men raise their hats and the ladies smile +and curtsy as they go out; yet without the least familiarity +which could authorize farther approach to acquaintance. We +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_237" id="Page_237">237</a></span> +have found the officers, whom we meet at the eating-houses, +particularly courteous. There is something delightful in this +universal acknowledgment of a stranger's claims on courtesy and +kindness. I could well wish it substituted in our country, for the +surly and selfish manners of people in public-houses to each +other. There is neither loss of dignity nor committal of +acquaintance in such attentions; and the manner in which a +gentleman steps forward to assist you in any difficulty of explanation +in a foreign tongue, or sends the waiter to you if you +are neglected, or hands you the newspaper or his snuff-box, or +rises to give you room in a crowded place, takes away, from me +at least, all that painful sense of solitude and neglect one feels as +a stranger in a foreign land.</p> + +<p>We go to Ferrara to-morrow, and thence by the Po to Venice. +My letter must close for the present. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_238" id="Page_238"></a></span></p> + +<h3>LETTER XXXI.</h3> + +<p class="ch_sum"> +VENICE—THE FESTA—GONDOLIERS—WOMEN—AN ITALIAN SUNSET—THE +LANDING—PRISONS OF THE DUCAL PALACE—THE +CELLS DESCRIBED BY BYRON—APARTMENT IN WHICH PRISONERS +WERE STRANGLED—DUNGEONS UNDER THE CANAL—SECRET +GUILLOTINE—STATE CRIMINALS—BRIDGE OF SIGHS—PASSAGE +TO THE INQUISITION AND TO DEATH—CHURCH OF ST. MARC—A +NOBLEMAN IN POVERTY, ETC., ETC.</p> + +<p>You will excuse me at present from a description of Venice. +It is a matter not to be hastily undertaken. It has also been +already done a thousand times; and I have just seen a beautiful +sketch of it in the public prints of the United States. I proceed +with my letters.</p> + +<p>The Venetian <i>festa</i> is a gay affair, as you may imagine. If +not so beautiful and fanciful as the revels by moonlight, it was +more satisfactory, for we could see and be seen, those important +circumstances to one's individual share in the amusement. At +four o'clock in the afternoon, the links of the long bridge of +boats across the Giudecca were cut away, and the broad canal +left clear for a mile up and down. It was covered in a few +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_239" id="Page_239">239</a></span> +minutes with gondolas, and all the gayety and fashion of Venice +fell into the broad promenade between the city and the festal +island. I should think five hundred were quite within the number +of gondolas. You can scarcely fancy the novelty and agreeableness +of this singular promenade. It was busy work for the +eyes to the right and left, with the great proportion of beauty, +and the rapid glide of their fairy-like boats. And the <i>quietness</i> +of the thing was so delightful—no crowding, no dust, no noise +but the dash of oars and the ring of merry voices; and we sat so +luxuriously upon our deep cushions the while, threading the busy +crowd rapidly and silently, without a jar or touch of anything but +the yielding element that sustained us.</p> + +<p>Two boats soon appeared with wreaths upon their prows, and +these had won the first and second prizes at the last year's +<i>regatta</i>. The private gondolas fell away from the middle of the +canal, and left them free space for a trial of their speed. They +were the most airy things I ever saw afloat, about forty feet long, +and as slender and light as they could well be, and hold together. +Each boat had six oars, and the crews stood with their faces to +the beak of their craft; slight, but muscular men, and with a +skill and quickness at their oars which I had never conceived. I +realized the truth and the force of Cooper's inimitable description +of the race in the Bravo. The whole of his book gives you +the very air and spirit of Venice, and one thanks him constantly +for the lively interest which he has thrown over everything in +this bewitching city. The races of the rival boats to-day were +not a regular part of the <i>festa</i>, and were not regularly contested. +The gondoliers were exhibiting themselves merely, and the people +soon ceased to be interested in them.</p> + +<p>We rowed up and down till dark, following here and there the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_240" id="Page_240">240</a></span> +boats whose freights attracted us, and exclaiming every moment +at some new glimpse of beauty. There is really a surprising +proportion of loveliness in Venice. The women are all large, +probably from never walking, and other indolent habits consequent +upon want of exercise; and an oriental air, sleepy and +passionate, is characteristic of the whole race. One feels that he +has come among an entirely new class of women, and hence, probably, +the far-famed fascination of Venice to foreigners.</p> + +<p>The sunset happened to be one of those so peculiar to Italy, +and which are richer and more enchanting in Venice than in any +other part of it, from the character of its scenery. It was a sunset +without a cloud; but at the horizon the sky was dyed of a +deep orange, which softened away toward the zenith almost imperceptibly, +the whole west like a wall of burning gold. The +mingled softness and splendor of these skies is indescribable. +Everything is touched with the same hue. A mild, yellow glow +is all over the canals and buildings. The air seems filled with +glittering golden dust, and the lines of the architecture, and the +outlines of the distant islands, and the whole landscape about you +is mellowed and enriched with a new and glorious light. I have +seen one or two such sunsets in America; but there the sunsets +are bolder and clearer, and with much more sublimity—they +have rarely the voluptuous coloring of those in Italy.</p> + +<p>It was delightful to glide along over a sea of light so richly +tinted, among those graceful gondolas, with their freights of +gayety and beauty. As the glow on the sky began to fade, they +all turned their prows toward San Marc, and dropping into a +slower motion, the whole procession moved on together to the +stairs of the piazzetta; and by the time the twilight was perceptible, +the <i>cafés</i> were crowded, and the square was like one +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_241" id="Page_241">241</a></span> +great <i>féte</i>. We passed the evening in wandering up and down, +never for an instant feeling like strangers, and excited and +amused till long after midnight.</p> + +<p>After several days' delay, we received an answer this morning +from the authorities, with permission to see the bridge of sighs, +and the prisons of the ducal palace. We landed at the broad +stairs, and passing the desolate court, with its marble pillars and +statues green with damp and neglect, ascended the "giant's +steps," and found the warder waiting for us, with his enormous +keys, at the door of a private passage. At the bottom of a staircase +we entered a close gallery, from which the first range of +cells opened. The doors were broken down, and the guide holding +his torch in them for a moment in passing, showed us the +same dismal interior in each—a mere cave, in which you would +hardly think it possible to breathe, with a raised platform for a +bed, and a small hole in the front wall to admit food and what air +could find its way through from the narrow passage. There +were eight of these; and descending another flight of damp steps, +we came to a second range, differing only from the first in their +slimy dampness. These are the cells of which Lord Byron gives +a description in the notes to the fourth canto of Childe Harold. +He has transcribed, if you remember, the inscription from the +ceilings and walls of one which was occupied successively by the +victims of the Inquisition. The letters are cut rudely enough, +and must have been done entirely by feeling, as there is no possibility +of the penetration of a ray of light. I copied them with +some difficulty, forgetting that they were in print, and, comparing +them afterward with my copy of Childe Harold, I found them +exactly the same, and I refer you, therefore, to his notes.</p> + +<p>In a range of cells still below these, and almost suffocating +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_242" id="Page_242">242</a></span> +from their closeness, one was shown us in which prisoners were +strangled. The rope was passed through an iron grating of four +bars, the executioner standing outside the cell. The prisoner +within sat upon a stone, with his back to the grating, and the +cord was passed round his neck, and drawn till he was choked. +The wall of the cell was covered with blood, which had spattered +against it with some violence. The guide explained it by saying, +that owing to the narrowness of the passage the executioner had +no room to draw the cord, and to expedite his business his +assistant at the same time plunged a dagger into the neck of the +victim. The blood had flowed widely over the wall, and ran to +the floor in streams. With the darkness of the place, the difficulty +I found in breathing, and the frightful reality of the scenes +before me, I never had in my life a comparable sensation of +horror.</p> + +<p>At the end of the passage a door was walled up. It led, in the +times of the republic, to dungeons under the canal, in which the +prisoner died in eight days from his incarceration, at the farthest, +from the noisome dampness and unwholesome vapors of the +place. The guide gave us a harrowing description of the +swelling of their bodies, and the various agonies of their slow +death. I hurried away from the place with a sickness at my +heart. In returning by the same way I passed the turning, and +stumbled over a raised stone across the passage. It was the +groove of a secret guillotine. Here many of the state and +inquisition victims were put to death in the darkness of a narrow +passage, shut out even in their last moment from the light and +breath of heaven. The frame of the instrument had been taken +away; but the pits in the wall, which had sustained the axe, were +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_243" id="Page_243">243</a></span> +still there; and the sink on the other side, where the head fell, +to carry off the blood. And these shocking executions took +place directly before the cells of the other prisoners, within +twenty feet from the farthest. In a cell close to this guillotine +had been confined a state criminal for sixteen years. He was +released at last by the arrival of the French, and on coming to +the light in the square of San Marc was struck blind, and died in +a few days. In another cell we stopped to look at the attempts +of a prisoner upon its walls, interrupted, happily, by his release. +He had sawed several inches into the front wall, with some +miserable instrument, probably a nail. He had afterward +abandoned this, and had, with prodigious strength, taken up a +block from the floor; and, the guide assured us, had descended +into the cell below. It was curious to look around his pent +prison, and see the patient labor of years upon those rough walls, +and imagine the workings of the human mind in such a miserable +lapse of existence.</p> + +<p>We ascended to the light again, and the guide led us to a +massive door, with two locks, secured by heavy iron bars. It +swung open with a scream, and we mounted a winding stair, +and</p> + +<p class="blockquot"> +"Stood in Venice on the Bridge of Sighs." +</p> + +<p>Two windows of close grating looked on either side upon the +long canal below, and let in the only light to the covered passage. +It is a gloomy place within, beautifully as its light arch hangs +in the air from without. It was easy to employ the imagination +as we stood on the stone where Childe Harold had stood before +us, and conjured up in fancy the despair and agony that must +have been pressed into the last glance at light and life that had +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_244" id="Page_244">244</a></span> +been sent through those barred windows. Across this bridge the +condemned were brought to receive their sentence in the Chamber +of the <i>Ten</i>, or to be confronted with bloody inquisitors, and then +were led back over it to die. The last light that ever gladdened +their eyes came through those close bars, and the gay Giudecca in +the distance, with its lively waters covered with boats, must have +made that farewell glance to a Venetian bitter indeed. The side +next the prison is now massively walled up. We stayed, silently +musing at the windows, till the old cicerone ventured to remind +us that his time was precious.</p> + +<p>Ordering the gondola round to the stairs of the piazetta, we +strolled for the first time into the church of San Marc. The four +famous bronze horses stood with their dilated nostrils and fine +action over the porch, bringing back to us Andrea Doria, and his +threat; and as I remembered the ruined palace of the old +admiral at Genoa, and glanced at the Austrian soldier upon +guard, in the very shadow of the winged lion, I could not but +feel most impressively the moral of the contrast. The lesson +was not attractive enough, however, to keep us in a burning sun, +and we put aside the heavy folds of the drapery and entered. +How deliciously cool are these churches in Italy! We walked +slowly up toward the distant altar. An old man rose from the +base of one of the pillars, and put out his hand for charity. It +is an incident that meets one at every step, and with half a glance +at his face I passed on. I was looking at the rich mosaic on the +roof, but his features lingered in my mind. They grew upon me +still more strongly; and as I became aware of the full expression +of misery and pride upon them, I turned about to see what had +become of him. My two friends had done each the very same +thing, with the same feeling of regret, and were talking of the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_245" id="Page_245">245</a></span> +old man when I came back to them. We went to the door, and +looked all about the square, but he was no where to be seen. It +is singular that he should have made the same impression upon +all of us, of an old Venetian nobleman in poverty. Slight as +my glance was, the noble expression of sadness about his fine +white head and strong features, are still indelible in my memory. +The prophecy which Byron puts into the mouth of the condemned +Doge, is still true in every particular:—</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p>——"When the Hebrew's in thy palaces,</p> +<p>The Hun in thy high places, and the Greek</p> +<p>Walks o'er thy mart, and smiles on it for his;</p> +<p>When <i>thy patricians beg their bitter bread</i>," &c.</p> +</div> + +<p>The church of San Marc is rich to excess, and its splendid +mosaic pavement is sunk into deep pits with age and the yielding +foundations on which its heavy pile is built. Its pictures are not +so fine as those of the other churches of Venice, but its age and +historic associations make it by far the most interesting. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_246" id="Page_246"></a></span></p> + +<h3>LETTER XXXII.</h3> + +<p class="ch_sum"> +VENICE—SCENES BY MOONLIGHT—THE CANALS—THE ARMENIAN +ISLAND—THE ISLAND OF THE INSANE—IMPROVEMENTS MADE +BY NAPOLEON—SHADED WALKS—PAVILION AND ARTIFICIAL +HILL—ANTIDOTES TO SADNESS—PARTIES ON THE CANALS—NARROW +STREETS AND SMALL BRIDGES—THE RIALTO—MERCHANTS +AND IDLERS—SHELL-WORK AND JEWELRY—POETRY +AND HISTORY—GENERAL VIEW OF THE CITY—THE FRIULI +MOUNTAINS—THE SHORE OF ITALY—A SILENT PANORAMA—THE +ADRIATIC—PROMENADERS AND SITTERS, ETC.</p> + +<p>We stepped into the gondola to-night as the shadows of the +moon began to be perceptible, with orders to Giuseppe to take us +where he would. <i>Abroad in a summer's moonlight in Venice</i>, is +a line that might never be written but as the scene of a play. +You can not miss pleasure. If it were only the tracking silently +and swiftly the bosom of the broader canals lying asleep like +streets of molten silver between the marble palaces, or shooting +into the dark shadows of the narrower, with the black spirit-like +gondolas gliding past, or lying in the shelter of a low and not +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_247" id="Page_247">247</a></span> +unoccupied balcony; or did you but loiter on in search of music, +lying unperceived beneath the windows of a palace, and listening, +half asleep, to the sound of the guitar and the song of the invisible +player within; this, with the strange beauty of every building +about you, and the loveliness of the magic lights and shadows, +were enough to make a night of pleasure, even were no charm of +personal adventure to be added to the enumeration.</p> + +<p>We glided along under the Rialto, talking of Belvidera, and +Othello, and Shylock, and, entering a cross canal, cut the arched +shadow of the Bridge of Sighs, hanging like a cobweb in the air, +and shot in a moment forth to the full, ample, moonlit bosom of +the Giudecca. This is the canal that makes the harbor and +washes the stairs of San Marc. The Lido lay off at a mile's +distance across the water, and, with the moon riding over it, the +bay between us as still as the sky above, and brighter, it looked +like a long cloud pencilled like a landscape in the heavens. To +the right lay the Armenian island, which Lord Byron visited so +often, to study with the fathers at the convent; and, a little +nearer the island of the Insane—spite of its misery, asleep, with +a most heavenly calmness on the sea. You remember the +touching story of the crazed girl, who was sent here with a +broken heart, described as putting her hand through the grating +at the dash of every passing gondola, with her unvarying +and affecting "<i>Venite per me? Venite per me?</i>"</p> + +<p>At a corner of the harbor, some three quarters of a mile from +San Marc, lies an island once occupied by a convent. Napoleon +rased the buildings, and connecting it with the town by a new, +handsome street and a bridge, laid out the ground as a public +garden. We debarked at the stairs, and passed an hour in strolling +through shaded walks, filled with the gay Venetians, who +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_248" id="Page_248">248</a></span> +come to enjoy here what they find nowhere else, the smell of +grass and green leaves. There is a pavilion upon an artificial +hill in the centre, where the best lemonades and ices of Venice +are to be found; and it was surrounded to-night by merry groups, +amusing themselves with all the heart-cheering gayety of this +delightful people. The very sight of them is an antidote to +sadness.</p> + +<p>In returning to San Marc a large gondola crossed us, filled +with ladies and gentlemen, and followed by another with a band +of music. This is a common mode of making a party on the +canals, and a more agreeable one never was imagined. We +ordered the gondolier to follow at a certain distance, and spent +an hour or two just keeping within the softened sound of the +instruments. How romantic are the veriest, every-day occurrences +of this enchanting city.</p> + +<p>We have strolled to-day through most of the narrow streets +between the Rialto and the San Marc. They are, more properly, +alleys. You wind through them at sharp angles, turning constantly, +from the interruption of the canals, and crossing the +small bridges at every twenty yards. They are dark and cool; +and no hoof of any description ever passing through them, the +marble flags are always smooth and clean; and with the singular +silence, only broken by the shuffling of feet, they are pleasant +places to loiter in at noon-day, when the canals are sunny.</p> + +<p>We spent a half hour on the <i>Rialto</i>. This is the only bridge +across the grand canal, and connects the two main parts of the +city. It is, as you see by engravings, a noble span of a single +arch, built of pure white marble. You pass it, ascending the +arch by a long flight of steps to the apex, and descending again +to the opposite side. It is very broad, the centre forming a +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_249" id="Page_249">249</a></span> +street, with shops on each side, with alleys outside these, next +the parapet, usually occupied by idlers or merchants, probably +very much as in the time of Shylock. Here are exposed the cases +of shell-work and jewelry for which Venice is famous. The +variety and cheapness of these articles are surprising. The +Rialto has always been to me, as it is probably to most others, +quite the core of romantic locality. I stopped on the upper stair +of the arch, and passed my hand across my eyes to recall my +idea of it, and realize that I was there. One is disappointed, +spite of all the common sense in the world, not to meet Shylock +and Antonio and Pierre.</p> + +<p class="center">"Shylock and the Moor<br /> +And Pierre cannot be swept or worn away,"</p> + +<p>says Childe Harold; and that, indeed, is the feeling everywhere +in these romantic countries. You cannot separate them from +the characters with which poetry or history once peopled them.</p> + +<p>At sunset we mounted into the tower of San Marc, to get a +general view of the city. The gold-dust atmosphere, so common +in Italy at this hour, was all over the broad lagunes and the far +stretching city; and she lay beneath us, in the midst of a sea of +light, an island far out into the ocean, crowned with towers and +churches, and heaped up with all the splendors of architecture. +The Friuli mountains rose in the north with the deep blue dyes +of distance, breaking up the else level horizon; the shore of Italy +lay like a low line-cloud in the west; the spot where the Brenta +empties into the sea glowing in the blaze of the sunset. About us +lay the smaller islands, the suburbs of the sea-city, and all among +them, and up and down the Giudecca, and away off in the lagunes, +were sprinkled the thousand gondolas, meeting and crossing in +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_250" id="Page_250">250</a></span> +one continued and silent panorama. The Lido, with its long +wall hemmed in the bay, and beyond this lay the wide Adriatic. +The floor of San Marc's vast square was beneath, dotted over its +many-colored marbles with promenaders, its <i>cafés</i> swarmed by +the sitters outside, and its long arcades thronged. One of my +pleasantest hours in Venice was passed here. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_251" id="Page_251"></a></span></p> + +<h3>LETTER XXXIII.</h3> + +<p class="ch_sum"> +PALACES—PALAZZO GRIMANI—OLD STATUARY—MALE AND FEMALE +CHERUBS—THE BATH OF CLEOPATRA—TITIAN'S PALACE—UNFINISHED +PICTURE OF THE GREAT MASTER—HIS MAGDALEN +AND BUST—HIS DAUGHTER IN THE ARMS OF A SATYR—BEAUTIFUL +FEMALE HEADS—THE CHURCHES OF VENICE—BURIAL-PLACES +OF THE DOGES—TOMB OF CANOVA—DEPARTURE +FOR VERONA, ETC.</p> + +<p>We have passed a day in visiting palaces. There are some +eight or ten in Venice, whose galleries are still splendid. We +landed first at the stairs of the <i>Palazzo Grimani</i>, and were +received by an old family servant, who sat leaning on his knees, +and gazing idly into the canal. The court and staircase were +ornamented with statuary, that had not been moved for centuries. +In the ante-room was a fresco painting by Georgione, in which +there were two <i>female</i> cherubs, the first of that sex I ever saw +represented. They were beautifully contrasted with the two +male cherubs, who completed the picture, and reminded me +strongly of Greenough's group in sculpture. After examining +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_252" id="Page_252">252</a></span> +several rooms, tapestried and furnished in such a style as +befitted the palace of a Venetian noble, when Venice was in +her glory, we passed on to the gallery. The best picture in the +first room was a large one by Cigoli, <i>the bath of Cleopatra</i>. The +four attendants of the fair Egyptian are about her, and one is +bathing her feet from a rich vase. Her figure is rather a +voluptuous one, and her head is turned, but without alarm, to +Antony, who is just putting aside the curtain and entering the +room. It is a piece of fine coloring, rather of the Titian school, +and one of the few good pictures left by the English, who have +bought up almost all the private galleries of Venice.</p> + +<p>We stopped next at the stairs of the noble old <i>Barberigo</i> +Palace, in which Titian lived and died. We mounted the +decaying staircases, imagining the choice spirits of the great +painter's time, who had trodden them before us, and (as it was +for ages the dwelling of one of the proudest races of Venice) the +beauty and rank that had swept up and down those worn slabs of +marble on nights of revel, in the days when Venice was a paradise +of splendid pleasure. How thickly come romantic fancies +in such a place as this. We passed through halls hung with +neglected pictures to an inner room, occupied only with those of +Titian. Here he painted, and here is a picture half finished, as +he left it when he died. His famous <i>Magdalen</i>, hangs on the +wall, covered with dirt; and so, indeed, is everything in the +palace. The neglect is melancholy. On a marble table stood a +plaster bust of Titian, moulded by himself in his old age. It is +a most noble head, and it is difficult to look at it, and believe he +could have painted a picture which hangs just against it—<i>his own +daughter in the arms of a satyr</i>. There is an engraving from it +in one of the souvenirs; but instead of a satyr's head, she holds a +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_253" id="Page_253">253</a></span> +casket in her hands, which, though it does not sufficiently account +for the delight of her countenance, is an improvement upon the +original. Here, too, are several slight sketches of female heads, +by the same master. Oh how beautiful they are! There is one, +less than the size of life, which I would rather have than his +Magdalen.</p> + +<hr class="l15" /> + +<p>I have spent my last day in Venice in visiting churches. +Their splendor makes the eye ache and the imagination weary. +You would think the surplus wealth of half the empires of the +world would scarce suffice to fill them as they are. I can give +you no descriptions. The gorgeous tombs of the Doges are interesting, +and the plain black monument over Marino Faliero made +me linger. Canova's tomb is splendid; and the simple slab +under your feet in the church of the Frari, where Titian lies with +his brief epitaph, is affecting—but, though I shall remember all +these, the simplest as well as the grandest, a description would +be wearisome to all who had not seen them. This evening at +sunset I start in the post-boat for the mainland, on my way to +the place of Juliet's tomb—Verona. My friends, the painters, +are so attracted with the galleries here that they remain to copy, +and I go back alone. Take a short letter from me this time, +and expect to hear from me by the next earliest opportunity, and +more at length. Adieu. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_254" id="Page_254"></a></span></p> + +<h3>LETTER XXXIV.</h3> + +<p class="ch_sum"> +DEPARTURE FROM VENICE—A SUNSET SCENE—PADUA—SPLENDID +HOTEL—MANNERS OF THE COUNTRY—VICENZA—MIDNIGHT—LADY +RETURNING FROM A PARTY—VERONA—JULIET'S +TOMB—THE TOMB OF THE CAPULETS—THE TOMBS OF THE +SCALIGERS—TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA—A WALKING CHRONICLE—PALACE +OF THE CAPULETS—ONLY COOL PLACE IN AN +ITALIAN CITY—BANQUETING HALL OF THE CAPULETS—FACTS +AND FICTION, ETC.</p> + +<p>We pushed from the post-office stairs in a gondola with six +oars at sunset. It was melancholy to leave Venice. A hasty +farewell look, as we sped down the grand canal, at the gorgeous +palaces, even less famous than beautiful—a glance at the disappearing +Rialto, and we shot out into the Giudecca in a blaze of +sunset glory. Oh how magnificently looked Venice in that light—rising +behind us from the sea—all her superb towers and +palaces, turrets and spires, fused into gold; and the waters about +her, like a mirror of stained glass, without a ripple!</p> + +<p>An hour and a half of hard rowing brought us to the nearest +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_255" id="Page_255">255</a></span> +land. You should go to Venice to know how like a dream a +reality may be. You will find it difficult to realize, when you +smell once more the fresh earth and grass and flowers, and walk +about and see fields and mountains, that this city upon the sea +exists out of the imagination. You float to it and about it and +from it, in their light craft, so aerially, that it seems a vision.</p> + +<p>With a drive of two or three hours, half twilight, half moonlight, +we entered <i>Padua</i>. It was too late to see the portrait of +Petrarch, and I had not time to go to his tomb at Arqua, twelve +miles distant, so, musing on Livy and Galileo, to both of whom +Padua was a home, I inquired for a <i>café</i>. A new one had lately +been built in the centre of the town, quite the largest and most +thronged I ever saw. Eight or ten large, high-roofed halls were +open, and filled with tables, at which sat more beauty and fashion +than I supposed all Padua could have mustered. I walked +through one after another, without finding a seat, and was about +turning to go out, and seek a place of less pretension, when an +elderly lady, who sat with a party of seven, eating ices, rose, with +Italian courtesy, and offered me a chair at their table. I accepted +it, and made the acquaintance of eight as agreeable and polished +people as it has been my fortune to meet. We parted as if we +had known each other as many weeks as minutes. I mention it +as an instance of the manners of the country.</p> + +<p>Three hours more, through spicy fields and on a road lined +with the country-houses of the Venetian nobles, brought us to +<i>Vicenza</i>. It was past midnight, and not a soul stirring in the +bright moonlit streets. I remember it as a kind of city of the +dead. As we passed out of the opposite gate, we detained for a +moment a carriage, with servants in splendid liveries, and a lady +inside returning from a party, in full dress. I have rarely seen so +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_256" id="Page_256">256</a></span> +beautiful a head. The lamps shone strongly on a broad pearl +fillet on her forehead, and lighted up features such as we do not +often meet even in Italy. A gentleman leaned back in the +corner of the carriage, fast asleep—probably her husband!</p> + +<hr class="l15" /> + +<p>I breakfasted at <i>Verona</i> at seven. A humpbacked <i>cicerone</i> +there took me to "Juliet's tomb." A very high wall, green +with age, surrounds what was once a cemetery, just outside the +city. An old woman answered the bell at the dilapidated gate, +and, without saying a word, pointed to an empty granite sarcophagus, +raised upon a rude pile of stones. "Questa?" asked I, +with a doubtful look. "Questa," said the old woman. +"Questa!" said the hunchback. And here, I was to believe, +lay the gentle Juliet! There was a raised place in the sarcophagus, +with a hollowed socket for the head, and it was about the +measure for a woman! I ran my fingers through the cavity, and +tried to imagine the dark curls that covered the hand of Father +Lawrence as he laid her down in the trance, and fitted her +beautiful head softly to the place. But where was "the tomb of +the Capulets?" The beldame took me through a cabbage-garden, +and drove off a donkey who was feeding on an artichoke +that grew on the very spot. "Ecco!" said she, pointing to one +of the slightly sunken spots on the surface. I deferred my +belief, and paying an extra paul for the privilege of chipping off +a fragment of the stone coffin, followed the cicerone.</p> + +<p>The <i>tombs of the Scaligers</i> were more authentic. They stand +in the centre of the town, with a highly ornamental railing about +them, and are a perfect mockery of death with their splendor. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_257" id="Page_257">257</a></span> +If the poets and scholars whom these petty princes drew to their +court had been buried in these airy tombs beside them, one would +look at them with some interest. <i>Now</i>, one asks, "who were +the Scaligers, that their bodies should be lifted high in air in the +midst of a city, and kept for ages, in marble and precious +stones?" With less ostentation, however, it were pleasant to be +so disposed of after death, lifted thus into the sun, and in sight +of moving and living creatures.</p> + +<p>I inquired for the old palace of the Capulets. The cicerone +knew nothing about it, and I dismissed her and went into a <i>café</i>. +"Two gentlemen of Verona" sat on different sides; one reading, +the other asleep, with his chin on his cane—an old, white-headed +man, of about seventy. I sat down near the old gentleman, and +by the time I had eaten my ice, he awoke. I addressed him in +Italian, which I speak indifferently; but, stumbling for a word, +he politely helped me out in French, and I went on in that +language with my inquiries. He was the very man—a walking +chronicle of Verona. He took up his hat and cane to conduct me +to <i>casa Capuletti</i>, and on the way told me the true history, as I +had heard it before, which differs but little, as you know, from +Shakspeare's version. The whole story is in the annuals.</p> + +<p>After a half hour's walk among the handsomer, and more +modern parts of the city, we stopped opposite a house of an +antique construction, but newly stuccoed and painted. A wheelwright +occupied the lower story, and by the sign, the upper part +was used as a tavern. "Impossible!" said I, as I looked at the +fresh front and the staring sign. The old gentleman smiled, and +kept his cane pointed at it in silence. "It is well authenticated," +said he, after enjoying my astonishment a minute or two, "and the +interior still bears marks of a palace." We went in and mounted +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_258" id="Page_258">258</a></span> +the dirty staircase to a large hall on the second floor. The +frescoes and cornices had not been touched, and I invited my +kind old friend to an early dinner on the spot. He accepted, +and we went back to the cathedral, and sat an hour in the only +cool place in an Italian city. The best dinner the house could +afford was ready when we returned, and a pleasanter one it has +never been my fortune to sit down to; though, for the meats, I +have eaten better. That I relished an hour in the very hall +where the masque must have been held, to which Romeo ventured +in the house of his enemy, to see the fair Juliet, you may easily +believe. The wine was not so bad, either, that my imagination +did not warm all fiction into fact; and another time, perhaps, I +may describe my old friend and the dinner more particularly. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_259" id="Page_259"></a></span></p> + +<h3>LETTER XXXV.</h3> + +<p class="ch_sum"> +ANOTHER SHORT LETTER—DEPARTURE FROM VERONA—MANTUA—FLEAS—MODENA—TASSONI'S +BUCKET—A MAN GOING TO EXECUTION—THE +DUKE OF MODENA—BOLOGNA—AUSTRIAN OFFICERS—THE +APPENINES—MOONLIGHT ON THE MOUNTAINS—ENGLISH +BRIDAL PARTY—PICTURESQUE SUPPER, ETC.</p> + +<p>I left Verona with the courier at sunset, and was at <i>Mantua</i> +in a few hours. I went to bed in a dirty hotel, the best in the +place, and awoke, bitten at every pore by fleas—the first I have +encountered in Italy, strange as it may seem, in a country that +swarms with them. For the next twenty-four hours I was in +such positive pain that my interest in "Virgil's birthplace" quite +evaporated. I hired a <i>caleche</i>, and travelled all night to <i>Modena</i>.</p> + +<p>I liked the town as I drove in, and after sleeping an hour or +two, I went out in search of "Tassoni's bucket" (which Rogers +says <i>is not the true one</i>), and the picture of "<i>Ginevra</i>." The +first thing I met was a man going to execution. He was a tall, +exceedingly handsome man; and, I thought, a marked gentleman, +even in his fetters. He was one of the body-guard of the +duke, and had joined a conspiracy against him, in which he had +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_260" id="Page_260">260</a></span> +taken the first step by firing at him from a window as he passed. +I saw him guillotined, but I will spare you the description. The +duke is the worst tyrant in Italy, it is well known, and has been +fired at <i>eighteen times</i> in the streets. So said the cicerone, who +added, that "the d——l took care of his own." After many +fruitless inquiries, I could find nothing of "the picture," and I +took my place for Bologna in the afternoon.</p> + +<p>I was at Bologna at ten the next morning. As I felt rather +indisposed, I retained my seat with the courier for Florence; +and, hungry with travel and a long fast, went into a <i>restaurant</i>, +to make the best use of the hour given me for refreshment. A +party of Austrian officers sat at one end of the only table, +breakfasting; and here I experienced the first rudeness I have +seen in Europe. I mention it to show its rarity, and the manner +in which, even among military men, a quarrel is guarded against +or prevented. A young man, who seemed the wit of the party, +chose to make comments from time to time on the solidity of +what he considered my breakfast. These became at last so +pointed, that I was compelled to rise and demand an apology. +With one voice, all except the offender, immediately sided with +me, and insisted on the justice of the demand, with so many +apologies of their own, that I regretted noticing the thing at all. +The young man rose, after a minute, and offered me his hand in +the frankest manner; and then calling for a fresh bottle, they +drank wine with me, and I went back to my breakfast. In +America, such an incident would have ended, nine times out of +ten, in a duel.</p> + +<p>The two mounted <i>gens d'armes</i>, who usually attend the courier +at night, joined us as we began to ascend the Appenines. We +stopped at eleven to sup on the highest mountain between +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_261" id="Page_261">261</a></span> +Bologna and Florence, and I was glad to get to the kitchen fire, +the clear moonlight was so cold. Chickens were turning on the +long spit, and sounds of high merriment came from the rooms +above. A <i>bridal party</i> of English had just arrived, and every +chamber and article of provision was engaged. They had +nothing to give us. A compliment to the hostess and a bribe to +the cook had their usual effect, however; and as one of the +dragoons had ridden back a mile or two for my travelling cap, +which had dropped off while I was asleep, I invited them both, +with the courier, to share my bribed supper. The cloth was +spread right before the fire, on the same table with all the cook's +paraphernalia, and a merry and picturesque supper we had of it. +The rough Tuscan flasks of wine and Etruscan pitchers, the +brazen helmets formed on the finest models of the antique, the +long mustaches, and dark Italian eyes of the men, all in the +bright light of a blazing fire, made a picture that Salvator Rosa +would have relished. We had time for a hasty song or two after +the dishes were cleared, and then went gayly on our way to +Florence.</p> + +<p>Excuse the brevity of this epistle, but I must stop here, or +lose the opportunity of sending. If my letters do not reach you +with the utmost regularity, it is no fault of mine. You can not +imagine the difficulty I frequently experience in getting a safe +conveyance. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_262" id="Page_262"></a></span></p> + +<h3>LETTER XXXVI.</h3> + +<p class="ch_sum"> +BATHS OF LUCCA—SARATOGA OF ITALY—HILL SCENERY—RIVER +LIMA—FASHIONABLE LODGINGS—THE VILLA—THE DUKE'S PALACE—MOUNTAINS—VALLEYS—COTTAGES—PEASANTS—WINDING-PATHS—AMUSEMENTS—PRIVATE +PARTIES—BALLS—FETES—A +CASINO—ORIGINALS OF SCOTT'S DIANA VERNON AND THE MISS +PRATT OF THE INHERITANCE—A SUMMER IN ITALY, ETC., ETC.</p> + +<p>I spent a week at the baths of Lucca, which is about sixty +miles north of Florence, and the Saratoga of Italy. None of the +cities are habitable in summer, for the heat, and there flocks all +the world to bathe and keep cool by day, and dance and intrigue +by night, from spring to autumn. It is very like the month of +June in our country in many respects, and the differences are +not disagreeable. The scenery is the finest of its kind in Italy. +The whole village is built about a bridge across the river Lima, +which meets the Serchio a half mile below. On both sides of the +stream the mountains rise so abruptly, that the houses are +erected against them, and from the summits on both sides you +look directly down on the street. Half-way up one of the hills +stands a cluster of houses, overlooking the valley to fine advantage, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_263" id="Page_263">263</a></span> +and these are rather the most fashionable lodgings. Round +the base of this mountain runs the Lima, and on its banks for a +mile is laid out a superb road, at the extremity of which is another +cluster of buildings, called the Villa, composed of the +duke's palace and baths, and some fifty lodging-houses. This, +like the pavilion at Saratoga, is usually occupied by invalids and +people of more retired habits. I have found no hill scenery in +Europe comparable to the baths of Lucca. The mountains +ascend so sharply and join so closely, that two hours of the sun +are lost, morning and evening, and the heat is very little felt. +The valley is formed by four or five small mountains, which are +clothed from the base to the summit with the finest chestnut +woods; and dotted over with the nest-like cottages of the Luccese +peasants, the smoke from which, morning and evening, +breaks through the trees, and steals up to the summits with an +effect than which a painter could not conceive anything more +beautiful. It is quite a little paradise; and with the drives +along the river on each side at the mountain foot, and the trim +winding-paths in the hills, there is no lack of opportunity for the +freest indulgence of a love of scenery or amusement.</p> + +<p>Instead of living as we do in great hotels, the people at these +baths take their own lodgings, three or four families in a house, +and meet in their drives and walks, or in small exclusive parties. +The Duke gives a ball every Tuesday, to which all respectable +strangers are invited; and while I was there an Italian prince, +who married into the royal family of Spain, gave a grand <i>fete</i> at +the theatre. There is usually some party every night, and with +the freedom of a watering-place, they are rather the pleasantest +I have seen in Italy. The Duke's chamberlain, an Italian cavalier, +has the charge of a <i>casino</i>, or public hall, which is open day +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_264" id="Page_264">264</a></span> +and night for conversation, dancing and play. The Italians frequent +it very much, and it is free to all well-dressed people; and +as there is always a band of music, the English sometimes make +up a party and spend the evening there in dancing or promenading. +It is maintained at the Duke's expense, lights, music, and +all, and he finds his equivalent in the profits of the gambling-bank.</p> + +<p>I scarce know who of the distinguished people I met there +would interest you. The village was full of coroneted carriages, +whose masters were nobles of every nation, and every reputation. +The originals of two well-known characters happened to be there—Scott's +<i>Diana Vernon</i>, and the <i>Miss Pratt</i> of the Inheritance. +The former is a Scotch lady, with five or six children; a tall, +superb woman still, with the look of a mountain-queen, who rode +out every night with two gallant boys mounted on ponies, and +dashing after her with the spirit you would bespeak for the sons +of Die Vernon. Her husband was the best horseman there, and +a "has been" handsome fellow, of about forty-five. An Italian +abbé came up to her one night, at a small party, and told her he +"wondered the king of England did not marry her." "Miss +Pratt" was the companion of an English lady of fortune, who +lived on the floor below me. She was still what she used to be, +a much-laughed-at but much-sought person, and it was quite +requisite to know her. She flew into a passion whenever the +book was named. The rest of the world there was very much +what it is elsewhere—a medley of agreeable and disagreeable, intelligent +and stupid, elegant and awkward. The <i>women</i> were +perhaps superior in style and manner to those ordinarily met in +such places in America, and the <i>men</i> vastly inferior. It is so +wherever I have been on the continent. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_265" id="Page_265">265</a></span></p> + +<p>I remained at the baths a few weeks, recruiting—for the hot +weather and travel had, for the first time in my life, worn upon +me. They say that a summer in Italy is equal to five years elsewhere, +in its ravages upon the constitution, and so I found it. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_266" id="Page_266"></a></span></p> + +<h3>LETTER XXXVII.</h3> + +<p class="ch_sum"> +RETURN TO VENICE—CITY OF LUCCA—A MAGNIFICENT WALL—A +CULTIVATED AND LOVELY COUNTRY—A COMFORTABLE +PALACE—THE DUKE AND DUCHESS OF LUCCA—THE APPENINES—MOUNTAIN +SCENERY—MODENA—VIEW OF AN IMMENSE +PLAIN—VINEYARDS AND FIELDS—AUSTRIAN TROOPS—A +PETTY DUKE AND A GREAT TYRANT—SUSPECTED +TRAITORS—LADIES UNDER ARREST—MODENESE NOBILITY—SPLENDOR +AND MEANNESS—CORREGIO'S BAG OF COPPER +COIN—PICTURE GALLERY—CHIEF OF THE CONSPIRATORS—OPPRESSIVE +LAWS—ANTIQUITY—MUSEUM—BOLOGNA—MANUSCRIPTS +OF TASSO AND ARIOSTO—THE PO—AUSTRIAN CUSTOM-HOUSE—POLICE +OFFICERS—DIFFICULTY ON BOARD THE +STEAMBOAT—VENICE ONCE MORE, ETC.</p> + +<p>After five or six weeks <i>sejour</i> at the baths of Lucca, the only +exception to the pleasure of which was an attack of the "country +fever," I am again on the road, with a pleasant party, bound for +Venice; but passing by cities I had not seen, I have been from +one place to another for a week, till I find myself to-day in Modena—a +place I might as well not have seen at all as to have +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_267" id="Page_267">267</a></span> +hurried through, as I was compelled to do a month or two since. +To go back a little, however, our first stopping-place was the +city of Lucca, about fifteen miles from the baths; a little, clean, +beautiful gem of a town, with a wall three miles round only, and +on the top of it a broad carriage road, giving you on every side +views of the best cultivated and loveliest country in Italy. The +traveller finds nothing so rural and quiet, nothing so happy-looking, +in the whole land. The radius to the horizon is nowhere +more than five or six miles; and the bright green farms and +luxuriant vineyards stretch from the foot of the wall to the summits +of the lovely mountains which form the theatre around. It +is a very ancient town, but the duchy is so rich and flourishing +that it bears none of the marks of decay, so common to even +more modern towns in Italy. Here Cæsar is said to have +stopped to deliberate on passing the Rubicon.</p> + +<p>The palace of the Duke is the <i>prettiest</i> I ever saw. There is +not a room in it you could not <i>live</i> in—and no feeling is less +common than this in visiting palaces. It is furnished with +splendor, too—but with such an eye to comfort, such taste and +elegance, that you would respect the prince's affections that +should order such a one. The Duke of Lucca, however, is never +at home. He is a young man of twenty-eight or thirty, and +spends his time and money in travelling, as caprice takes him. +He has been now for a year at Vienna, where he spends the +revenue of these rich plains most lavishly. The Duchess, too, +travels always, but in a different direction, and the people complain +loudly of the desertion. For many years they have now +been both absent and parted. The Duke is a member of the +royal family of Spain, and at the death of Maria Louisa of +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_268" id="Page_268">268</a></span> +Parma, he becomes Duke of Parma, and the duchy goes to +Tuscany.</p> + +<p>From Lucca we crossed the Appenines, by a road seldom +travelled, performing the hundred miles to Modena in three +days. We suffered, as all must who leave the high roads in +continental countries, more privations than the novelty was +worth. The mountain scenery was fine, of course, but I think +less so than that on the passes between Florence and Bologna, +the account of which I wrote a few weeks since. We were too +happy to get to Modena.</p> + +<p>Modena lies in the vast campagna lying between the Appenines +and the Adriatic—an immense plain looking like the sea +as far as the eye can stretch from north to south. The view of +it from the mountains in descending is magnificent beyond description. +The capital of the little duchy lay in the midst of us, +like a speck on a green carpet, and smaller towns and rivers +varied its else unbroken surface of vineyards and fields. We +reached the gates just as a fine sunset was reddening the ramparts +and towers, and giving up our passports to the soldier on +guard, rattled into the hotel.</p> + +<p>The town is full of Austrian troops, and in our walk to the +ducal palace we met scarce any one else. The streets look +gloomy and neglected, and the people singularly dispirited and +poor. This petty Duke of Modena is a man of about fifty, and +said to be the greatest tyrant, after Don Miguel, in the world. +The prisons are full of suspected traitors; one hundred and +thirty of the best families of the duchy are banished for liberal +opinions; three hundred and over are now under arrest (among +them a considerable number of ladies); and many of the Modenese +nobility are now serving in the galleys for conspiracy. He +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_269" id="Page_269">269</a></span> +has been shot at eighteen times. The last man who attempted +it, as I stated in a former letter, was executed the morning I +passed through Modena on my return from Venice. With all +this he is a fine soldier, and his capital looks in all respects like +a garrison in the first style of discipline. He is just now absent +at a chateau three miles in the country.</p> + +<p>The palace is a union of splendor and meanness within. The +endless succession of state apartments are gorgeously draped and +ornamented, but the entrance halls and intermediate passages are +furnished with an economy you would scarce find exceeded in the +"worst inn's worst room." Modena is Corregio's birthplace, +and it was from a Duke of Modena that he received the bag of +copper coin which occasioned his death. It was, I think, the +meagre reward of his celebrated "Night," and he broke a blood-vessel +in carrying it to his house. The Duke has sold this picture, +as well as every other sufficiently celebrated to bring a +princely price. His gallery is a heap of trash, with but here and +there a redeeming thing. Among others, there is a portrait of a +boy, I think by Rembrandt, very intellectual and lofty, yet with +all the youthfulness of fourteen; and a copy of "Giorgione's +mistress," the "love in life" of the Manfrini palace, so admired +by Lord Byron. There is also a remarkably fine crucifixion, I +forget by whom.</p> + +<p>The front of the palace is renowned for its beauty. In a +street near it, we passed a house half battered down by cannon. +It was the residence of the chief of a late conspiracy, who was +betrayed a few hours before his plot was ripe. He refused to +surrender, and, before the ducal troops had mastered his house, +the revolt commenced and the Duke was driven from Modena. +He returned in a week or two with some three thousand Austrians, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_270" id="Page_270">270</a></span> +and has kept possession by their assistance ever since. +While we were waiting dinner at the hotel, I took up a volume +of the Modenese law, and opened upon a statute forbidding all +subjects of the duchy to live out of the Duke's territories under +pain of the entire confiscation of their property. They are liable +to arrest, also, if it is suspected that they are taking measures to +remove. The alternatives are oppression here or poverty elsewhere, +and the result is that the Duke has scarce a noble left in +his realm.</p> + +<p>Modena is a place of great antiquity. It was a strong-hold in +the time of Cæsar, and after his death was occupied by Brutus, +and besieged by Antony. There are no traces left, except some +mutilated and uncertain relics in the museum.</p> + +<p>We drove to Bologna the following morning, and I slept once +more in Rogers's chamber at "the Pilgrim." I have described +this city, which I passed on my way to Venice, so fully before, +that I pass it over now with the mere mention. I should not +forget, however, my acquaintance with a snuffy little librarian, +who showed me the manuscripts of Tasso and Ariosto, with +much amusing importance.</p> + +<p>We crossed the Po to the Austrian custom-house. Our +trunks were turned inside out, our papers and books examined, +our passports studied for flaws—as usual. After two hours of +vexation, we were permitted to go on board the steamboat, thanking +Heaven that our troubles were over for a week or two, and +giving Austria the common benediction she gets from travellers. +The ropes were cast off from the pier when a police retainer +came running to the boat, and ordered our whole party on shore, +bag and baggage. Our passports, which had been retained to be +sent on to Venice by the captain, were irregular. We had not +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_271" id="Page_271">271</a></span> +passed by Florence, and they had not the signature of the Austrian +ambassador. We were ordered imperatively back over the +Po, with a flat assurance, that, without first going to Florence, we +never could see Venice. To the ladies of the party, who had +made themselves certain of seeing this romance of cities in +twelve hours, it was a sad disappointment, and after seeing them +safely seated in the return shallop, I thought I would go and +make a desperate appeal to the commissary in person. My +nominal commission as <i>attaché</i> to the Legation at Paris, served me +in this case as it had often done before, and making myself and +the honor of the American nation responsible for the innocent +designs of a party of ladies upon Venice, the dirty and surly +commissary signed our passports and permitted us to remand our +baggage.</p> + +<p>It was with unmingled pleasure that I saw again the towers +and palaces of Venice rising from the sea. The splendid approach +to the Piazzetta; the transfer to the gondola and its soft +motion; the swift and still glide beneath the balconies of palaces, +with whose history I was familiar; and the renewal of my own +first impressions in the surprise and delight of others, made up, +altogether, a moment of high happiness. There is nothing like—nothing +equal to Venice. She is the city of the imagination—the +realization of romance—the queen of splendor and softness +and luxury. Allow all her decay—feel all her degradation—see +the "Huns in her palaces," and the "Greek upon her mart," +and, after all, she is alone in the world for beauty, and, spoiled +as she has been by successive conquerors, almost for riches too. +Her churches of marble, with their floors of precious stones, and +walls of gold and mosaic; her ducal palace, with its world of art +and massy magnificence; her private palaces, with their fronts +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_272" id="Page_272">272</a></span> +of inland gems, and balconies and towers of inimitable workmanship +and riches; her lovely islands and mirror-like canals—all +distinguish her, and will till the sea rolls over her, as one of the +wonders of time. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_273" id="Page_273"></a></span></p> + +<h3>LETTER XXXVIII.</h3> + +<p class="ch_sum"> +VENICE—CHURCH OF THE JESUITS—A MARBLE CURTAIN—ORIGINAL +OF TITIAN'S MARTYRDOM OF ST. LAWRENCE—A SUMMER +MORNING—ARMENIAN ISLAND—VISIT TO A CLOISTER—A CELEBRATED +MONK—THE POET'S STUDY—ILLUMINATED COPIES OF +THE BIBLE—THE STRANGER'S BOOK—A CLEAN PRINTING-OFFICE—THE +HOSPITAL FOR THE INSANE—INNOCENT AND HAPPY-LOOKING +MANIACS—THE CELLS FOR UNGOVERNABLE LUNATICS—BARBARITY +OF THE KEEPER—MISERABLE PROVISIONS—ANOTHER +GLANCE AT THE PRISONS UNDER THE DUCAL PALACE—THE +OFFICE OF EXECUTIONER—THE ARSENAL—THE STATE GALLERY—THE +ARMOR OF HENRY THE FOURTH—A CURIOUS KEY—MACHINES +FOR TORTURE, ETC.</p> + +<p>In a first visit to a great European city it is difficult not to let +many things escape notice. Among several churches which I +did not see when I was here before, is that of the <i>Jesuits</i>. It is +a temple worthy of the celebrity of this splendid order. The +proportions are finer than those of most of the Venetian churches, +and the interior is one tissue of curious marbles and gold. As +we entered, we were first struck with the grace and magnificence +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_274" id="Page_274">274</a></span> +of a large heavy curtain, hanging over the pulpit, the folds of +which, and the figures wrought upon it, struck us as unusually +elegant and ingenious. Our astonishment was not lessened when +we found it was one solid mass of verd-antique marble. Its sweep +over the side and front of the pulpit is as careless as if it were +done by the wind. The whole ceiling of the church is covered +with <i>sequin gold</i>—the finest that is coined. In one of the side +chapels is the famous "Martyrdom of St. Lawrence," by Titian. +A fine copy of it (said in the catalogue to be the original) was +exhibited in the Boston Athenæum a year or two since.</p> + +<hr class="l15" /> + +<p>It is Sunday, and the morning has been of a heavenly, summer, +sunny calmness, such as is seen often in Italy, and once in +a year, perhaps, in New England. It is a kind of atmosphere, +that, to breathe is to be grateful and happy. We have been to +the Armenian island—a little gem on the bosom of the Lagune, +a mile from Venice, where stands the monastery, to which place +Lord Byron went daily to study and translate with the fathers. +There is just room upon it for a church, a convent, and a little +garden. It looks afloat on the water. Our gondola glided up to +the clean stone stairs, and we were received by one of the order, +a hale but venerable looking monk, in the Armenian dress, the +long black cassock and small round cap, his beard long and scattered +with gray, and his complexion and eyes of a cheerful, +child-like clearness, such as regular and simple habits alone can +give. I inquired, as we walked through the cloister, for the +father with whom Lord Byron studied, and of whom the poet +speaks so often and so highly in his letters. The monk smiled +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_275" id="Page_275">275</a></span> +and bowed modestly, and related a little incident that had happened +to him at Padua, where he had met two American travellers, +who had asked him of himself in the same manner. He had +forgotten their names, but from his description I presumed one +to have been Professor Longfellow, of Bowdoin University.</p> + +<p>The stillness and cleanliness about the convent, as we passed +through the cloisters and halls, rendered the impression upon a +stranger delightful. We passed the small garden, in which grew +a stately oleander in full blossom, and thousands of smaller +flowers, in neat beds and vases, and after walking through the +church, a plain and pretty one, we came to the library, where +the monk had studied with the poet. It is a proper place for +study—disturbed by nothing but the dash of oars from a passing +gondola, or the screams of a sea-bird, and well furnished with +books in every language, and very luxurious chairs. The monk +showed us an encyclopædia, presented to himself by an English +lady of rank, who had visited the convent often. His handsome +eyes flashed as he pointed to it on the shelves. We went next +into a smaller room, where the more precious manuscripts are +deposited, and he showed us curious illuminated copies of the +Bible, and gave us the stranger's book to inscribe our names. +Byron had scrawled his there before us, and the Empress +Maria Louisa had written hers twice on separate visits. The +monk then brought us a volume of prayers, in twenty-five languages, +translated by himself. We bought copies, and upon +some remark of one of the ladies upon his acquirements, he ran +from one language to another, speaking English, French, +Italian, German, and Dutch, with equal facility. His English +was quite wonderful; and a lady from Rotterdam, who was with +us, pronounced his Dutch and German excellent. We then +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_276" id="Page_276">276</a></span> +bought small histories of the order, written by an English gentleman, +who had studied at the island, and passed on to the +printing office—the first <i>clean</i> one I ever saw, and quite the best +appointed. Here the monks print their Bibles, and prayer-books +in really beautiful Armenian type, beside almanacs, and +other useful publications for Constantinople, and other parts of +Turkey. The monk wrote his name at our request (Pascal +Aucher) in the blank leaves of our books, and we parted from +him at the water-stairs with sincere regret. I recommend this +monastery to all travellers to Venice.</p> + +<p>On our return we passed near an island, upon which stands a +single building—an insane hospital. I was not very curious to +enter it, but the gondolier assured us that it was a common visit +for strangers, and we consented to go in. We were received by +the keeper, who went through the horrid scene like a regular +cicerone, giving us a cold and rapid history of every patient that +arrested our attention. The men's apartment was the first, and +I should never have supposed them insane. They were all silent, +and either read or slept like the inmates of common hospitals. +We came to a side door, and as it opened, the confusion of a +hundred tongues burst through, and we were introduced into the +apartment for women. The noise was deafening. After traversing +a short gallery, we entered a large hall, containing perhaps +fifty females. There was a simultaneous smoothing back of the +hair and prinking of the dress through the room. These the +keeper said, were the well-behaved patients, and more innocent +and happy-looking people I never saw. If to be happy is to be +wise, I should believe with the mad philosopher, that the world +and the lunatic should change names. One large, fine-looking +woman took upon herself to do the honors of the place, and came +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_277" id="Page_277">277</a></span> +forward with a graceful curtesy and a smile of condescension and +begged the ladies to take off their bonnets, and offered me a chair. +Even with her closely-shaven head and coarse flannel dress, she +seemed a lady. The keeper did not know her history. Her +attentions were occasionally interrupted by a stolen glance at the +keeper, and a shrinking in of the shoulders, like a child that had +been whipped. One handsome and perfectly healthy-looking girl +of eighteen, walked up and down the hall, with her arms folded, +and a sweet smile on her face, apparently lost in pleasing thought, +and taking no notice of us. Only one was in bed, and her face +might have been a conception of Michael Angelo for horror. +Her hair was uncut, and fell over her eyes, her tongue hung +from her mouth, her eyes were sunken and restless, and the +deadly pallor over features drawn into the intensest look of +mental agony, completing a picture that made my heart sick. +Her bed was clean, and she was as well cared for as she could be, +apparently.</p> + +<p>We mounted a flight of stairs to the cells. Here were confined +those who were violent and ungovernable. The mingled sounds +that came through the gratings as we passed were terrific. +Laughter of a demoniac wildness, moans, complaints in every +language, screams—every sound that could express impatience +and fear and suffering saluted our ears. The keeper opened +most of the cells and went in, rousing occasionally one that was +asleep, and insisting that all should appear at the grate. I +remonstrated of course, against such a piece of barbarity, but he +said he did it for all strangers, and took no notice of our pity. +The cells were small, just large enough for a bed, upon the post +of which hung a small coarse cloth bag, containing two or three +loaves of the coarsest bread. There was no other furniture. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_278" id="Page_278">278</a></span> +The beds were bags of straw, without sheets or pillows, and each +had a coarse piece of matting for a covering. I expressed some +horror at the miserable provision made for their comfort, but was +told that they broke and injured themselves with any loose furniture, +and were so reckless in their habits, that it was impossible to +give them any other bedding than straw, which was changed every +day. I observed that each patient had a wisp of long straw tied +up in a bundle, given them, as the keeper said, to employ their +hands and amuse them. The wooden blind before one of the +gratings was removed, and a girl flew to it with the ferocity of a +tiger, thrust her hands at us through the bars, and threw her +bread out into the passage, with a look of violent and uncontrolled +anger such as I never saw. She was tall and very fine-looking. +In another cell lay a poor creature, with her face dreadfully +torn, and her hands tied strongly behind her. She was tossing +about restlessly upon her straw, and muttering to herself indistinctly. +The man said she tore her face and bosom whenever +she could get her hands free, and was his worst patient. In the +last cell was a girl of eleven or twelve years, who began to cry +piteously the moment the bolt was drawn. She was in bed, and +uncovered her head very unwillingly, and evidently expected to +be whipped. There was another range of cells above, but we +had seen enough, and were glad to get out upon the calm +Lagune. There could scarcely be a stronger contrast than +between those two islands lying side by side—the first the very +picture of regularity and happiness, and the last a refuge for +distraction and misery. The feeling of gratitude to God for +reason after such a scene is irresistible.</p> + +<hr class="l15" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_279" id="Page_279">279</a></span></p> + +<p>In visiting again the prisons under the ducal palace, several +additional circumstances were told us. The condemned were +compelled to become executioners. They were led from their +cells into the dark passage where stood the secret guillotine, and +without warning forced to put to death a fellow-creature either +by this instrument, or the more horrible method of strangling +against a grate. The guide said that the office of executioner +was held in such horror that it was impossible to fill it, and hence +this dreadful alternative. When a prisoner was about to be +executed, his clothes were sent home to his family with the +message, that "the state would care for him." How much more +agonizing do these circumstances seem, when we remember that +most of the victims were men of rank and education, condemned +on suspicion of political crimes, and often with families refined to +a most unfortunate capacity for mental torture! One ceases to +regret the fall of the Venetian republic, when he sees with how +much crime and tyranny her splendor was accompanied.</p> + +<hr class="l15" /> + +<p>I saw at the arsenal to-day the model of the "Bucentaur," the +state galley in which the Doge of Venice went out annually to +marry him to the sea. This poetical relic (which, in Childe +Harold's time, "lay rotting unrestored") was burnt by the +French—why, I can not conceive. It was a departure from their +usual habit of respect to the curious and beautiful; and if they had +been jealous of such a vestige of the grandeur of a conquered +people, it might at least have been sent to Paris as easily as +"Saint Mark's steeds of brass," and would have been as great a +curiosity. I would rather have seen the Bucentaur than all their +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_280" id="Page_280">280</a></span> +other plunder. The arsenal contains many other treasures. +The armor given to the city of Venice by Henry the Fourth is +there, and a curious key constructed to shoot poisoned needles, +and used by one of the Henrys, I have forgotten which, to +despatch any one who offended him in his presence. One or +two curious machines for torture were shown us—mortars into +which the victim was put, with an iron armor which was screwed +down upon him till his head was crushed, or confession stopped +the torture. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_281" id="Page_281"></a></span></p> + +<h3>LETTER XXXIX.</h3> + +<p class="ch_sum"> +VENICE—SAN MARC'S CHURCH—RECOLLECTIONS OF HOME—FESTA +AT THE LIDO—A POETICAL SCENE—AN ITALIAN SUNSET—PALACE +OF MANFRINI—PESARO'S PALACE AND COUNTRY +RESIDENCE—CHURCH OE SAINT MARY OF NAZARETH—PADUA—THE +UNIVERSITY—STATUES OF DISTINGUISHED FOREIGNERS +THE PUBLIC PALACE—BUST OF TITUS LIVY—BUST OF PETRARCH—CHURCH +OF ST. ANTONY DURING MASS—THE SAINT'S +CHIN AND TONGUE—MARTYRDOM OF ST. AGATHA—AUSTRIAN +AND GERMAN SOLDIERS—TRAVELLER'S RECORD-BOOK—PETRARCH'S +COTTAGE AND TOMB—ITALIAN SUMMER AFTERNOON—THE +POET'S HOUSE—A FINE VIEW—THE ROOM WHERE +PETRARCH DIED, ETC.</p> + +<p>I was loitering down one of the gloomy aisles of San Marc's +church, just at twilight this evening, listening to the far-off Ave +Maria in one of the distant chapels, when a Boston gentleman, +who I did not know was abroad, entered with his family, and +passed up to the altar. It is difficult to conceive with what a +tide the half-forgotten circumstances of a home, so far away, +rush back upon one's heart in a strange land, after a long +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_282" id="Page_282">282</a></span> +absence, at the sight of familiar faces. I could realize nothing +about me after it—the glittering mosaic of precious stones under +my feet, the gold and splendid colors of the roof above me, the +echoes of the monotonous chant through the arches—foreign and +strange as these circumstances all were. I was irresistibly at +home, the familiar pictures of my native place filling my eye, and +the recollections of those whom I love and honor there crowding +upon my heart with irresistible emotion. The feeling is a painful +one, and with the necessity for becoming again a forgetful +wanderer, remembering home only as a dream, one shrinks from +such things. The reception of a letter, even, destroys a day.</p> + +<hr class="l15" /> + +<p>There has been a grand <i>festa</i> to-day at the <i>Lido</i>. This, you +know, is a long island, forming part of the sea-wall of Venice. +It is, perhaps, five or six miles long, covered in part with groves +of small trees, and a fine green sward; and to the Venetians, to +whom leaves and grass are holyday novelties, is the scene of their +gayest <i>festas</i>. They were dancing and dining under the trees; +and in front of the fort which crowns the island, the Austrian +commandant had pitched his tent, and with a band of military +music, the officers were waltzing with ladies in a circle of green +sward, making altogether a very poetical scene. We passed an +hour or two wandering among this gay and unconscious people, +and came home by one of the loveliest sunsets that ever melted +sea and sky together. Venice looked like a vision of a city +hanging in mid-air.</p> + +<hr class="l15" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_283" id="Page_283">283</a></span></p> + +<p>We have been again to that delightful <i>palace of Manfrini</i>. +The "Portia swallowing fire," the Rembrandt portrait, the +far-famed "Giorgione, son and wife," and twenty others, which +to see is to be charmed, delighted me once more. I believe the +surviving Manfrini is the only noble left in Venice. <i>Pesaro</i>, +who disdained to live in his country after its liberty was gone, +died lately in London. His palace here is the finest structure I +have seen, and his country-house on the Brenta is a paradise. It +must have been a strong feeling which exiled him from them for +eighteen years.</p> + +<p>In coming from the Manfrini, we stopped at the church of +"St. Mary of Nazareth." This is one of those whose cost might +buy a kingdom. Its gold and marbles oppress one with their +splendor. In the centre of the ceiling is a striking fresco of the +bearing of "Loretto's chapel through the air;" and in one of the +corners a lovely portrait of a boy looking over a balustrade, done +by the artist <i>fourteen years of age</i>!</p> + +<hr class="l15" /> + +<p><span class="smcap">Padua.</span>—We have passed two days in this venerable city of +learning, including a visit to Petrarch's tomb at Arqua. The +university here is still in its glory, with fifteen hundred students. +It has never declined, I believe, since Livy's time. The beautiful +inner court has two or three galleries, crowded with the arms of +the nobles and distinguished individuals who have received its +honors. It has been the "cradle of princes" from every part of +Europe.</p> + +<p>Around one of the squares of the city, stand forty or fifty +statues of the great and distinguished foreigners who have +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_284" id="Page_284">284</a></span> +received their education here. It happened to be the month +of vacation, and we could not see the interior.</p> + +<p>At a public palace, so renowned for the size and singular +architecture of its principal hall, we saw a very antique bust of +Titus Livy—a fine, cleanly-chiselled, scholastic old head, that +looked like the spirit of Latin embodied. We went thence to the +Duomo, where they show a beautiful bust of Petrarch, who lived +at Padua some of the latter years of his life. It is a softer and +more voluptuous countenance than is given him in the pictures.</p> + +<p>The church of Saint Antony here has stood just six hundred +years. It occupied a century in building, and is a rich and noble +old specimen of the taste of the times, with eight cupolas and +towers, twenty-seven chapels inside, four immense organs, and +countless statues and pictures. Saint Antony's body lies in the +midst of the principal chapel, which is surrounded with relievos +representing his miracles, done in the best manner of the glorious +artists of antiquity. We were there during mass, and the people +were nearly suffocating themselves in the press to touch the altar +and tomb of the saint. This chapel was formerly lit by massive +silver lamps, which Napoleon took, presenting them with their +models in gilt. He also exacted from them three thousand +sequins for permission to retain the chin and tongue of St. +Antony, which works miracles still, and are preserved in a +splendid chapel with immense brazen doors. Behind the main +altar I saw a harrowing picture by Tiepoli, of the martyrdom of +St. Agatha. Her breasts are cut off, and lying in a dish. The +expression in the face of the dying woman is painfully well done.</p> + +<p>Returning to the inn, we passed a magnificent palace on one +of the squares, upon whose marble steps and column-bases, sat +hundreds of brutish Austrian troops, smoking and laughing at the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_285" id="Page_285">285</a></span> +passers-by. This is a sight you may see now through all Italy. The +palaces of the proudest nobles are turned into barracks for foreign +troops, and there is scarce a noble old church or monastery that +is not defiled with their filth. The German soldiers are, without +exception, the most stolid and disagreeable looking body of men +I ever saw; and they have little to soften the indignant feeling +with which one sees them rioting in this lovely and oppressed +country.</p> + +<p>We passed an hour before bedtime in the usual amusement of +travellers in a foreign hotel—reading the traveller's record-book. +Walter Scott's name was written there, and hundreds of distinguished +names besides. I was pleased to find, on a leaf far +back, "Edward Everett," written in his own round legible hand. +There were at least the names of fifty Americans within the dates +of the year past—such a wandering nation we are. Foreigners +express their astonishment always at their numbers in these +cities.</p> + +<p>On the afternoon of the next day, we went to Arqua, on a +pilgrimage to Petrarch's cottage and tomb. It was an Italian +summer afternoon, and the Euganean hills were rising green and +lovely, with the sun an hour high above them, and the yellow of +the early sunset already commencing to glow about the horizon.</p> + +<p>We left the carriage at the "pellucid lake," and went into the +hills a mile, plucking the ripe grapes which hung over the road +in profusion. We were soon at the little village and the tomb, +which stands just before the church door, "reared in air." The +four laurels Byron mentions are dead. We passed up the hill to +the poet's house, a rural stone cottage, commanding a lovely +view of the campagna from the portico. Sixteen villages may be +counted from the door, and the two large towns of Rovigo and +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_286" id="Page_286">286</a></span> +Ferrara are distinguishable in a clear atmosphere. It was a +retreat fit for a poet. We went through the rooms, and saw the +poet's cat, stuffed and exhibited behind a wire grating, his chair +and desk, his portrait in fresco, and Laura's, and the small +closet-like room where he died. It was an interesting visit, and +we returned by the golden twilight of this heavenly climate, +repeating Childe Harold, and wishing for his pen to describe +afresh the scene about us. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_287" id="Page_287"></a></span></p> + +<h3>LETTER XL.</h3> + +<p class="ch_sum"> +EXCURSION FROM VENICE TO VERONA—TRUTH OF BYRON'S DESCRIPTION +OF ITALIAN SCENERY—THE LOMBARDY PEASANTRY—APPEARANCE +OF THE COUNTRY—MANNER OF CULTIVATING +THE VINE ON LIVING TREES—THE VINTAGE—ANOTHER VISIT +TO JULIET'S TOMB—THE OPERA AT VERONA—THE PRIMA +DONNA—ROMAN AMPHITHEATRE—BOLOGNA AGAIN—MADAME +MALIBRAN IN LA GAZZA LADRA—CHEAP LUXURIES—THE +PALACE OF THE LAMBACCARI—A MAGDALEN OF GUIDO CARRACCI—CHARLES +THE SECOND'S BEAUTIES—VALLEY OF THE +ARNO—FLORENCE ONCE MORE.</p> + +<p>Our gondola set us on shore at Fusina an hour or two before +sunset, with a sky (such as we have had for five months) without +a cloud, and the same promise of a golden sunset, to which I +have now become so accustomed, that rain and a dark heaven +would seem to me almost unnatural. It was the hour and the +spot at which Childe Harold must have left Venice, and we look +at the "blue Friuli mountains," the "deep-died Brenta," and +the "Rhœtian hill," and feel the truth of his description as +well as its beauty. The two banks of the Brenta are studded with +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_288" id="Page_288">288</a></span> +the palaces of the Venetian nobles for almost twenty miles, and +the road runs close to the water on the northern side, following +all its graceful windings, and, at every few yards, surprising the +traveller with some fresh scene of cultivated beauty, church, +palace, or garden, while the gondolas on the stream, and the fair +"damas" of Italy sitting under the porticoes, enliven and brighten +the picture. These people live out of doors, and the road was +thronged with the <i>contadini</i>; and here and there rolled by a carriage, +with servants in livery; or a family of the better class on +their evening walk, sauntered along at the Italian pace of indolence, +and a finer or happier looking race of people would not +easily be found. It is difficult to see the athletic frames and +dark flashing eyes of the Lombardy peasantry, and remember +their degraded condition. You cannot believe it will remain +so. If they think at all, they must, in time, feel too deeply to +endure.</p> + +<p>The guide-book says, the "traveller wants words to express +his sensations at the beauty of the country from Padua to +Verona." Its beauty is owing to the perfection of a method of +cultivation universal in Italy. The fields are divided into handsome +squares, by rows of elms or other forest trees, and the vines +are trained upon these with all the elegance of holyday festoons, +winding about the trunks, and hanging with their heavy clusters +from one to the other, the foliage of vine and tree mingled so +closely that it appears as if they sprung from the same root. +Every square is perfectly enclosed with these fantastic walls of +vine-leaves and grapes, and the imagination of a poet could conceive +nothing more beautiful for a festival of Bacchus. The +ground between is sown with grass or corn. The vines are luxuriant +always, and often send their tendrils into the air higher +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_289" id="Page_289">289</a></span> +than the topmost branch of the tree, and this extends the whole +distance from Padua to Verona, with no interruption except the +palaces and gardens of the nobles lying between.</p> + +<p>It was just the season for gathering and pressing the grape, +and the romantic vineyards were full of the happy peasants, of +all ages, mounting the ladders adventurously for the tall clusters, +heaping the baskets and carts, driving in the stately gray oxen +with their loads, and talking and singing as merrily as if it were +Arcadia. Oh how beautiful these scenes are in Italy. The +people are picturesque, the land is like the poetry of nature, +the habits are all as they were described centuries ago, and as the +still living pictures of the glorious old masters represent them. +The most every-day traveller smiles and wonders, as he lets down +his carriage windows to look at the vintage.</p> + +<hr class="l15" /> + +<p>We have been three or four days in Verona, visiting Juliet's +tomb, and riding through the lovely environs. The opera here +is excellent, and we went last night to see "Romeo and Juliet" +performed in the city renowned by their story. The <i>prima donna</i> +was one of those syrens found often in Italy—a young singer of +great promise, with that daring brilliancy which practice and +maturer science discipline, to my taste, too severely. It was +like the wild, ungovernable trill of a bird, and my ear is not so +nice yet, that I even would not rather feel a roughness in the +harmony than lose it. Malibran delighted me more in America +than in Paris.</p> + +<p>The opera was over at twelve, and, as we emerged from the +crowded lobby, the moon full, and as clear and soft as the eye of +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_290" id="Page_290">290</a></span> +a child, burst through the arches of the portico. The theatre is +opposite the celebrated Roman amphitheatre, and the wish to +visit it by moonlight was expressed spontaneously by the whole +party. The <i>custode</i> was roused, and we entered the vast arena +and stood in the midst, with the gigantic ranges of stone seats +towering up in a receding circle, as if to the very sky, and the +lofty arches and echoing dens lying black and silent in the dead +shadows of the moon. A hundred thousand people could sit here; +and it was in these arenas, scattered through the Roman provinces, +that the bloody gladiator fights, and the massacre of +Christians, and every scene of horror, amused the subjects of the +mighty mistress of the world. You would never believe it, if you +could have seen how peacefully the moonlight now sleeps on the +moss-gathering walls, and with what untrimmed grace the vines +and flowers creep and blossom on the rocky crevices of the +windows.</p> + +<p>We arrived at Bologna just in time to get to the opera. Malibran +in <i>La Gazza Ladra</i> was enough to make one forget more +than the fatigue of a day's travel. She sings as well as ever +and plays much better, though she had been ill, and looked thin. +In the prison scene, she was ghastlier even than the character required. +There are few pleasures in Europe like such singing as +hers, and the Italians, in their excellent operas, and the cheap +rate at which they can be frequented, have a resource corresponding +to everything else in their delightful country. Every +comfort and luxury is better and cheaper in Italy than elsewhere, +and it is a pity that he who can get his wine for three cents a +bottle, his dinner and his place at the opera for ten, and has +lodgings for anything he chooses to pay, can not find leisure, and +does not think it worth the trouble, to look about for means to be +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_291" id="Page_291">291</a></span> +free. It is vexatious to see nature lavishing such blessings on +slaves.</p> + +<p>The next morning we visited a palace, which, as it is not +mentioned in the guide-books of travel, I had not before seen—the +<i>Lambaccari</i>. It was full of glorious pictures, most of them +for sale. Among others we were captivated with a Magdalen of +unrivalled sweetness by <i>Guido Carracci</i>. It has been bought +since by Mr. Cabot, of Boston, who passed through Bologna the +day after, and will be sent to America, I am happy to say, +immediately. There were also six of "Charles the Second's +beauties,"—portraits of the celebrated women of that gay monarch's +court, by Sir Peter Lely—ripe, glowing English women, +more voluptuous than chary-looking, but pictures of exquisite +workmanship. There were nine or ten apartments to this splendid +palace, all crowded with paintings by the first masters, and +the surviving Lambaccari is said to be selling them one by one +for bread. It is really melancholy to go through Italy, and see +how her people are suffering, and her nobles starving under +oppression.</p> + +<p>We crossed the Appenines in two of the finest days that ever +shone, and descending through clouds and mist to the Tuscan +frontier, entered the lovely valley of the Arno, sparkling in the +sunshine, with all its palaces and spires, as beautiful as ever. I +am at Florence once more, and parting from the delightful party +with whom I have travelled for two months. I start for Rome +to-morrow, in company with five artists. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_292" id="Page_292"></a></span></p> + +<h3>LETTER XLI.</h3> + +<p class="ch_sum"> +JOURNEY TO THE ETERNAL CITY—TWO ROADS TO ROME—SIENNA—THE +PUBLIC SQUARE—AN ITALIAN FAIR—THE CATHEDRAL—THE +LIBRARY—THE THREE GRECIAN GRACES—DANDY OFFICERS—PUBLIC +PROMENADE—LANDSCAPE VIEW—LONG GLEN—A +WATERFALL—A CULTIVATED VALLEY—THE TOWN OF AQUAPENDENTE—SAN +LORENZO—PLINY'S FLOATING ISLANDS—MONTEFIASCONE—VITERBO—PROCESSION +OF FLOWER AND DANCING +GIRLS TO THE VINTAGE—ASCENT OF THE MONTECIMINO—THE +ROAD OF THIEVES—LAKE VICO—BACCANO—MOUNT SORACTE—DOME +OF ST. PETER'S, ETC.</p> + +<p>I left Florence in company with the five artists mentioned +in my last letter, one of them an Englishman, and the other four +pensioners of the royal academy at Madrid. The Spaniards had +but just arrived in Italy, and could not speak a syllable of the +language. The Englishman spoke everything but French, which +he avoided learning <i>from principle</i>. He "hated a Frenchman!"</p> + +<p>There are two roads to Rome. One goes by Sienna, and is a +day shorter; the other by Perugia, the Falls of Terni, Lake +Thrasymene, and the Clitumnus. Childe Harold took the latter, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_293" id="Page_293">293</a></span> +and his ten or twelve best cantos describe it. I was compelled +to go by Sienna, and shall return, of course, by the other road.</p> + +<p>I was at Sienna on the following day. As the second capital +of Tuscany, this should be a place of some interest, but an hour +or two is more than enough to see all that is attractive. The +public square was a gay scene. It was rather singularly situated, +lying fifteen or twenty feet lower than the streets about it. I +should think there were several thousand people in its area—all +buying or selling, and vociferating, as usual, at the top of their +voices. We heard the murmur, like the roar of the sea, in all +the distant streets. There are few sights more picturesque than +an Italian fair, and I strolled about in the crowd for an hour, +amused with the fanciful costumes, and endeavoring to make out +with the assistance of the eye, what rather distracted my unaccustomed +ear—the cries of the various wandering venders of merchandise. +The women, who were all from the country, were +coarse, and looked well only at a distance.</p> + +<p>The cathedral is the great sight of Sienna. It has a rich +exterior, encrusted with curiously wrought marbles, and the front, +as far as I can judge, is in beautiful taste. The pavement of the +interior is very precious, and covered with a wooden platform, +which is removed but once a year. The servitor raised a part of +it, to show us the workmanship. It was like a drawing in India +ink, quite as fine as if pencilled, and representing, as is customary, +some miracle of a saint.</p> + +<p>A massive iron door, made ingeniously to imitate a rope-netting, +opens from the side of the church into the <i>library</i>. It contained +some twenty volumes in black letter, bound with enormous clasps +and placed upon inclined shelves. It would have been a task for +a man of moderate strength to lift either of them from the floor. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_294" id="Page_294">294</a></span> +The little sacristan found great difficulty in only opening one to +show us the letter.</p> + +<p>In the centre of the chapel on a high pedestal, stands the +original antique group, so often copied, of the three Grecian +Graces. It is shockingly mutilated; but its original beauty is +still in a great measure discernable. Three naked women are +an odd ornament for the private chapel of a cathedral.<a name="FNanchor_1" id="FNanchor_1" href="#Footnote_1" class="fnanchor">[1]</a> One +often wonders, however, in Italian churches, whether his devotion +is most called upon by the arts or the Deity.</p> + +<p>As we were leaving the church, four young officers passed us +in gay uniform, their long steel scabbards rattling on the pavement, +and their heavy tread disturbing visibly every person +present. As I turned to look after them, with some remark on +their coxcombry, they dropped on their knees at the bases of the +tall pillars about the altar, and burying their faces in their +caps, bowed their heads nearly to the floor, in attitudes of the +deepest devotion. Sincere or not, Catholic worshippers of all +classes <i>seem</i> absorbed in their religious duties. You can scarce +withdraw the attention even of a child in such places. In the six +months that I have been in Italy, I never saw anything like +irreverence within the church walls.</p> + +<p>The public promenade, on the edge of the hill upon which the +town is beautifully situated, commands a noble view of the country +about. The peculiar landscape of Italy lay before us in all +its loveliness—the far-off hills lightly tinted with the divided +colors of distance, the atmosphere between absolutely clear and +invisible, and villages clustered about, each with its ancient castle +on the hill-top above, just as it was settled in feudal times, and +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_295" id="Page_295">295</a></span> +as painters and poets would imagine it. You never get a view +in this "garden of the world" that would not excuse very +extravagant description.</p> + +<p>Sienna is said to be the best place for learning the language. +Just between Florence and Rome, it combines the "<i>lingua +Toscano</i>," with the "<i>bocca Romano</i>"—the Roman pronunciation +with the Florentine purity of language. It looks like a dull +place, however, and I was very glad after dinner to resume my +passport at the gate and get on.</p> + +<p>The next morning, after toiling up a considerable ascent, we +suddenly rounded the shoulder of a mountain, and found ourselves +at the edge of a long glen, walled up at one extremity by a precipice +with an old town upon its brow, and a waterfall pouring off +at its side, and opening away at the other into a broad, gently-sloped +valley, cultivated like a garden as far as the eye could +distinguish. I think I have seen an engraving of it in the +Landscape Annual. Taken together, it is positively the most +beautiful view I ever saw, from the road edge, as you wind up +into the town of <i>Acquapendente</i>. The precipice might be a +hundred feet, and from its immediate edge were built up the +walls of the houses, so that a child at the window might throw +its plaything into the bottom of the ravine. It is scarce a +pistol-shot across the glen, and the two hills on either side lean +off from the level of the town in one long soft declivity to the +valley—the little river which pours off the rock at the very base +of the church, fretting and fuming its way between to the meadows—its +stony bed quite hidden by the thick vegetation of its banks. +The bells were ringing to mass, and the echoes came back to us +at long distances with every modulation. The streets, as we +entered the town, were full of people hurrying to the churches; +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_296" id="Page_296">296</a></span> +the women with their red shawls thrown about their heads, and +the men with their immense dingy cloaks flung romantically over +their shoulders, with a grace, one and all, that in a Parisian +dandy, would be attributed to a consummate study of effect. For +outline merely, I think there is nothing in costume which can +surpass the closely-stockinged leg, heavy cloak, and slouched hat +of an Italian peasant. It is added to by his indolent, and, consequently, +graceful motion and attitudes. Johnson, in his book +on the climate of Italy, says their sloth is induced by <i>malaria</i>. +You will see a man watching goats or sheep, with his back +against a rock, quite motionless for hours together. His dog +feels, apparently, the same influence, and lies couched in his long +white hair, with his eyes upon the flock, as lifeless, and almost as +picturesque, as his master.</p> + +<p>The town of San Lorenzo is a handful of houses on the top of +a hill which hangs over Lake Bolsena. You get the first view of +the lake as you go out of the gate toward Rome, and descend +immediately to its banks. There was a heavy mist upon the +water, and we could not see across, but it looked like as quiet and +pleasant a shore as might be found in the world—the woods wild, +and of uncommonly rich foliage for Italy, and the slopes of the +hills beautiful. Saving the road, and here and there a house with +no sign of an inhabitant, there can scarcely be a lonelier wilderness +in America. We stopped two hours at an inn on its banks, +and whether it was the air, or the influence of the perfect stillness +about us, my companions went to sleep, and I could scarce +resist my own drowsiness.</p> + +<p>The mist lifted a little from the lake after dinner, and we saw +the two islands said by Pliny to have floated, in his time. They +look like the tops of green hills rising from the water. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_297" id="Page_297">297</a></span></p> + +<p>It is a beautiful country again as you approach Montefiascone. +The scenery is finely broken up with glens formed by columns of +basalt, giving it a look of great wildness. Montefiascone is +built on the river of one of these ravines. We stopped here +long enough to get a bottle of the wine for which the place is +famous, drinking it to the memory of the "German prelate," +who, as Madame Stark relates, "stopped here on his journey to +Rome, and died of drinking it to excess." It has degenerated, +probably, since his time, or we chanced upon a bad bottle.</p> + +<p>The walls of <i>Viterbo</i> are flanked with towers, and have a noble +appearance from the hill-side on which the town stands. We +arrived too late to see anything of the place. As we were taking +coffee at the <i>café</i> the next morning, a half hour before daylight, +we heard music in the street, and looking out at the door, we +saw a long procession of young girls, dressed with flowers in their +hair, and each playing a kind of cymbal, and half dancing as she +went along. Three or four at the head of the procession sung a +kind of verse, and the rest joined in a short merry chorus at +intervals. It was more like a train of Corybantes than anything +I had seen. We inquired the object of it, and were told it was a +procession <i>to the vintage</i>. They were going out to pluck the last +grapes, and it was the custom to make it a festa. It was a +striking scene in the otherwise perfect darkness of the streets, the +torch-bearers at the sides waving their flambeaux regularly over +their heads, and shouting with the rest in chorus. The measure +was quick, and the step very fast. They were gone in an +instant. The whole thing was poetical, and in keeping, for Italy. +I have never seen it elsewhere.</p> + +<p>We left Viterbo on a clear, mild autumnal morning; and I +think I never felt the excitement of a delightful climate more +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_298" id="Page_298">298</a></span> +thrillingly. The road was wild, and with the long ascent of the +Monte-Cimino before us, I left the carriage to its slow pace and +went ahead several miles on foot. The first rain of the season +had fallen, and the road was moist, and all the spicy herbs of +Italy perceptible in the air. Half way up the mountain, I +overtook a fat, bald, middle-aged priest, slowly toiling up on his +mule. I was passing him with a "<i>buon giorno</i>," when he +begged me for my own sake, as well as his, to keep him company. +"It was the worst road for thieves," he said, "in all Italy," and +he pointed at every short distance to little crosses erected at the +road-side, to commemorate the finding of murdered men on the +spot. After he had told me several stories of the kind, he +elevated his tone, and began to talk of other matters. I think I +never heard so loud and long a laugh as his. I ventured to +express a wonder at his finding himself so happy in a life of +celibacy. He looked at me slily a moment or two as if he were +hesitating whether to trust me with his opinions on the subject; +but he suddenly seemed to remember his caution, and pointing +off to the right, showed me a lake brought into view by the last +turn of the road. It was <i>Lake Vico</i>. From the midst of it rose +a round mountain covered to the top with luxuriant chestnuts—the +lake forming a sort of trench about it, with the hill on which +we stood rising directly from the other edge. It was one faultless +mirror of green leaves. The two hill sides shadowed it completely. +All the views from Monte-Cimino were among the +richest in mere nature that I ever saw, and reminded me strongly +of the country about the Seneca lake of America. I was on the +Cayuga at about the same season three summers ago, and I could +have believed myself back again, it was so like my recollection.</p> + +<p>We stopped on the fourth night of our journey, seventeen +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_299" id="Page_299">299</a></span> +miles from Rome, at a place called Baccano. A ridge of hills +rose just before us, from the top of which we were told, we could +see St. Peter's. The sun was just dipping under the horizon, +and the ascent was three miles. We threw off our cloaks, determining +to see Rome before we slept, ran unbreathed to the top +of the hill, an effort which so nearly exhausted us, that we could +scarce stand long enough upon our feet to search over the broad +campagna for the dome.</p> + +<p>The sunset had lingered a great while—as it does in Italy. +Four or five light feathery streaks of cloud glowed with intense +crimson in the west, and on the brow of Mount Soracte, (which I +recognised instantly from the graphic simile<a name="FNanchor_2" id="FNanchor_2" href="#Footnote_2" class="fnanchor">[2]</a> of Childe Harold), +and along on all the ridges of mountain in the east, still played +a kind of vanishing reflection, half purple, half gray. With a +moment's glance around to catch the outline of the landscape, I +felt instinctively where Rome <i>should</i> stand, and my eye fell at +once upon "the mighty dome." Jupiter had by this time +appeared, and hung right over it, trembling in the sky with its +peculiar glory, like a lump of molten spar, and as the color faded +from the clouds, and the dark mass of "the eternal city" itself +mingled and was lost in the shadows of the campagna, the dome +still seemed to catch light, and tower visibly, as if the radiance +of the glowing star above fell more directly upon it. We could +see it till we could scarcely distinguish each other's features. +The dead level of the campagna extended between and beyond +for twenty miles, and it looked like a far-off beacon in a dim sea. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_300" id="Page_300">300</a></span> +We sat an hour on the summit of the hill, gazing into the +increasing darkness, till our eyes ached. The stars brightened +one by one, the mountains grew indistinct, and we rose unwillingly +to retrace our steps to Baccano. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_301" id="Page_301"></a></span></p> + +<h3>LETTER XLII.</h3> + +<p class="ch_sum"> +FIRST DAY IN ROME—SAINT PETER'S—A SOLITARY MONK—STRANGE +MUSIC—MICHAEL ANGELO'S MASTERPIECE—THE +MUSEUM—LIKENESS OF YOUNG AUGUSTUS—APOLLO BELVIDERE—THE +MEDICEAN VENUS—RAPHAEL'S TRANSFIGURATION—THE +PANTHEON—THE BURIAL-PLACE OF CARRACCI AND +RAPHAEL—ROMAN FORUM—TEMPLE OF FORTUNE—THE ROSTRUM—PALACE +OF THE CESARS—THE RUINS—THE COLISEUM, +ETC.</p> + +<p>To be rid of the dust of travel, and abroad in a strange and +renowned city, is a sensation of no slight pleasure anywhere. +To step into the street under these circumstances and inquire for +the <i>Roman Forum</i>, was a sufficient advance upon the ordinary +feeling to mark a bright day in one's calendar. I was hurrying +up the Corso with this object before me a half hour after my +arrival in Rome, when an old friend arrested my steps, and +begging me to reserve the "Ruins" for moonlight, took me off +to St. Peter's.</p> + +<p>The façade of the church appears alone, as you walk up the +street from the castle of St. Angelo. It disappointed me. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_302" id="Page_302">302</a></span> +There is no portico, and it looks flat and bare. But approaching +nearer, I stood at the base of the obelisk, and with those two +magnificent fountains sending their musical waters, as if to the +sky, and the two encircling wings of the church embracing the +immense area with its triple colonnades, I felt the grandeur of +St. Peter's. I felt it again in the gigantic and richly-wrought +porches, and again with indescribable surprise and admiration at +the first step on the pavement of the interior. There was not a +figure on its immense floor from the door to the altar, and its far-off +roof, its mighty pillars, its gold and marbles in such profusion +that the eye shrinks from the examination, made their overpowering +impression uninterrupted. You feel that it must be a +glorious creature that could build such a temple to his Maker.</p> + +<p>An organ was playing brokenly in one of the distant chapels, +and, drawing insensibly to the music, we found the door half +open, and a monk alone, running his fingers over the keys, and +stopping sometimes as if to muse, till the echo died and the +silence seemed to startle him anew. It was strange music; very +irregular, but sweet, and in a less excited moment, I could have +sat and listened to it till the sun set.</p> + +<p>I strayed down the aisle, and stood before the "Dead Christ" +of Michael Angelo. The Saviour lies in the arms of Mary. +The limbs hang lifelessly down, and, exquisitely beautiful as they +are, express death with a wonderful power. It is the best work +of the artist, I think, and the only one I was ever <i>moved</i> in +looking at.</p> + +<p>The greatest statue and the first picture in the world are under +the same roof, and we mounted to the Vatican. The museum is +a wilderness of statuary. Old Romans, men and women, stand +about you, copied, as you feel when you look on them, from the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_303" id="Page_303">303</a></span> +life; and conceptions of beauty in children, nymphs, and heroes, +from minds that conceived beauty in a degree that has never been +transcended, confuse and bewilder you with their number and +wonderful workmanship. It is like seeing a vision of past ages. +It is calling up from Athens and old classic Rome, all that was +distinguished and admired of the most polished ages of the world. +On the right of the long gallery, as you enter, stands the bust of +the "Young Augustus"—a kind of beautiful, angelic likeness of +Napoleon, as Napoleon might have been in his youth. It is a +boy, but with a serene dignity about the forehead and lips, that +makes him visibly a boy-emperor—born for his throne, and +conscious of his right to it. There is nothing in marble more +perfect, and I never saw anything which made me realize that the +Romans of history and poetry were <i>men</i>—nothing which brought +them so familiarly to my mind, as the feeling for beauty shown in +this infantine bust. I would rather have it than all the gods and +heroes of the Vatican.</p> + +<p>No cast gives you any idea worth having of the Apollo +Belvidere. It is a god-like model of a man. The lightness and +the elegance of the limbs; the free, fiery, confident energy of the +attitude; the breathing, indignant nostril and lips; the whole +statue's mingled and equal grace and power, are, with all its +truth to nature, beyond any conception I had formed of manly +beauty. It spoils one's eye for common men to look at it. It +stands there like a descended angel, with a splendor of form and +an air of power, that makes one feel what he should have been, +and mortifies him for what he is. Most women whom I have met +in Europe, adore the Apollo as far the finest statue in the world, +and most <i>men</i> say as much of the Medicean Venus. But, to my +eye, the Venus, lovely as she is, compares with the Apollo as a +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_304" id="Page_304">304</a></span> +mortal with an angel of light. The latter is incomparably the +finest statue. If it were only for its face, it would transcend the +other infinitely. The beauty of the Venus is only in the limbs +and body. It is a faultless, and withal, modest representation of +the flesh and blood beauty of a woman. The Apollo is all this, +and has a <i>soul</i>. I have seen women that approached the Venus +in form, and had finer faces—I never saw a man that was a +shadow of the Apollo in either. It stands as it should, in a room +by itself, and is thronged at all hours by female worshippers. +They never tire of gazing at it; and I should believe, from the +open-mouthed wonder of those whom I met at its pedestal, that +the story of the girl who pined and died for love of it, was neither +improbable nor singular.</p> + +<p>Raphael's "Transfiguration" is agreed to be the finest picture +in the world. I had made up my mind to the same opinion from +the engravings of it, but was painfully disappointed in the picture. +I looked at it from every corner of the room, and asked the +<i>custode</i> three times if he was sure this was the original. The +color offended my eye, blind as Raphael's name should make it, +and I left the room with a sigh, and an unsettled faith in my own +taste, that made me seriously unhappy. My complacency was +restored a few hours after on hearing that the wonder was entirely +in the drawing—the colors having quite changed with time. I +bought the engraving immediately, which you have seen too often, +of course, to need my commentary. The aerial lightness with +which he has hung the figures of the Saviour and the apostles in +the air, is a triumph of the pencil over the laws of nature, that +seem to have required the power of the miracle itself.</p> + +<p>I lost myself in coming home, and following a priest's +direction to the Corso, came unexpectedly upon the "Pantheon," +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_305" id="Page_305">305</a></span> +which I recognised at once. This wonder of architecture has no +questionable beauty. A dunce would not need to be told that it +was perfect. Its Corinthian columns fall on the eye with that +sense of fulness that seems to answer an instinct of beauty in the +very organ. One feels a fault or an excellence in architecture +long before he can give the feeling a name; and I can see why, +by Childe Harold and others, this heathen temple is called "the +pride of Rome," though I cannot venture on a description. The +faultless interior is now used as a church, and there lie Annibal +Carracci and the divine Raphael—two names worthy of the +place, and the last, of a shrine in every bosom capable of a +conception of beauty. Glorious Raphael! If there was no +other relic in Rome, one would willingly become a pilgrim to his +ashes.</p> + +<p>With my countryman and friend, Mr. Cleveland, I stood in +the Roman forum by the light of a clear half moon. The soft +silver rays poured in through the ruined columns of the Temple +of Fortune and threw our shadows upon the bases of the tall +shafts near the capitol, the remains, I believe, of the temple +erected by Augustus to Jupiter Tonans. Impressive things they +are, even without their name, standing tall and alone, with their +broken capitals wreathed with ivy, and neither roof nor wall to +support them, where they were placed by hands that have mouldered +for centuries. It is difficult to rally one's senses in such a +place, and be awake coldly to the scene. We stood, as we supposed, +in the Rostrum. The noble arch, still almost perfect, +erected by the senate to Septimius Severus, stood up clear and +lofty beside us, the three matchless and lonely columns of the +supposed temple of Jupiter Stator threw their shadows across +the Forum below, the great arch, built at the conquest of Jerusalem +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_306" id="Page_306">306</a></span> +to Titus, was visible in the distance, and above them all, on +the gentle ascent of the Palatine, stood the ruined palace of the +Cesars, the sharp edges of the demolished walls breaking up +through vines and ivy, and the mellow moon of Italy softening +rock and foliage into one silver-edged mass of shadow. It seems +as if the very genius of the picturesque had arranged these immortal +ruins. If the heaps of fresh excavation were but overgrown +with grass, no poet nor painter could better image out the +Rome of his dream. It surpasses fancy.</p> + +<p>We walked on, over fragments of marble columns turned up +from the mould, and leaving the majestic arches of the Temple +of Peace on our left, passed under the arch of Titus (so dreaded +by the Jews), to the Coliseum. This too is magnificently ruined—broken +in every part, and yet showing still the brave skeleton +of what it was—its gigantic and triple walls, half encircling the +silent area, and its rocky seats lifting one above the other amid +weeds and ivy, and darkening the dens beneath, whence issued +the gladiators, beasts, and Christian martyrs, to be sacrificed for +the amusement of Rome. A sentinel paced at the gigantic archway, +a capuchin monk, whose duty is to attend the small chapels +built around the arena, walked up and down in his russet cowl +and sandals, the moon broke through the clefts in the wall, and +the whole place was buried in the silence of a wilderness. I +have given you the features of the scene—I leave you to people +it with your own thoughts. I dare not trust mine to a colder +medium than poetry. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_307" id="Page_307"></a></span></p> + +<h3>LETTER XLIII.</h3> + +<p class="ch_sum"> +TIVOLI—RUINS OF THE BATHS OF DIOCLETIAN—FALLS OF TIVOLI—CASCATELLI—SUBJECT +OF ONE OF COLE'S LANDSCAPES—RUINS +OF THE VILLAGE OF MECÆNAS—RUINED VILLA OF ADRIAN—THE +FORUM—TEMPLE OF VESTA—THE CLOACA MAXIMA—THE RIVER +JUTURNA, ETC.</p> + +<p>I have spent a day at Tivoli with Messrs. Auchmuty and +Bissell, of our navy, and one or two others, forming quite an +American party. We passed the ruins of the baths of Diocletian, +with a heavy cloud over our heads; but we were scarce +through the gate, when the sun broke through, the rain swept off +over Soracte, and the sky was clear till sunset.</p> + +<p>I have seen many finer falls than Tivoli; that is, more water, +and falling farther; but I do not think there is so pretty a place +in the world. A very dirty village, a dirtier hotel, and a +cicerone all rags and ruffianism, are somewhat dampers to anticipation. +We passed through a broken gate, and with a step, +were in a glen of fairy-land; the lightest and loveliest of antique +temples on a crag above, a snowy waterfall of some hundred and +fifty feet below, grottoes mossed to the mouth at the river's outlet, +and all up and down the cleft valley vines twisted in the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_308" id="Page_308">308</a></span> +crevices of rock, and shrubbery hanging on every ledge, with a +felicity of taste or nature, or both, that is uncommon even in +Italy. The fall itself comes rushing down through a grotto to the +face of the precipice, over which it leaps, and looks like a subterranean +river just coming to light. Its bed is rough above, and it +bursts forth from its cavern in dazzling foam, and falls in one sparry +sheet to the gulf. The falls of Montmorenci are not unlike it.</p> + +<p>We descended to the bottom, and from the little terrace, wet +by the spray, and dark with overhanging rocks, looked up the +"cavern of Neptune," a deep passage, through which the divided +river rushes to meet the fall in the gulf. Then remounting to +the top, we took mules to make the three miles' circuit of the +glen, and see what are called the <i>Cascatelli</i>.</p> + +<p>No fairy-work could exceed the beauty of the little antique +Sybil's temple perched on the top of the crag above the fall. As +we rode round the other edge of the glen, it stood opposite us in +all the beauty of its light and airy architecture; a thing that +might be borne, "like Loretto's chapel, through the air," and +seem no miracle.</p> + +<p>A mile farther on I began to recognize the features of the +scene, at a most lovely point of view. It was the subject of one +of Cole's landscapes, which I had seen in Florence; and I need +not say to any one who knows the works of this admirable artist, +that it was done with truth and taste.<a name="FNanchor_3" id="FNanchor_3" href="#Footnote_3" class="fnanchor">[3]</a> The little town of Tivoli +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_309" id="Page_309">309</a></span> +hangs on a jutting lap of a mountain, on the side of the ravine +opposite to your point of view. From beneath its walls, as if its +foundations were laid upon a river's fountains, bursts foaming +water in some thirty different falls; and it seems to you as if the +long declivities were that moment for the first time overflowed, +for the currents go dashing under trees, and overleaping vines +and shrubs, appearing and disappearing continually, till they +all meet in the quiet bed of the river below. "<i>It was made by +Bernini</i>," said the guide, as we stood gazing at it; and, odd as +this information sounded, while wondering at a spectacle worthy +of the happiest accident of nature, it will explain the phenomena +of the place to you—the artist having turned a mountain river +from its course, and leading it under the town of Tivoli, threw it +over the sides of the precipitous hill upon which it stands. One +of the streams appears from beneath the ruins of the "Villa of +Mecænas," which topples over a precipice just below the town, +looking over the campagna toward Rome—a situation worthy of +the patron of the poets. We rode through the immense subterranean +arches, which formed its court, in ascending the mountain +again to the town.</p> + +<p>Near Tivoli is the ruined villa of Adrian, where was found the +Venus de Medicis, and some other of the wonders of antique art. +The sun had set, however, and the long campagna of twenty +miles lay between us and Rome. We were compelled to leave it +unseen. We entered the gates at nine o'clock, <i>unrobbed</i>—rather +an unusual good fortune, we were told, for travellers +after dark on that lonely waste. Perhaps our number deprived +us of the romance. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_310" id="Page_310">310</a></span></p> + +<p>I left a crowded ball-room at midnight, wearied with a day at +Tivoli, and oppressed with an atmosphere breathed by two hundred, +dancing and card-playing, Romans and foreigners; and +with a step from the portico of the noble palace of our host, +came into a broad beam of moonlight, that with the stillness and +coolness of the night refreshed me at once, and banished all disposition +for sleep. A friend was with me, and I proposed a +ramble among the ruins.</p> + +<p>The sentinel challenged us as we entered the Forum. The +frequent robberies of romantic strangers in this lonely place have +made a guard necessary, and they are now stationed from the +Arch of Severus to the Coliseum. We passed an hour rambling +among the ruins of the temples. Not a footstep was to be heard, +nor a sound even from the near city; and the tall columns, with +their broken friezes and capitals, and the grand imperishable +arches, stood up in the bright light of the moon, looking indeed +like monuments of Rome. I am told they are less majestic by +daylight. The rubbish and fresh earth injure the effect. But I +have as yet seen them in the garb of moonlight only, and I shall +carry this impression away. It is to me, now, all that my fancy +hoped to find it—its temples and columns just enough in ruin to +be affecting and beautiful.</p> + +<p>We went thence to the Temple of Vesta. It is shut up in the +modern streets, ten or fifteen minutes walk from the Forum. +The picture of this perfect temple, and the beautiful purpose of +its consecration, have been always prominent in my imaginary +Rome. It is worthy of its association—an exquisite round temple, +with its simple circle of columns from the base to the roof, a +faultless thing in proportion, and as light and floating to the eye +as if the wind might lift it. It was no common place to stand +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_311" id="Page_311">311</a></span> +beside, and recall the poetical truth and fiction of which it has +been the scene—the vestal lamp cherished or neglected by its +high-born votaries, their honors if pure, and their dreadful death +if faithless. It needed not the heavenly moonlight that broke +across its columns to make it a very shrine of fancy.</p> + +<p>My companion proposed a visit next to the Cloaca Maxima. +A <i>common sewer</i>, after the Temple of Vesta, sounds like an abrupt +transition; but the arches beneath which we descended were +touched by moonlight, and the vines and ivy crossed our path, +and instead of a drain of filth, which the fame of its imperial +builder would scarce have sweetened, a rapid stream leaped to +the right, and disappeared again beneath the solid masonry, more +like a wild brook plunging into a grotto than the thing one expects +to find it. The clear little river <i>Juturna</i> (on the banks of +which Castor and Pollux watered their foaming horses, when +bringing the news of victory to Rome), dashes now through the +Cloaca Maxima; and a fresher or purer spot, or waters with a +more musical murmur, it has not been my fortune to see. We +stopped over a broken column for a drink, and went home, +refreshed, to bed. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_312" id="Page_312"></a></span></p> + +<h3>LETTER XLIV.</h3> + +<p class="ch_sum"> +MASS IN THE SISTINE CHAPEL—THE CARDINALS—THE "LAST +JUDGMENT"—THE POPE OF ROME—THE "ADAM AND EVE" +CHANTING OF THE PRIESTS—FESTA AT THE CHURCH OF SAN +CARLOS—GREGORY THE SIXTEENTH, HIS EQUIPAGE, TRAIN, ETC.</p> + +<p>All the world goes to hear "mass in the Sistine chapel," and +all travellers describe it. It occurs infrequently and is performed +by the Pope. We were there to-day at ten, crowding at the door +with hundreds of foreigners, mostly English, elbowed alternately +by priests and ladies, and kept in order by the Swiss guards in +their harlequin dresses and long pikes. We were admitted after +an hour's pushing, and the guard retreated to the grated door, +through which no woman is permitted to pass. Their gay bonnets +and feathers clustered behind the gilded bars, and we could +admire them for once without the qualifying reflection that they +were between us and the show. An hour more was occupied in +the entrance, one by one, of some forty cardinals with their rustling +silk trains supported by boys in purple. They passed the +gate, their train bearers lifted their cassocks and helped them to +kneel, a moment's prayer was mumbled, and they took their seats +with the same servile assistance. Their attendants placed themselves +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_313" id="Page_313">313</a></span> +at their feet, and, taking the prayer-books, the only use of +which appeared to be to display their jewelled fingers, they looked +over them at the faces behind the grating, and waited for his +Holiness.</p> + +<p>The intervals of this memory, gave us time to study the famous +<i>frescoes</i> for which the Sistine chapel is renowned. The +subject is the "Last Judgment." The Saviour sits in the midst, +pronouncing the sentence, the wicked plunging from his presence +on the left hand, and the righteous ascending with the assistance +of angels on the right. The artist had, of course, infinite scope +for expression, and the fame of the fresco (which occupies the +whole of the wall behind the altar) would seem to argue his +success. The light is miserable, however, and incense or lamp-smoke, +has obscured the colors, and one looks at it now with +little pleasure. As well as I could see, the figure of the +Saviour was more that of a tiler throwing down slates from the +top of a house in some fear of falling, than the Judge of the world +upon his throne. Some of the other parts are better, and one or +two naked females figures might once have been beautiful, but +one of the succeeding popes ordered them dressed, and they now +flaunt at the judgment-seat in colored silks, obscuring both saints +and sinners with their finery. There are some redeeming frescoes, +also by Michael Angelo, on the ceiling, among them +"Adam and Eve," exquisitely done.</p> + +<p>The Pope entered by a door at the side of the altar. With +him came a host of dignitaries and church servants, and, as he +tottered round in front of the altar, to kneel, his cap was taken +off and put on, his flowing robes lifted and spread, and he was +treated in all respects, as if he were the Deity himself. In fact, +the whole service was the worship, not of God, but of the Pope. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_314" id="Page_314">314</a></span> +The cardinals came up, one by one, with their heads bowed, and +knelt reverently to kiss his hand and the hem of his white satin +dress; his throne was higher than the altar, and ten times as +gorgeous; the incense was flung toward him, and his motions +from one side of the chapel to the other, were attended with +more ceremony and devotion than all the rest of the service +together. The chanting commenced with his entrance, and this +should have been to God alone, for it was like music from heaven. +The choir was composed of priests, who sang from massive volumes +bound in golden clasps, in a small side gallery. One stood +by the book, turning the leaves as the chant proceeded, and +keeping the measure, and the others clustered around with their +hands clasped, their heads thrown back, and their eyes closed or +fixed upon the turning leaves in such grouping and attitude as +you see in pictures of angels singing in the clouds. I have heard +wonderful music since I have been on the continent, and have +received new ideas of the compass of the human voice, and its +capacities for pathos and sweetness. But, after all the wonders +of the opera, as it is learned to sing before kings and courts, the +chanting of these priests transcended every conception in my +mind of music. It was the human voice, cleared of all earthliness, +and gushing through its organs with uncontrollable feeling +and nature. The burden of the various parts returned continually +upon one or two simple notes, the deepest and sweetest in +the octave for melody, and occasionally a single voice outran the +choir in a passionate repetition of the air, which seemed less like +musical contrivance, than an abandonment of soul and voice to a +preternatural impulse of devotion. One writes nonsense in describing +such things, but there is no other way of conveying an +idea of them. The subject is beyond the wildest superlatives. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_315" id="Page_315">315</a></span></p> + +<p>To-day we have again seen the Pope. It was a festa, and the +church of San Carlos was the scene of the ceremonies. His +Holiness came in the state-coach with six long-tailed black horses, +and all his cardinals in their red and gold carriages in his train. +The gaudy procession swept up to the steps, and the father of +the church was taken upon the shoulders of his bearers in a chair +of gold and crimson, and solemnly borne up the aisle, and deposited +within the railings of the altar, where homage was done +to him by the cardinals as before, and the half-supernatural +music of his choir awaited his motions. The church was half +filled with soldiers armed to the teeth, and drawn up on either +side, and his body-guard of Roman nobles, stood even within the +railing of the altar, capped and motionless, conveying, as everything +else does, the irresistible impression that it was the worship +of the Pope, not of God.</p> + +<p>Gregory the sixteenth, is a small old man, with a large heavy +nose, eyes buried in sluggish wrinkles, and a flushed, apoplectic +complexion. He sits, or is borne about with his eyes shut, looking +quite asleep, even his limbs hanging lifelessly. The gorgeous +and heavy papal costumes only render him more insignificant, +and when he is borne about, buried in his deep chair, or +lost in the corner of his huge black and gold pagoda of a carriage, +it is difficult to look at him without a smile. Among his cardinals, +however, there are magnificent heads, boldly marked, noble +and scholarlike, and I may say, perhaps, that there is no one of +them, who had not nature's mark upon him of superiority. +They are a dignified and impressive body of men, and their servile +homage to the Pope, seems unnatural and disgusting. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_316" id="Page_316"></a></span></p> + +<h3>LETTER XLV.</h3> + +<p class="ch_sum"> +ROME—A MORNING IN THE STUDIO OF THORWALDSEN—COLOSSAL +STATUE OF THE SAVIOUR—STATUE OF BYRON—GIBSON'S ROOMS—CUPID +AND PSYCHE—HYLAS WITH THE RIVER NYMPHS—PALAZZO +SPADA—STATUE OF POMPEY—BORGHESE PALACE—PORTRAIT OF +CESAR BORGIA—DOSSI'S PSYCHE—SACRED AND PROFANE LOVE—ROOM +DEVOTED TO VENUSES—THE SOCIETY OF ROME, ETC.</p> + +<p>I have spent a morning in the studio of <i>Thorwaldsen</i>. He +is probably the greatest sculptor now living. A colossal statue +of Christ, thought by many to be his masterpiece, is the prominent +object as you enter. It is a noble conception—the mild +majesty of a Saviour expressed in a face of the most dignified +human beauty. Perhaps his full-length statue of Byron is inferior +to some of his other works, but it interested me, and I spent +most of my time in looking at it. It was taken from life; and +my friend, Mr. Auchmuty, who was with me, and who had seen +Byron frequently on board one of our ships-of-war at Leghorn, +thought it the only faithful likeness he had ever seen. The poet +is dressed oddly enough, in a morning frock coat, cravat, pantaloons, +and shoes; and, unpromising as these materials would +seem, the statue is classic and elegant to a very high degree. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_317" id="Page_317">317</a></span> +His coat is held by the two centre buttons in front (a more exquisite +cut never came from the hands of a London tailor), +swelled out a little above and below by the fleshy roundness of +his figure; his cravat is tied loosely, leaving his throat bare +(which, by the way, both in the statue and the original, was very +beautifully chiselled); and he sits upon a fragment of a column, +with a book in one hand and a pencil in the other. A man +reading a pleasant poem among the ruins of Rome, and looking +up to reflect upon a fine passage before marking it, would assume +the attitude and expression exactly. The face has half a smile +upon it, and, differing from the Apollo faces usually drawn for +Byron, is finer, and more expressive of his character than any I +ever met with. Thorwaldsen is a Dane, and is beloved by every +one for his simplicity and modesty. I did not see him.</p> + +<p>We were afterward at <i>Gibson's</i> rooms. This gentleman is an +English artist, apparently about thirty, and full of genius. He +has taken some portraits which are esteemed admirable; but his +principal labor has been thrown upon the most beautiful fables +of antiquity. His various groups and bas-reliefs of Cupid and +Psyche are worthy of the beauty of the story. His <i>chef d'œuvre</i>, +I think, is a group of three figures, representing the boy, "Hylas +with the river nymphs." He stands between them with the +pitcher in his hand, startled with their touch, and listening to +their persuasions. The smaller of the two female figures is an +almost matchless conception of loveliness. Gibson went round +with us kindly, and I was delighted with his modesty of manner, +and the apparently completely poetical character of his mind. +He has a noble head, a lofty forehead well marked, and a mouth +of finely mingled strength and mildness. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_318" id="Page_318">318</a></span></p> + +<p>We devoted this morning to <i>palaces</i>. At the <i>Palazzo Spada</i> +we saw the statue of Pompey, at the base of which Cesar fell. +Antiquaries dispute its authenticity, but the evidence is quite +strong enough for a poetical belief; and if it were not, one's time +is not lost, for the statue is a majestic thing, and well worth the +long walk necessary to see it. The mutilated arm, and the hole +in the wall behind, remind one of the ludicrous fantasy of the +French, who carried it to the Forum to enact "Brutus" at its +base.</p> + +<p>The <i>Borghese Palace</i> is rich in pictures. The portrait of <i>Cesar +Borgia</i>, by Titian, is one of the most striking. It represents +that accomplished villain with rather slight features, and, barring +a look of cool determination about his well-formed lips, with +rather a prepossessing countenance. One detects in it the +capabilities of such a character as his, after the original is +mentioned; but otherwise he might pass for a handsome gallant, +of no more dangerous trait than a fiery temper. Just beyond it +is a very strong contrast in a figure of <i>Psyche</i>, by Dossi, of +Ferrara. She is coming on tiptoe, with the lamp, to see her +lover. The Cupid asleep is not so well done; but for an image +of a real woman, unexaggerated and lovely, I have seen nothing +which pleases me better than this Psyche. Opposite it hangs a +very celebrated Titian, representing "Sacred and Profane Love." +Two female figures are sitting by a well—one quite nude, with +her hair about her shoulders, and the other dressed, and coiffed <i>a +la mode</i>, but looking less modest to my eye than her undraped +sister. It is little wonder, however, that a man who could paint +his own daughter in the embraces of a satyr (a revolting picture, +which I saw in the Barberigo palace at Venice) should fail in +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_319" id="Page_319">319</a></span> +drawing the face of Virtue. The coloring of the picture is +exquisite, but the design is certainly a failure.</p> + +<p>The last room in the palace is devoted to Venuses—all very +naked and very bad. There might be forty, I think, and not a +limb among them that one's eye would rest upon with the least +pleasure for a single moment.</p> + +<p>The society of Rome is of course changing continually. At +this particular season, strangers from every part of the continent +are beginning to arrive, and it promises to be pleasant. I have +been at most of the parties during the fortnight that I have been +here, but find them thronged with priests, and with only the +resident society which is dull. Cards and conversation with +people one never saw before, and will certainly never see again, +are heavy pastimes. I start for Florence to-morrow, and shall +return to Rome for Holy Week, and the spring months. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_320" id="Page_320"></a></span></p> + +<h3>LETTER XLVI.</h3> + +<p class="ch_sum"> +ITALIAN AND AMERICAN SKIES—FALLS OF TERNI—THE CLITUMNUS—THE +TEMPLE—EFFECTS OF AN EARTHQUAKE AT FOLIGNO—LAKE +THRASIMENE—JOURNEY FROM ROME—FLORENCE—FLORENTINE +SCENERY—PRINCE PONIATOWSKI—JEROME BONAPARTE +AND FAMILY—WANT OF A MINISTER IN ITALY.</p> + +<p>I left Rome by the magnificent "Porta del Popolo," as the +flush of a pearly and spotless Italian sunrise deepened over +Soracte. They are so splendid without clouds—these skies of +Italy! so deep to the eye, so radiantly clear! <i>Clouds</i> make the +glory of an American sky. The "Indian summer" sunsets +excepted, our sun goes down in New England, with the extravagance +of a theatrical scene. The clouds are massed and +heavy, like piles of gold and fire, and day after day, if you +observe them, you are literally astonished with the brilliant +phenomena of the west. Here, for seven months, we have had +no rain. The sun has risen faultlessly clear, with the same gray, +and silver, and rose tints succeeding each other as regularly as +the colors in a turning prism, and it has set as constantly in +orange, gold, and purple, with scarce the variation of a painter's +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_321" id="Page_321">321</a></span> +pallet, from one day to another. It is really most delightful to live +under such heavens as these; to be depressed never by a gloomy +sky, nor ill from a chance exposure to a chill wind, nor out of +humor because the rain or damp keeps you a prisoner at home. +You feel the delicious climate in a thousand ways. It is a +positive blessing, and were worth more than a fortune, if it were +bought and sold. I would rather be poor in Italy, than rich in +any other country in the world.</p> + +<p>We ascended the mountain that shuts in the campagna on the +north, and turned, while the horses breathed, to take a last look +at Rome. My two friends, the lieutenants, and myself, occupied +the interior of the vetturino, in company with a young Roman +woman, who was making her first journey from home. She was +going to see her husband. I pointed out of the window to the +distant dome of St. Peter's, rising above the thin smoke hung +over the city, and she looked at it with the tears streaming from +her large black eyes in torrents. She might have cried because +she was going to her husband, but I could not divest myself of +the fact that she was a Roman, and leaving a home that <i>could</i> be +very romantically wept for. She was a fine specimen of this finest +of the races of woman—amply proportioned without grossness, +and with that certain presence or dignity that rises above manners +and rank, common to them all.</p> + +<p>We saw beautiful scenery at Narni. The town stands on the +edge of a precipice, and the valley, a hundred feet or two below, +is coursed by a wild stream, that goes foaming along its bed in a +long line of froth for miles away. We dined here, and drove +afterward to Terni, where the voiturier stopped for the night, to +give us an opportunity to see the <i>Falls</i>.</p> + +<p>We drove to the mountain base, three miles, in an old post +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_322" id="Page_322">322</a></span> +barouche, and made the ascent on foot. A line of precipices +extends along from the summit, and from the third or fourth of +these leaps the Velino, clear into the valley. We saw it in +front as we went on, and then followed the road round, till we +reached the bed of the river behind. The fountain of Egeria is +not more secludedly beautiful than its current above the fall. +Trees overhang and meet, and flowers spring in wonderful variety +on its banks, and the ripple against the roots is heard amid the +roar of the cataract, like a sweet, clear voice in a chorus. It is a +place in which you half expect to startle a fawn, it looks so +unvisited and wild. We wound out through the shrubbery, and +gained a projecting point, from which we could see the sheet of +the cascade. It is "horribly beautiful" to be sure. Childe +Harold's description of it is as true as a drawing.</p> + +<p>I should think the quantity of water at Niagara would make +five hundred such falls as those of Terni, without exaggeration. +It is a "hell of waters," however, notwithstanding, and leaps +over with a current all turned into foam by the roughness of its +bed above—a circumstance that gives the sheet more richness of +surface. Two or three lovely little streams steal off on either +side of the fall, as if they shrunk from the leap, and drop down, +from rock to rock, till they are lost in the rising mist.</p> + +<p>The sun set over the little town of Terni, while we stood +silently looking down into the gulf, and the wet spray reminded +us that the most romantic people may take cold. We descended +to our carriage; and in an hour were sitting around the blazing +fire at the post-house, with a motley group of Germans, Swiss, +French, and Italians—a mixture of company universal in the +public room of an Italian albergo, at night. The coming and +going vetturini stop at the same houses throughout, and the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_323" id="Page_323">323</a></span> +concourse is always amusing. We sat till the fire burned low, +and then wishing our chance friends a happy night, had the +"priests"<a name="FNanchor_4" id="FNanchor_4" href="#Footnote_4" class="fnanchor">[4]</a> taken from our beds, and were soon lost to everything +but sleep.</p> + +<p>Terni was the Italian Tempe, and its beautiful scenery was +shown to Cicero, whose excursion hither is recorded. It is part +of a long, deep valley, between abrupt ranges of mountains, and +abounds in loveliness.</p> + +<p>We went to Spoleto, the next morning, to breakfast. It is a +very old town, oddly built, and one of its gates still remains, at +which Hannibal was repulsed after his victory at Thrasimene. +It bears his name in time-worn letters.</p> + +<p>At the distance of one post from Spoleto we came to the +<i>Clitumnus</i>, a small stream, still, deep, and glassy—the clearest +water I ever saw. It looks almost like air. On its bank, facing +away from the road, stands the temple, "of small and delicate +proportions," mentioned so exquisitely by Childe Harold.</p> + +<p>The temple of the Clitumnus might stand in a drawing-room. +The stream is a mere brook, and this little marble gem, whose +richly fretted columns were raised to its honor with a feeling of +beauty that makes one thrill, seems exactly of relative proportions. +It is a thing of pure poetry; and to find an antiquity of +such perfect preservation, with the small clear stream running +still at the base of its <i>façade</i>, just as it did when Cicero and his +contemporaries passed it on their visits to a country called after +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_324" id="Page_324">324</a></span> +the loveliest vale of Greece for its beauty, was a gratification of +the highest demand of taste. Childe Harold's lesson,</p> + +<p class="blockquot"> +"Pass not unblest the genius of the place" +</p> + +<p>was scarce necessary.<a name="FNanchor_5" id="FNanchor_5" href="#Footnote_5" class="fnanchor">[5]</a></p> + +<p>We slept at <i>Foligno</i>. For many miles we had observed that +the houses were propped in every direction, many of them in +ruins apparently recent, and small wooden sheds erected in the +midst of the squares, or beside the roads, and crowded with the +poor. The next morning we arrived at St. Angelo, and found its +gigantic cathedral a heap of ruins. Its painted chapels, to the +number of fifteen or sixteen, were half standing in the shattered +walls, the altars all exposed, and the interior of the dome one +mass of stone and rubbish. It was the first time I had seen the +effects of an <i>earthquake</i>. For eight or ten miles further, we +found every house cracked and deserted, and the people living +like the settlers in a new country, half in the open air. The +beggars were innumerable.</p> + +<p>We stopped the next night on the shores of lake Thrasimene. +For once in my life, I felt that the time spent at school on the +"dull drilled lesson," had not been wasted. I was on the battle +ground of Hannibal—the "<i>locus aptus insidiis</i>" where the consul +Flaminius was snared and beaten by the wily Carthaginian on his +march to Rome. I longed for my old copy of Livy "much +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_325" id="Page_325">325</a></span> +thumbed," that I might sit on the hill and compare the image in +my mind, made by his pithy and sententious description, with the +reality.</p> + +<p>The battle ground, the scene of the principal slaughter, was +beyond the <i>albergo</i>, and the increasing darkness compelled us to +defer a visit to it till the next morning. Meantime the lake was +beautiful. We were on the eastern side, and the deep-red sky of +a departed sunset over the other shore, was reflected glowingly +on the water. All around was dark, but the light in the sky and +lake seemed to have forgotten to follow. It is a phenomenon +peculiar to Italy. The heavens seem "dyed" and steeped in the +glory of the sunset.</p> + +<p>We drank our host's best bottle of wine, the grape plucked +from the battle ground; and if it was not better for the Roman +blood that had manured its ancestor, it was better for some other +reason.</p> + +<p>Early the next morning we were on our way, and wound down +into the narrow pass between the lake and the hill, as the sun +rose. We crossed the <i>Sanguinetto</i>, a little stream which took its +name from the battle. The principal slaughter was just on its +banks, and the hills are so steep above it, that everybody who +fell near must have rolled into its bed. It crawls on very quietly +across the road, its clear stream scarce interrupted by the wheels +of the vetturino, which in crossing it, passes from the Roman +states into Tuscany. I ran a little up the stream, knelt and +drank at a small gurgling fall. The blood of the old Flaminian +Cohort spoiled very delicious water, when it mingled with that +brook.</p> + +<p>We were six days and a half accomplishing the hundred and +eighty miles from Rome to Florence—slow travelling—but not +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_326" id="Page_326">326</a></span> +too slow in Italy, where every stone has its story, and every +ascent of a hill its twenty matchless pictures, sprinkled with +ruins, as a painter's eye could not imagine them. We looked +down on the Eden-like valley of the Arno at sunrise, and again +my heart leaped to see the tall dome of Florence, and the hills +all about the queenly city, sparkling with palaces and bright in a +sun that shines nowhere so kindly. If there is a spot in the +world that could wean one from his native home, it is Florence! +"Florence the fair," they call her! I have passed four of the +seven months I have been in Italy, here—and I think I shall pass +here as great a proportion of the rest of my life. There is nothing +that can contribute to comfort and pleasure, that is not within the +reach of the smallest means in Florence. I never saw a place +where wealth made less distinction. The choicest galleries of art +in the world, are open to all comers. The palace of the monarch +may be entered and visited, and enjoyed by all. The ducal +gardens of the Boboli, rich in everything that can refine nature, +and commanding views that no land can equal, cooled by +fountains, haunted in every grove by statuary, are the property +of the stranger and the citizen alike. Museums, laboratories, +libraries, grounds, palaces, are all free as Utopia. You may +take any pleasure that others can command, and have any means +of instruction, as free as the common air. Where else would +one live so pleasantly—so profitably—so wisely.</p> + +<p>The society of Florence is of a very fascinating description. +The Florentine nobles have a <i>casino</i>, or club-house, to which +most of the respectable strangers are invited, and balls are given +there once a week, frequently by the duke and his court, and the +best society of the place. I attended one on my first arrival +from Rome, at which I saw a proportion of beauty which astonished +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_327" id="Page_327">327</a></span> +me. The female descendants of the great names in Italian +history, seem to me to have almost without exception the mark +of noble beauty by nature. The loveliest woman in Florence is +a <i>Medici</i>. The two daughters of <i>Capponi</i>, the patriot and the +descendant of patriots, are of the finest order of beauty. I could +instance many others, the mention of whose names, when I have +first seen them, has made my blood start. I think if Italy is +ever to be redeemed, she must owe it to her daughters. The +men, the brothers of these women, with very rare exceptions, look +like the slaves they are, from one end of Italy to the other.</p> + +<p>One of the most hospitable houses here, is that of Prince Poniatowski, +the brother of the hero of Poland. He has a large +family, and his <i>soirées</i> are thronged with all that is fair and +distinguished. He is a venerable, grayheaded old man, of perhaps +seventy, very fond of speaking English, of which rare acquisition +abroad he seems a little vain. He gave me the heartiest +welcome as an American, and said he loved the nation.</p> + +<p>I had the honor of dining, a day or two since, with the Ex-King +of Westphalia, Jerome Bonaparte. He lives here with the title +of Prince Montfort, conferred on him by his father-in-law, the +king of Wurtemburg. Americans are well received at this house +also; and his queen, as the prince still calls her, can never say +enough in praise of the family of Mr. H., our former secretary of +legation at Paris. It is a constantly recurring theme, and ends +always with "<i>J'aime beaucoup les Americains</i>." The prince +resembles his brother, but has a milder face, and his mouth is less +firm and less beautiful than Napoleon's. His second son is most +remarkably like the emperor. He is about ten years of age; but +except his youth, you can detect no difference between his head +and the busts of his uncle. He has a daughter of about twelve, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_328" id="Page_328">328</a></span> +and an elder son at the university of Sienna. His family is large +as his queen still keeps up her state, with the ladies of honor and +suite. He never goes out, but his house is open every night, and +the best society of Florence may be met there almost at the <i>prima +sera</i>, or early part of the evening.</p> + +<p>The Grand Duke is about to be married, and the court is to be +unusually gay in the carnival. Our countryman, Mr. Thorn, was +presented some time since, and I am to have that honor in two +or three days. By the way, we feel exceedingly in Italy the +want of a <i>minister</i>. There is no accredited agent of our government +in Tuscany, and there are rarely less than three hundred +Americans within its dominions. Fortunately the Marquis Corsi, +the grand chamberlain of the duke, offers to act in the capacity +of an ambassador, and neglects nothing for our advantage in such +matters, but he never fails to express his regret that we should +not have some <i>chargé d'affaires</i> at his court. We have officers +in many parts of the world where they are much less needed. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_329" id="Page_329"></a></span></p> + +<h3>LETTER XLVII.</h3> + +<p class="ch_sum"> +FLORENCE—GRAND DUKE OF TUSCANY—THE GRAND CHAMBERLAIN—PRINCE +DE LIGNE—THE AUSTRIAN AMBASSADOR—THE +MARQUIS TORRIGIANI—LEOPOLD OF TUSCANY—VIEWS +OF THE VAL D'ARNO—SPLENDID BALL—TREES OF CANDLES—THE +DUKE AND DUCHESS—HIGHBORN ITALIAN AND ENGLISH +BEAUTIES, ETC., ETC.</p> + +<p>I was presented to the grand Duke of Tuscany yesterday +morning, at a private audience. As we have no minister at this +court, I drove alone to the ducal palace, and, passing through +the body-guard of young nobles, was met at the door of the ante-chamber +by the Marquis Corsi, the grand chamberlain. Around +a blazing fire, in this room, stood five or six persons, in splendid +uniforms, to whom I was introduced on entering. One was the +Prince de Ligne—traveling at present in Italy, and waiting to be +presented by the Austrian ambassador—a young and remarkably +handsome man of twenty-five. He showed a knowledge of America, +in the course of a half hour's conversation, which rather +surprised me, inquiring particularly about the residences and condition +of the United States' ministers whom he had met at the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_330" id="Page_330">330</a></span> +various courts of Europe. The Austrian ambassador, an old, +wily-looking man, covered with orders, joined in the conversation +and asked after our former minister at Paris, Mr. Brown, remarking +that he had done the United States great credit, during his +embassy. He had known Mr. Gallatin also, and spoke highly of +him. Mr. Van Buren's election to the vice-presidency, after his +recall, seemed greatly to surprise him.</p> + +<p>The Prince was summoned to the presence of the Duke, and I +remained some fifteen minutes in conversation with a venerable +and noble-looking man, the Marquis Torrigiani, one of the chamberlains. +His eldest son has lately gone upon his travels in the +United States, in company with Mr. Thorn, an American gentleman +living in Florence. He seemed to think the voyage a great +undertaking. Torrigiani is one of the oldest of the Florentine +nobles, and his family is in high esteem.</p> + +<p>As the Austrian minister came out, the Grand Chamberlain +came for me, and I entered the presence of the Duke. He was +standing quite alone in a small, plain room, dressed in a simple +white uniform, with a star upon his breast—a slender, pale, +scholar-like looking young man, of perhaps thirty years. He +received me with a pleasant smile, and crossing his hands behind +him, came close to me, and commenced questioning me about +America. The departure of young Torrigiani for the United +States pleased him, and he said he should like to go himself—"but," +said he, "a voyage of three thousand miles and back—<i>comment +faire!</i>" and he threw out his hands with a look of mock +despair that was very expressive. He assured me he felt great +pleasure at Mr. Thorn's having taken up his residence in Florence. +He had sent for his whole family a few days before, and promised +them every attention to their comfort during the absence of Mr. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_331" id="Page_331">331</a></span> +Thorn. He said young Torrigiani was <i>bien instruit</i>, and would +travel to advantage, without doubt. At every pause of his inquiries, +he looked me full in the eyes, and seemed anxious to +yield me the <i>parole</i> and listen. He bowed with a smile, after I +had been with him perhaps half an hour, and I took my leave +with all the impressions of his character which common report +had given me, quite confirmed. He is said to be the best monarch +in Europe, and it is written most expressively in his mild, +amiable features.</p> + +<p>The Duke is very unwilling to marry again, although the crown +passes from his family if he die without a male heir. He has +two daughters, lovely children, between five and seven, whose +mother died not quite a year since. She was unusually beloved, +both by her husband and his subjects, and is still talked of by the +people, and never without the deepest regret. She was very +religious, and is said to have died of a cold taken in doing a +severe penance. The Duke watched with her day and night, till +she died; and I was told by the old Chamberlain, that he cannot +yet speak of her without tears.</p> + +<p>With the new year, the Grand Duke of Tuscany threw off his +mourning. Not from his countenance, for the sadness of that is +habitual; but his equipages have laid off their black trappings, +his grooms and outriders are in drab and gold, and, more important +to us strangers in his capital, the ducal palace is aired with +a weekly reception and ball, as splendid and hospitable as money +and taste can make them.</p> + +<p>Leopold of Tuscany is said to be the richest individual in +Europe. The Palazzo Pitti, in which he lives, seems to confirm +it. The exterior is marked with the character of the times in +which it was built, and might be that of a fortress—its long, dark +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_332" id="Page_332">332</a></span> +front of roughly-hewn stone, with its two slight, out-curving +wings, bearing a look of more strength than beauty. The interior +is incalculably rich. The suite of halls on the front side is +the home of the choicest and most extensive gallery of pictures +in the world. The tables of inlaid gems and mosaic, the walls +encrusted with relievos, the curious floors, the drapery—all +satiate the eye with sumptuousness. It is built against a hill, +and I was surprised, on the night of the ball, to find myself +alighting from the carriage upon the same floor to which I had +mounted from the front by tediously long staircases. The Duke +thus rides in his carriage to his upper story—an advantage which +saves him no little fatigue and exposure. The gardens of the +Boboli, which cover the hill behind, rise far above the turrets of +the palace, and command glorious views of the Val d'Arno.</p> + +<p>The reception hour at the ball was from eight to nine. We were +received at the steps on the garden side of the palace, by a crowd +of servants, in livery, under the orders of a fat major-domo, and +passing through a long gallery, lined with exotics and grenadiers, +we arrived at the anteroom, where the Duke's body-guard of +nobles were drawn up in attendance. The band was playing delightfully +in the saloon beyond. I had arrived late, having been +presented a few days before, and desirous of avoiding the stiffness +of the first hour of presentation. The rooms were in a blaze of +light from eight <i>trees</i> of candles, cypress-shaped, and reaching +from the floor to the ceiling, and the company entirely assembled, +crowded them with a dazzling show of jewels, flowers, feathers, +and uniforms.</p> + +<p>The Duke and the Grand Duchess (the widow of the late +Duke) stood in the centre of the room, and in the pauses of conversation, +the different ambassadors presented their countrymen. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_333" id="Page_333">333</a></span> +His highness was dressed in a suit of plain black, probably the +worst made clothes in Florence. With his pale, timid face, his +bent shoulders, an inexpressibly ill-tied cravat, and rank, untrimmed +whiskers, he was the most uncourtly person present. His +extreme popularity as a monarch is certainly very independent +of his personal address. His mother-in-law is about his own age, +with marked features, full of talent, a pale, high forehead, and +the bearing altogether of a queen. She wore a small diadem of +the purest diamonds, and with her height and her flashing jewels, +she was conspicuous from every part of the room. She is a high +Catholic, and is said to be bending all her powers upon the re-establishment +of the Jesuits in Florence.</p> + +<p>As soon as the presentations were over, the Grand Duke led +out the wife of the English ambassador, and opened the ball with +a waltz. He then danced a quadrille with the wife of the French +ambassador, and for his next partner selected an <i>American lady</i>—the +daughter of Colonel T——, of New York.</p> + +<p>The supper rooms were opened early, and among the delicacies +of a table loaded with everything rare and luxurious, were a brace +or two of pheasants from the Duke's estates in Germany. Duly +flavored with <i>truffes</i>, and accompanied with Rhine wines, which +deserved the conspicuous place given them upon the royal table—and +in this letter.</p> + +<p>I hardly dare speak of the degree of <i>beauty</i> in the assembly; +it is so difficult to compare a new impression with an old one, +and the thing itself is so indefinite. But there were two persons +present whose extreme loveliness, as it is not disputed even by +admiring envy, may be worth describing, for the sake of the +comparison.</p> + +<p>The Princess S—— may be twenty-four years of age. She is +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_334" id="Page_334">334</a></span> +of the middle height, with the slight stoop in her shoulders, +which is rather a grace than a fault. Her bust is exquisitely +turned, her neck slender but full, her arms, hands, and feet, +those of a Psyche. Her face is the abstraction of highborn +Italian beauty—calm, almost to indifference, of an indescribably +<i>glowing paleness</i>—a complexion that would be alabaster if it +were not for the richness of the blood beneath, betrayed in lips +whose depth of color and fineness of curve seem only too curiously +beautiful to be the work of nature. Her eyes are dark and +large, and must have had an indolent expression in her childhood, +but are now the very seat and soul of feeling. A constant trace +of pain mars the beauty of her forehead. She dresses her hair +with a kind of characteristic departure from the mode, parting +its glossy flakes on her brow with nymph-like simplicity, a peculiarity +which one regrets not to see in the too Parisian dress of +her person. In her manner she is strikingly elegant, but without +being absent, she seems to give an unconscious attention to what +is about her, and to be gracious and winning without knowing or +intending it, merely because she could not listen or speak otherwise. +Her voice is sweet, and, in her own Italian, mellow and +soft to a degree inconceivable by those who have not heard this +delicious language spoken in its native land. With all these advantages, +and a look of pride that nothing could insult, there is +an expression in her beautiful face that reminds you of her sex +and its temptations, and prepares you fully for the history which +you may hear from the first woman that stands at your elbow.</p> + +<p>The other is that English girl of seventeen, shrinking timidly +from the crowd, and leaning with her hands clasped over her +father's arm, apparently listening only to the waltz, and unconscious +that every eye is fixed upon her in admiration. She has +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_335" id="Page_335">335</a></span> +lived all her life in Italy, but has been bred by an English +mother, in a retired villa of the Val d'Arno—her character and +feelings are those of her race, and nothing of Italy about her, but +the glow of its sunny clime in the else spotless snow of her complexion, +and an enthusiasm in her downcast eye that you may +account for as you will—it is not English! Her form has just +ripened into womanhood. The bust still wants fullness, and the +step confidence. Her forehead is rather too intellectual to be +maidenly; but the droop of her singularly long eye-lashes over +eyes that elude the most guarded glance of your own, and the +modest expression of her lips closed but not pressed together, +redeem her from any look of conscious superiority, and convince +you that she only seeks to be unobserved. A single ringlet of +golden brown hair falls nearly to her shoulder, catching the light +upon its glossy curves with an effect that would enchant a +painter. Lilies of the valley, the first of the season, are in her +bosom and her hair, and she might be the personification of the +flower for delicacy and beauty. You are only disappointed in +talking with her. She expresses herself with a nerve and self-command, +which, from a slight glance, you did not anticipate. +She shrinks from the general eye, but in conversation she is the +high-minded woman more than the timid child for which her +manner seems to mark her. In either light, she is the very +presence of purity. She stands by the side of her not less beautiful +rival, like a Madonna by a Magdalen—both seem not at +home in the world, but only one could have dropped from +heaven. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_336" id="Page_336"></a></span></p> + +<h3>LETTER XLVIII.</h3> + +<p class="ch_sum"> +VALLOMBROSA—ITALIAN OXEN—CONVENT—SERVICE IN THE +CHAPEL—HOUSE OCCUPIED BY MILTON.</p> + +<p>I left Florence for Vallombrosa at daylight on a warm summer's +morning, in company with four ladies. We drove along +the northern bank of the Arno for four or five miles, passing +several beautiful villas, belonging to the Florentine nobles; and, +crossing the river by a picturesque bridge, took the road to the +village of Pelago, which lies at the foot of the mountain, and is +the farthest point to which a carriage can mount. It is about +fourteen miles from Florence, and the ascent thence to the convent +is nearly three.</p> + +<p>We alighted in the centre of the village, in the midst of a ragged +troop of women and children, among whom were two idiot +beggars; and, while the preparations were making for our ascent, +we took chairs in the open square around a basket of cherries, +and made a delicious luncheon of fruit and bread, very much to +the astonishment of some two hundred spectators.</p> + +<p>Our conveyances appeared in the course of half an hour, consisting +of two large baskets, each drawn by a pair of oxen and +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_337" id="Page_337">337</a></span> +containing two persons, and a small Sardinian pony. The ladies +seated themselves with some hesitation in their singular sledges; +I mounted the pony, and we made a dusty exit from Pelago, +attended to the gate by our gaping friends, who bowed, and +wished us the <i>bon viaggio</i> with more gratitude than three Tuscan +<i>crazie</i> would buy, I am sure, in any other part of the world.</p> + +<p>The gray oxen of Italy are quite a different race from ours, +much lighter and quicker, and in a small vehicle they will trot +off five or six miles in the hour as freely as a horse. They are +exceedingly beautiful. The hide is very fine, of a soft squirrel +gray, and as sleek and polished often as that of a well-groomed +courser. With their large, bright, intelligent eyes, high-lifted +heads, and open nostrils, they are among the finest-looking animals +in the world in motion. We soon came to the steep path, +and the facility with which our singular equipages mounted was +surprising. I followed, as well as I could, on my diminutive +pony, my feet touching the ground, and my balance constantly +endangered by the contact of stumps and stones—the hard-mouthed +little creature taking his own way, in spite of every +effort of mine to the contrary.</p> + +<p>We stopped to breathe in a deep, cool glen, which lay across +our path, the descent into which was very difficult. The road +through the bottom of it ran just above the bank of a brook, into +which poured a pretty fall of eight or ten feet, and with the +spray-wet grass beneath, and the full-leaved chestnuts above, it +was as delicious a spot for a rest in a summer noontide as I ever +saw. The ladies took out their pencils and sketched it, making +a group themselves the while, which added all the picture +wanted.</p> + +<p>The path wound continually about in the deep woods, with +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_338" id="Page_338">338</a></span> +which the mountain is covered, and occasionally from an opening +we obtained a view back upon the valley of the Arno, which was +exceedingly fine. We came in sight of the convent in about two +hours, emerging from the shade of the thick chestnuts into a +cultivated lawn, fenced and mown with the nicety of the grass-plot +before a cottage, and entering upon a smooth, well-swept +pavement, approached the gate of the venerable-looking pile, as +anxious for the refreshment of its far-famed hospitality as ever +pilgrims were.</p> + +<p>An old cheerful-looking monk came out to meet us, and shaking +hands with the ladies very cordially, assisted in extracting +them from their cramped conveyances. He then led the way to +a small stone cottage, a little removed from the convent, quoting +gravely by the way the law of the order against the entrance of +females over the monastic threshold. We were ushered into a +small, neat parlor, with two bedrooms communicating, and two +of the servants of the monastery followed, with water and snow-white +napkins, the <i>padre degli forestieri</i>, as they called the old +monk, who received us, talking most volubly all the while.</p> + +<p>The cook appeared presently with a low reverence, and asked +what we would like for dinner. He ran over the contents of the +larder before we had time to answer his question, enumerating +half a dozen kinds of game, and a variety altogether that rather +surprised our ideas of monastical severity. His own rosy gills +bore testimony that it was not the kitchen of Dennis Bulgruddery.</p> + +<p>While dinner was preparing, Father Gasparo proposed a walk. +An avenue of the most majestic trees opened immediately away +from the little lawn before the cottage door. We followed it +perhaps half a mile round the mountain, threading a thick pine +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_339" id="Page_339">339</a></span> +forest, till we emerged on the edge of a shelf of greensward, running +just under the summit of the hill. From this spot the view +was limited only by the power of the eye. The silver line of the +Mediterranean off Leghorn is seen hence on a clear day, between +which and the mountain lie sixty or seventy miles, wound into +the loveliest undulations by the course of the Arno. The vale +of this beautiful river, in which Florence stands, was just distinguishable +as a mere dell in the prospect. It was one of the sultriest +days of August, but the air was vividly fresh, and the sun, +with all the strength of the climate of Italy, was unoppressive. +We seated ourselves on the small fine grass of the hillside, and +with the good old monk narrating passages of his life, enjoyed +the glorious scene till the cook's messenger summoned us back to +dinner.</p> + +<p>We were waited upon at table by two young servitors of the +convent, with shaven crowns and long black cassocks, under the +direction of Father Gasparo, who sat at a little distance, entertaining +us with his inexhaustible stories till the bell rung for the +convent supper. The dinner would have graced the table of an +emperor. Soup, beef, cutlets, ducks, woodcocks, followed each +other, cooked in the most approved manner, with all the accompaniments +established by taste and usage; and better wine, white +and red, never was pressed from the Tuscan grape. The dessert +was various and plentiful; and while we were sitting, after +the good father's departure, wondering at the luxuries we had +found on a mountain-top, strong coffee and <i>liqueurs</i> were set before +us, both of the finest flavor.</p> + +<p>I was to sleep myself in the convent. Father Gasparo joined +us upon the wooden bench in the avenue, where we were enjoying +a brilliant sunset, and informed me that the gates shut at +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_340" id="Page_340">340</a></span> +eight. The vesper-bell soon rung, echoing round from the rocks, +and I bade my four companions good night, and followed the +monk to the cloisters. As we entered the postern, he asked me +whether I would go directly to the cell, or attend first the service +in the chapel, assisting my decision at the same time by gently +slipping his arm through mine and drawing me toward the cloth +door, from which a strong peal of the organ was issuing.</p> + +<p>We lifted the suspended curtain, and entered a chapel so +dimly lit, that I could only judge of its extent from the reverberations +of the music. The lamps were all in the choir, behind +the altar, and the shuffling footsteps of the gathering monks +approached it from every quarter. Father Gasparo led me to +the base of a pillar, and telling me to kneel, left me and entered +the choir, where he was lost in the depth of one of the old richly-carved +seats for a few minutes, appearing again with thirty or +forty others, who rose and joined in the chorus of the chant, +making the hollow roof ring with the deep unmingled base of +their voices.</p> + +<p>I stood till I was chilled, listening to the service, and looking +at the long line of monks rising and sitting, with their monotonous +changes of books and positions, and not knowing which way +to go for warmth or retirement. I wandered up and down the +dim church during the remaining hour, an unwilling, but not +altogether an unamused spectator of the scene. The performers +of the service, with the exception of Father Gasparo, were +young men from sixteen to twenty; but during my slow turns to +and fro on the pavement of the church, fifteen or twenty old +monks entered, and, with a bend of the knee before the altar +went off into the obscure corners, and knelt motionless at prayer, +for almost an hour. I could just distinguish the dark outline of +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_341" id="Page_341">341</a></span> +their figures when my eye became accustomed to the imperfect +light, and I never saw a finer spectacle of religious devotion.</p> + +<p>The convent clock struck ten, and shutting up their "clasped +missals," the young monks took their cloaks about them, bent +their knees in passing the altar, and disappeared by different +doors. Father Gasparo was the last to depart, and our footsteps +echoed as we passed through the long cloisters to the cell appropriated +for me. We opened one of some twenty small doors, +and I was agreeably surprised to find a supper of cold game +upon the table, with a bottle of wine, and two plates—the monk +intending to give me his company at supper. The cell was hung +round with bad engravings of the Virgin, the death of martyrs, +crosses, &c., and a small oaken desk stood against the wall beneath +a large crucifix, with a prayer-book upon it. The bed +was high, ample, and spotlessly white, and relieved the otherwise +comfortless look of a stone floor and white-washed walls. I felt +the change from summer heat to the keen mountain air, and as I +shivered and buttoned my coat, my gay guest threw over me his +heavy black cowl of cloth—a dress that, with its closeness and +numerous folds, would keep one warm in Siberia. Adding to it +his little black scull-cap, he told me, with a hearty laugh, that +but for a certain absence of sanctity in the expression of my face, +and the uncanonical length of my hair, I looked the monk complete. +We had a merry supper. The wine was of a choicer +vintage than that we had drank at dinner, and the father answered, +upon my discovery of its merits, that he <i>never wasted it +upon women</i>.</p> + +<p>In the course of the conversation, I found out that my entertainer +was a kind of butler, or head-servitor of the convent, and +that the great body of the monks were of noble lineage. The +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_342" id="Page_342">342</a></span> +feeling of pride still remains among them from the days when the +Certosa of Vallombrosa was a residence for princes, before its +splendid pictures were pillaged by a foreign army, its wealth +scattered, and its numbers diminished. "In those days," said +the monk, "we received nothing for our hospitality but the pleasure +it gave us"—relieving my mind, by the remark, of what I +looked forward to at parting as a delicate point.</p> + +<p>My host left me at midnight, and I went to bed, and slept +under a thick covering in an Italian August. "The blanched +linen, white and lavendered," seemed to have a peculiar charm, +for though I had promised to meet my excluded companions +at sunrise, on the top of the mountain, I slept soundly till +nine, and was obliged to breakfast alone in the refectory of the +convent.</p> + +<p>We were to dine at three, and start for Florence at four the +next day, and we spent our morning in traversing the mountain +paths, and getting views on every side. Fifty or a hundred feet +above the convent, perched on a rock like an eyry, stands a small +building in which Milton is supposed to have lived, during his six +weeks sojourn at the convent. It is now fitted up as a nest of +small chapels—every one of its six or eight little chambers +having an altar. The ladies were not permitted to enter it. I +selected the room I presumed the poet must have chosen—the +only one commanding the immense view to the west, and, looking +from the window, could easily feel the truth of his simile, "thick +as leaves in Vallombrosa." It is a mountain of foliage.</p> + +<p>Another sumptuous dinner was served, Father Gasparo sitting +by, even more voluble than before, the baskets and the pony were +brought to the door, and we bade farewell to the old monk with +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_343" id="Page_343">343</a></span> +more regret than a day's acquaintance often produces. We +reached our carriage in an hour, and were in Florence at eight—having +passed, by unanimous opinion, the two brightest days in +our calendar of travel. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_344" id="Page_344"></a></span></p> + +<h3>LETTER XLIX.</h3> + +<p class="ch_sum"> +HOUSE OF MICHAEL ANGELO—THE ANCIENT CHURCH OF SAN +MINIATO—MADAME CATALANI—WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR—MIDNIGHT +MASS, ETC.</p> + +<p>I went with a party this morning to visit <i>the house of Michael +Angelo</i>. It stands as he lived in it, in the Via Ghibellini, and is +still in possession of his descendants. It is a neat building of +three stories, divided on the second floor into three rooms, shown +as those occupied by the painter, sculptor, and poet. The first +is panelled and painted by his scholars after his death—each +picture representing some incident of his life. There are ten or +twelve of these, and several of them are highly beautiful. One +near the window represents him in his old age on a visit to +"Lorenzo the Magnificent," who commands him to sit in his +presence. The Duke is standing before his chair, and the figure +of the old man is finely expressive.</p> + +<p>The next room appears to have been his parlor, and the +furniture is exactly as it stood when he died. In one corner is +placed a bust of him in his youth, with his face perfect; and +opposite, another, taken from a cast after his nose was broken by +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_345" id="Page_345">345</a></span> +a fellow painter in the church of the Carmine. There are also +one or two portraits of him, and the resemblance through them +all, shows that the likeness we have of him in the engravings are +uncommonly correct.</p> + +<p>In the inner room, which was his studio, they show his pallet, +brushes, pots, maul-sticks, slippers, and easel—all standing +carelessly in the little closets around, as if he had left them but +yesterday. The walls are painted in fresco, by Angelo himself, +and represent groups of all the distinguished philosophers, poets +and statesmen of his time. Among them are the heads of +Petrarch, Dante, Galileo, and Lorenzo de Medici. It is a noble +gallery! perhaps a hundred heads in all.</p> + +<p>The descendant of Buonarotti is now an old man, and +fortunately rich enough to preserve the house of his great +ancestor as an object of curiosity. He has a son, I believe +studying the arts at Rome.</p> + +<hr class="l15" /> + +<p>On a beautiful hill which ascends directly from one of the +southern gates of Florence, stands a church built so long ago as +at the close of the first century. The gate, church, and hill, are +all called San Miniato, after a saint buried under the church +pavement. A large, and at present flourishing convent, hangs on +the side of the hill below, and around the church stand the walls +of a strong fortress, built by Michael Angelo. A half mile or +more south, across a valley, an old tower rises against the sky, +which was erected for the observations of Galileo. A mile to +the left, on the same ridge, an old villa is to be seen in which +Boccaccio wrote most of his "Hundred Tales of Love." The +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_346" id="Page_346">346</a></span> +Arno comes down from Vallombrosa, and passing through +Florence at the foot of San Miniato, is seen for three miles +further on its way to Pisa; the hill, tower, and convent of +Fiesole, where Milton studied and Catiline encamped with his +conspirators, rise from the opposite bank of the river; and right +below, as if you could leap into the lantern of the dome, nestles +the lovely city of Florence, in the lap of the very brightest vale +that ever mountain sheltered or river ran through. Such are the +temptations to a <i>walk in Italy</i>, and add to it the charms of the +climate, and you may understand one of a hundred reasons why +it is the land of poetry and romance, and why it so easily +becomes the land of a stranger's affection.</p> + +<p>The villas which sparkle all over the hills which lean unto +Florence, are occupied mainly by foreigners living here for health +or luxury, and most of them are known and visited by the floating +society of the place. Among them are Madame Catalani, the +celebrated singer, who occupies a beautiful palace on the ascent +of Fiesole, and Walter Savage Landor, the author of the +"Imaginary Conversations," as refined a scholar perhaps as is +now living, who is her near neighbor. A pleasant family of my +acquaintance lives just back of the fortress of San Miniato, and +in walking out to them with a friend yesterday, I visited the +church again, and remarked more particularly the features of +the scene I have described.</p> + +<p>The church of San Miniato was built by Henry I. of Germany, +and Cunegonde his wife. The front is pretty—a kind of mixture +of Greek and Arabic architecture, crusted with marble. The +interior is in the style of the primitive churches, the altar +standing in what was called the <i>presbytery</i>, a high platform +occupying a third of the nave, with two splendid flights of stairs +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_347" id="Page_347">347</a></span> +of the purest white marble. The most curious part of it is the +rotunda in the rear, which is lit by five windows of transparent +oriental alabaster, each eight or nine feet high and three broad, in +single slabs. The sun shone full on one of them while we were +there, and the effect was inconceivably rich. It was like a sheet +of half molten gold and silver. The transparency of course was +irregular, but in the yellow spots of the stone the light came +through like the effect of deeply stained glass.</p> + +<p>A partly subterranean chapel, six or eight feet lower than the +pavement of the church, extends under the presbytery. It is a +labyrinth of marble columns which support the platform above, +no two of which are alike. The ancient cathedral of Modena is +the only church I have seen in Italy built in the same manner.</p> + +<hr class="l15" /> + +<p>The <i>midnight mass</i> on "Christmas eve," is abused in all +catholic countries, I believe, as a kind of saturnalia of gallantry. +I joined a party of young men who were leaving a ball for the +church of the Annunciata, the fashionable rendezvous, and we +were set down at the portico when the mass was about half over. +The entrances of the open vestibule were thronged to suffocation. +People of all ages and conditions were crowding in and out, and +the sound of the distant chant at the altar came to our ears as +we entered, mingled with every tone of address and reply from +the crowd about us. The body of the church was quite obscured +with the smoke of the incense. We edged our way on through +the press, carried about in the open area of the church by every +tide that rushed in from the various doors, till we stopped in a +thick eddy in the centre, almost unable to stir a limb. I could +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_348" id="Page_348">348</a></span> +see the altar very clearly from this point, and I contented myself +with merely observing what was about me, leaving my motions to +the impulse of the crowd.</p> + +<p>It was a curiously mingled scene. The ceremonies of the +altar were going on in all their mysterious splendor. The waving +of censers, the kneeling and rising of the gorgeously clad priests, +accompanied simultaneously by the pealing of solemn music from +the different organs—the countless lights burning upon the altar, +and, ranged within the paling, a semicircle of the duke's +grenadiers, standing motionless, with their arms presented, while +the sentinel paced to and fro, and all kneeling, and grounding +arms at the tinkle of the slight bell—were the materials for the +back-ground of the picture. In the immense area of the +church stood perhaps, four thousand people, one third of whom, +doubtless, came to worship. Those who did and those who did +not, dropped alike upon the marble pavement at the sound of the +bell; and then, as I was heretic enough to stand, I had full +opportunity for observing both devotion and intrigue. The latter +was amusingly managed. Almost all the pretty and young +women were accompanied by an ostensible duenna, and the +methods of eluding their vigilance in communication were various. +I had detected under a <i>blond</i> wig, in entering, the young +ambassador of a foreign court, who being <i>cavaliere servente</i> to one +of the most beautiful women in Florence, certainly had no right +to the amusement of the hour. We had been carried up the +church in the same tide, and when the whole crowd were +prostrate, I found him just beyond me, slipping a card into the +shoe of an uncommonly pretty girl kneeling before him. She +was attended by both father and mother apparently, but as she +gave no sign of surprise, except stealing an almost imperceptible +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_349" id="Page_349">349</a></span> +glance behind her, I presumed she was not offended. I passed +an hour, perhaps, in amused observation of similar matters, most +of which could not be well described on paper. It is enough to +say, that I do not think more dissolute circumstances accompanied +the worship of Venus in the most defiled of heathen temples. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_350" id="Page_350"></a></span></p> + +<h3>LETTER L.</h3> + +<p class="ch_sum"> +FLORENCE—VISIT TO THE CHURCH OF SAN GAETANO—PENITENTIAL +PROCESSIONS—THE REFUGEE CARLISTS—THE MIRACLE OF RAIN—CHURCH +OF THE ANNUNCIATA—TOMB OF GIOVANNI DI BOLOGNA—MASTERPIECE +OF ANDREA DEL SARTO, ETC., ETC.</p> + +<p>I heard the best passage of the opera of "Romeo and Juliet" +delightfully played in the church of <i>San Gaetano</i> this morning. +I was coming from the <i>café</i>, where I had been breakfasting, +when the sound of the organ drew me in. The communion +was administering at one of the side chapels, the showy +Sunday mass was going on at the great altar, and the numerous +confession boxes were full of penitents, <i>all female</i>, as usual. +As I took a seat near the communicants, the sacred wafer was +dipped into the cup and put into the mouth of a young woman +kneeling before the railing. She rose soon after, and I was +not lightly surprised to find it was a certain errand-girl of a +bachelor's washerwoman, as unfit a person for the holy sacrament +as wears a petticoat in Florence.</p> + +<p>I was drawn by the agreeable odor of the incense to the paling +of the high altar. The censers were flung by unseen hands from +the doors of the sacristy at the sides, and an unseen chorus of +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_351" id="Page_351">351</a></span> +boys in the choir behind, broke in occasionally with the high-keyed +chant that echoes with its wild melody from every arch and corner +of these immense churches. It seems running upon the highest +note that the ear can bear, and yet nothing could be more +musical. A man knelt on the pavement near me, with two +coarse baskets beside him, and the traces of long and dirty +travel from his heels to his hips. He had stopped in to the mass, +probably, on his way to market. There can be no greater +contrast than that seen in Catholic churches, between the splendor +of architecture, renowned pictures, statues and ornaments of +silver and gold, and the crowd of tattered, famished, misery-marked +worshippers that throng them. I wonder it never +occurs to them, that the costly pavement upon which they kneel +might feed and clothe them.<a name="FNanchor_6" id="FNanchor_6" href="#Footnote_6" class="fnanchor">[6]</a></p> + +<p>Penitential processions are to be met all over Florence to-day, +on account of the uncommon degree of sickness. One of them +passed under my window just now. They are composed of +people of all classes, upon whom it is inflicted as a penance by +the priests. A white robe covers them entirely, even the face, +and, with their eyes glaring through the two holes made for that +purpose, they look like processions of shrouded corpses. Eight +of the first carry burning candles of six feet in length, and a +company in the rear have the church books, from which they +chant, the whole procession joining in a melancholy chorus of +three notes. It rains hard to-day, and their white dresses cling +to them with a ludicrously ungraceful effect. + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_352" id="Page_352">352</a></span></p> + +<p>Florence is an unhealthful climate in the winter. The +tramontane winds come down from the Appenines so sharply, that +delicate constitutions, particularly those liable to pulmonary +complaints, suffer invariably. There has been a dismal mortality +among the Italians. The Marquis Corsi, who presented me at +court a week ago (the last day he was out, and the last duty he +performed), lies in state, at this moment, in the church of Santa +Trinita, and another of the duke's counsellors of state died a few +days before. His prime minister, Fossombroni, is dangerously +ill also, and all of the same complaint, the <i>mal di petto</i>, as it is +called, or disease of the lungs. Corsi is a great loss to Americans. +He was the grand chamberlain of court, wealthy and +hospitable, and took particular pride in fulfilling the functions of +an American ambassador. He was a courtier of the old school, +accomplished, elegant, and possessed of universal information.</p> + +<hr class="l15" /> + +<p>The <i>refugee Carlists</i> are celebrating to-day, in the church of +Santa Maria Novella, the anniversary of the death of <i>Louis XVI</i>. +The bishop of Strasbourg is here, and is performing high mass +for the soul of the "<i>martyr</i>," as they term him. Italy is full +of the more aristocratic families of France, and it has become +<i>mauvais ton</i> in society to advocate the present government of +France, or even its principles. They detest Louis Philippe with +the virulence of a deadly private enmity, and declare universally, +that they will exile themselves till they can return to overthrow +him. Among the refugees are great numbers of young men, who +are sent away from home with a chivalrous devotion to the cause +of the Duchess of Berri, which they avow so constantly in the +circles of Italian society, that she seems the exclusive heroine of +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_353" id="Page_353">353</a></span> +the day. There was nothing seen of the French exquisites in +Florence for a week after she was taken. They were in mourning +for the misfortune of their mistress.</p> + +<hr class="l15" /> + +<p>All Florence is ringing with <i>the miracle</i>. The city fountains +have for some days been dry, and the whole country was suffering +for rain. <i>The day before the moon changed</i>, the procession began, +and the day after, when the sky was full of clouds, the holy +picture in the church of the Annunciata, "painted by St. Luke +himself," was solemnly uncovered. The result was the present +miracle of <i>rain</i>, and the priests are preaching upon it from every +pulpit. The <i>padrone</i> of my lodgings came in this morning, and +told me the circumstances with the most serious astonishment.</p> + +<p>I joined the crowd this morning, who are still thronging up the +<i>via de Servi</i> to the church of the Annunciata at all hours of the +day. The square in front of the church was like a fair—every +nook occupied with the little booths of the sellers of rosaries, +saints books, and pictures. We were assailed by a troop of +pedlars at the door, holding leaden medals and crucifixes, and +crying, at the top of their voices, for <i>fidele Christiani</i> to spend a +crazie for the love of God.</p> + +<p>After crowding up the long cloister with a hundred or two of +wretches, steaming from the rain, and fresh from every filthy +occupation in the city, we were pushed under the suspended +leather door, and reached the nave of the church. In the slow +progress we made toward the altar, I had full opportunity to +study the fretted-gold ceiling above me, the masterly pictures in +the side chapels, the statuary, carving, and general architecture. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_354" id="Page_354">354</a></span> +Description can give you no idea of the waste of splendor in these +places.</p> + +<p>I stood at last within sight of the miraculous picture. It is +painted in fresco, above an altar surrounded with a paling of +bronze and marble projecting into the body of the church. +Eight or ten massive silver lamps, each one presented by some +<i>trade</i> in Florence, hung from the roof of the chapel, burning +with a dusky glare in the daylight. A grenadier, with cap and +musket, stood on each side of the bronze gate, repressing the +eager rush of the crowd. Within, at the side of the altar, stood +the officiating priest, a man with a look of intellect and nobleness +on his fine features and lofty forehead, that seemed irreconcilable +with the folly he was performing. The devotees came in, one by +one, as they were admitted by the sentinel, knelt, offered their +rosary to the priest, who touched it to the frame of the picture +with one hand, and received their money with the other, and then +crossing themselves, and pressing the beads to their bosom, passed +out at the small door leading into the cloisters.</p> + +<p>As the only chance of seeing the picture, I bought a rosary for +two crazie (about three cents), and pressed into the throng. In +a half hour it came to my turn to pass the guard. The priest +took my silver paul, and while he touched the beads to the +picture, I had a moment to look at it nearly. I could see +nothing but a confused mass of black paint, with an indistinct +outline of the head of the Madonna in the centre. The large +spiked rays of glory standing out from every side were all I could +see in the imperfect light. The richness of the chapel itself, +however, was better worth the trouble to see. It is quite +encrusted with silver. Silver <i>bassi relievi</i>, two silver candelabra, +six feet in height, two very large silver statues of angels, a <i>ciborio</i> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_355" id="Page_355">355</a></span> +(enclosing a most exquisite head of our Saviour, by <i>Andrea del +Sarto</i>), a massive silver cornice sustaining a heavily folded silver +curtain, and silver lilies and lamps in any quantity all around. I +wonder, after the plundering of the church of San Antonio, at +Padua, that these useless riches escaped Napoleon.</p> + +<p>How some of the priests, who are really learned and clever +men, can lend themselves to such barefaced imposture as this +miracle, it is difficult to conceive. The picture has been kept as +a doer of these miracles, perhaps for a century. It is never +uncovered in vain. Supernatural results are certain to follow, +and it is done as often as they dare to make a fresh draught on +the credulity and money of the people. The story is as follows: +"A certain Bartolomeo, while painting a fresco of the annunciation, +being at a loss how to make the countenance of the Madonna +properly seraphic, fell asleep while pondering over his work; and, +on waking, found it executed in a style he was unable to equal." +I can only say that St. Luke, or the angel, or whoever did it, +was a very indifferent draughtsman. It is ill drawn, and +whatever the colors might have been upon the pallet of the +sleepy painter, they were not made immortal by angelic use. It +is a mass of confused black.</p> + +<p>I was glad to get away from the crowd and their mummery, +and pay a new tribute of reverence at the tomb of <i>Giovanni di +Bologna</i>. He is buried behind the grand altar, in a chapel +ornamented at his own expense, and with his own inimitable +works. Six bas-reliefs in bronze, than which life itself is not +more natural, represent different passages of our Saviour's history. +They were done for the Grand Duke, who, at the death of the +artist, liberally gave them to ornament his tomb. After the authors +of the Venus and the Apollo Belvidere, John of Bologna is, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_356" id="Page_356">356</a></span> +in my judgment, the greatest of sculptors. His <i>mounting Mercury</i>, +in the Florence gallery, might have been a theft from heaven for +its divine beauty.</p> + +<p>In passing out by the cloisters of the adjoining convent, I +stopped a moment to see the fresco of the <i>Madonna del Sacco</i>, +said to have been the masterpiece of <i>Andrea del Sarto</i>. Michael +Angelo and Raphael are said to have "gazed at it unceasingly." +It is much defaced, and preserves only its graceful drawing. The +countenance of Mary has the <i>beau reste</i> of singular loveliness. +The models of this delightful artist (who, by the way, is buried +in the vestibule of this same church), must have been the most +beautiful in the world. All his pictures move the heart. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_357" id="Page_357"></a></span></p> + +<h3>LETTER LI.</h3> + +<p class="ch_sum"> +FLORENTINE PECULIARITIES—SOCIETY—BALLS—DUCAL ENTERTAINMENTS—PRIVILEGE +OF STRANGERS—FAMILIES OF HIGH +RANK—THE EXCLUSIVES—SOIREES—PARTIES OF A RICH BANKER—PEASANT +BEAUTY—VISITERS OF A BARONESS—AWKWARD +DEPORTMENT OF A PRINCE—A CONTENTED MARRIED LADY—HUSBANDS, +CAVALIERS, AND WIVES—PERSONAL MANNERS—HABITS +OF SOCIETY, ETC.</p> + +<p>I am about starting on my second visit to Rome, after having +passed nearly three months in Florence. As I have seen most +of the society of this gayest and fairest of the Italian cities, it +may not be uninteresting to depart a little from the traveller's +routine by sketching a feature or two.</p> + +<p>Florence is a resort for strangers from every part of the world. +The gay society is a mixture of all nations, of whom one third +may be Florentine, one third English, and the remaining part +equally divided between Russians, Germans, French, Poles, and +Americans. The English entertain a great deal, and give most +of the balls and dinner parties. The Florentines seldom trouble +themselves to give parties, but are always at home for visits in +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_358" id="Page_358">358</a></span> +the <i>prima sera</i> (from seven till nine), and in their box at the +opera. They go, without scruple, to all the strangers' balls, +considering courtesy repaid, perhaps, by the weekly reception of +the Grand Duke, and a weekly ball at the club-house of young +Italian noblemen.</p> + +<p>The ducal entertainments occur every Tuesday, and are the +most splendid of course. The foreign ministers present all of +their countrymen who have been presented at their own courts, +and the company is necessarily more select than elsewhere. The +Florentines who go to court are about seven hundred, of whom +half are invited on each week—strangers, when once presented, +having the double privilege of coming uninvited to all. There +are several Italian families, of the highest rank, who are seen +only here; but, with the single exception of one unmarried girl, +of uncommon beauty, who bears a name celebrated in Italian history, +they are no loss to general society. Among the foreigners +of rank, are three or four German princes, who play high and +waltz well, and are remarkable for nothing else; half a dozen +star-wearing dukes, counts, and marquises, of all nations and in +any quantity, and a few English noblemen and noble ladies—only +the latter nation showing their blood at all in their features +and bearing.</p> + +<p>The most exclusive society is that of the Prince Montfort +(Jerome Bonaparte), whose splendid palace is shut entirely +against the English, and difficult of access to all. He makes a +single exception in favor of a descendant of the Talbots, a lady +whose beauty might be an apology for a much graver departure +from rule. He has given two grand entertainments since the +carnival commenced, to which nothing was wanting but people to +enjoy them. The immense rooms were flooded with light, the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_359" id="Page_359">359</a></span> +music was the best Florence could give, the supper might have +supped an army—stars and red ribands entered with every fresh +comer, but it looked like a "banquet hall deserted." Some +thirty ladies, and as many men, were all that Florence contained +worthy of the society of the Ex-King. A kinder man in his manners, +however, or apparently a more affectionate husband and +father, I never saw. He opened the dance by waltzing with the +young Princess, his daughter, a lovely girl of fourteen, of whom +he seems fond to excess, and he was quite the gayest person in +the company till the ball was over. The Ex-Queen, who is a +miracle of size, sat on a divan, with her ladies of honor about her, +following her husband with her eyes, and enjoying his gayety +with the most childish good humor.</p> + +<p>The Saturday evening <i>soirées</i>, at Prince Poniatowski's (a +brother of the hero), are perhaps as agreeable as any in Florence. +He has several grown-up sons and daughters married, and, with +a very sumptuous palace and great liberality of style, he has +made his parties more than usually valued. His eldest daughter +is the leader of the fashion, and his second is the "cynosure of +all eyes." The old Prince is a tall, bent, venerable man, with +snow-white hair, and very peculiarly marked features. He is +fond of speaking English, and professes a great affection for +America.</p> + +<p>Then there are the <i>soirées</i> of the rich banker, Fenzi, which, as +they are subservient to business, assemble all ranks on the common +pretensions of interest. At the last, I saw, among other +curiosities, a young girl of eighteen from one of the more common +families of Florence—a fine specimen of the peasant beauty +of Italy. Her heavily moulded figure, hands, and feet, were +quite forgiven when you looked at her dark, deep, indolent eye, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_360" id="Page_360">360</a></span> +and glowing skin, and strongly-lined mouth and forehead. The +society was evidently new to her, but she had a manner quite +beyond being astonished. It was the kind of <i>animal dignity</i> so +universal in the lower classes of this country.</p> + +<p>A German baroness of high rank receives on the Mondays, and +here one sees foreign society in its highest coloring. The prettiest +woman that frequents her parties, is a Genoese marchioness, +who has <i>left her husband</i> to live with a Lucchese count, who has +<i>left his wife</i>. He is a very accomplished man, with the look of +Mephistopheles in the "Devil's Walk," and she is certainly a +most fascinating woman. She is received in most of the good +society of Florence—a severe, though a very just comment on its +character. A Prince, the brother of the King of ——, divided +the attention of the company with her last Monday. He is a +tall, military-looking man, with very bad manners, ill at ease, +and impudent at the same time. He entered with his suite in +the middle of a song. The singer stopped, the company rose, +the Prince swept about, bowing like a dancing-master, and, after +the sensation had subsided, the ladies were taken up and presented +to him, one by one. He asked them all the same question, +stayed through two songs, which he spoiled by talking loudly +all the while, and then bowed himself out in the same awkward +style, leaving everybody more happy for his departure.</p> + +<p>One gains little by his opportunities of meeting Italian ladies +in society. The <i>cavaliere servente</i> flourishes still as in the days of +Beppo, and it is to him only that the lady condescends to <i>talk</i>. +There is a delicate, refined-looking, little marchioness here, who +is remarkable as being the only known Italian lady without a +cavalier. They tell you, with an amused smile, "that she is +content with her husband." It really seems to be a business of +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_361" id="Page_361">361</a></span> +real love between the lady of Italy and her cavalier. Naturally +enough too—for her parents marry her without consulting her at +all, and she selects a friend afterward, as ladies in other countries +select a lover who is to end in a husband. The married couple +are never seen together by any accident, and the lady and her +cavalier never apart. The latter is always invited with her as a +matter of course, and the husband, if there is room, or if he is +not forgotten. She is insulted if asked without a cavalier, but is +quite indifferent whether her husband goes with her or not. +These are points <i>really settled</i> in the policy of society, and the +rights of the cavalier are specified in the marriage contracts. I +had thought, until I came to Italy, that such things were either +a romance, or customs of an age gone by.</p> + +<p>I like very much the personal manners of the Italians. They +are mild and courteous to the farthest extent of looks and words. +They do not entertain, it is true, but their great dim rooms are +free to you whenever you can find them at home, and you are at +liberty to join the gossiping circle around the lady of the house, +or sit at the table and read, or be silent unquestioned. You are +<i>let alone</i>, if you seem to choose it, and it is neither commented +on, nor thought uncivil, and this I take to be a grand excellence +in manners.</p> + +<p>The society is dissolute, I think, almost without an exception. +The English fall into its habits, with the difference that they do +not conceal it so well, and have the appearance of knowing its +wrong—which the Italians have not. The latter are very much +shocked at the want of propriety in the management of the English. +To suffer the particulars of an intrigue to get about is a +worse sin, in their eyes, than any violation of the commandments. +It is scarce possible for an American to conceive the universal +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_362" id="Page_362">362</a></span> +corruption of a society like this of Florence, though, if he were +not told of it he would think it all that was delicate and attractive. +There are external features in which the society of our +own country is far less scrupulous and proper. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_363" id="Page_363"></a></span></p> + +<h3>LETTER LII.</h3> + +<p class="ch_sum"> +SIENNA—POGGIOBONSI—BONCONVENTO—ENCOURAGEMENT OF +FRENCH ARTISTS BY THEIR GOVERNMENT—ACQUAPENDENTE—POOR +BEGGAR, THE ORIGINAL OF A SKETCH BY COLE—BOLSENA—VOLSCENIUM—SCENERY—CURIOUS +STATE OF THE CHESTNUT WOODS.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Sienna.</span>—A day and a half on my second journey to Rome. +With a party of four nations inside, and two strangers, probably +Frenchmen, in the cabriolet, we have jogged on at some three +miles in the hour, enjoying the lovely scenery of these lower +Appenines at our leisure. We slept last night at Poggiobonsi, a +little village on a hill-side, and arrived at Sienna for our mid-day +rest. I pencil this note after an hour's ramble over the city, +visiting once more the cathedral, with its encrusted marbles and +naked graces, and the shell-shaped square in the centre of the +city, at the rim of which the eight principal streets terminate. +There is a fountain in the midst, surrounded with <i>bassi relievi</i> +much disfigured. It was mentioned by Dante. The streets +were deserted, it being Sunday, and all the people at the Corso, +to see the racing of horses without riders. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_364" id="Page_364">364</a></span></p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Bonconvento.</span>—We sit, with the remains of a traveller's +supper on the table—six very social companions. Our cabriolet +friends are two French artists, on their way to study at Rome. +They are both pensioners of the government, each having gained +the annual prize at the academy in his separate branch of art, +which entitles him to five years' support in Italy. They are full +of enthusiasm, and converse with all the amusing vivacity of their +nation. The academy of France send out in this manner five +young men annually, who have gained the prizes for painting, +sculpture, architecture, music, and engraving.</p> + +<p>This is the place where Henry the Seventh of Germany was +poisoned by a monk, on his way to Rome. The drug was given +to him in the communion cup. The "Ave Marie" was ringing +when we drove into town, and I left the carriage and followed the +crowd, in the hope of finding an old church where the crime +might have been committed. But the priest was mumbling the +service in a new chapel, which no romance that I could summon +would picture as the scene of a tragedy.</p> + +<hr class="l15" /> + +<p><span class="smcap">Acquapendente.</span>—While the dirty customhouse officer is +deciphering our passports, in a hole a dog would live in unwillingly, +I take out my pencil to mark once more the pleasure I +have received from the exquisite scenery of this place. The +wild rocks enclosing the little narrow valley below, the waterfalls, +the town on its airy perch above, the just starting vegetation of +spring, the roads lined with snowdrops, crocuses and violets, have +renewed, in a tenfold degree, the delight with which I saw this +romantic spot on my former journey to Rome.</p> + +<p>We crossed the mountain of Radicofani yesterday, in so thick +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_365" id="Page_365">365</a></span> +a mist that I could not even distinguish the ruin of the old castle, +towering into the clouds above. The wild, half-naked people +thronged about us as before, and I gave another paul to the old +beggar with whom I became acquainted by Mr. Cole's graphic +sketch. The winter had, apparently, gone hard with him. He +was scarce able to come to the carriage window, and coughed so +hollowly that I thought he had nearly begged his last pittance.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Bolsena.</span>—we walked in advance of the vetturino along the +borders of this lovely and beautiful lake till we are tired. Our +artists have taken off their coats with the heat, and sit, a quarter +of a mile further on, pointing in every direction at these unparalleled +views. The water is as still as a mirror, with a soft mist +on its face, and the water-fowl in thousands are diving and floating +within gunshot of us. An afternoon in June could not be +more summer-like, and this, to a lover of soft climate, is no +trifling pleasure.</p> + +<p>A mile behind us lies the town, the seat of ancient <i>Volscinium</i>, +the capital of the Volscians. The country about is one quarry +of ruins, mouldering away in the moss. Nobody can live in +health in the neighborhood, and the poor pale wretches who call +it a home are in melancholy contrast to the smiling paradise +about them. Before us, in the bosom of the lake, lie two green +islands, those which Pliny records to have floated in his time +and one of which, <i>Martana</i>, a small conical isle, was the scene +of the murder of the queen of the Goths, by her cousin Theodatus. +She was taken there and strangled. It is difficult to +imagine, with such a sea of sunshine around and over it, that it +was ever anything but a spot of delight.</p> + +<p>The whole neighborhood is covered with rotten trunks of trees—a +thing which at first surprised me in a country where wood is +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_366" id="Page_366">366</a></span> +so economised. It is accounted for in the French guide-book of +one of our party by the fact, that the chestnut woods of Bolsena +are considered sacred by the people, from their antiquity, and are +never cut. The trees have ripened and fallen and rotted thus for +centuries—one cause, perhaps, of the deadly change in the air.</p> + +<p>The vetturino comes lumbering up, and I must pocket my +pencil and remount. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_367" id="Page_367"></a></span></p> + +<h3>LETTER LIII.</h3> + +<p class="ch_sum"> +MONTEFIASCONE—ANECDOTE OF THE WINE—VITERBO—MOUNT +CIMINO—TRADITION—VIEW OF ST. PETER'S—ENTRANCE INTO +ROME—A STRANGER'S IMPRESSIONS OF THE CITY.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Montefiascone.</span>—We have stopped for the night at the hotel +of this place, so renowned for its wine—the remnant of a bottle +of which stands, at this moment, twinkling between me and my +French companions. The ladies of our party have gone to bed, +and left us in the room where sat <i>Jean Defoucris</i>, the merry +German monk, who died of excess in drinking the same liquor +that flashes through this straw-covered flask. The story is told +more fully in the French guide-books. A prelate of Augsbourg, +on a pilgrimage to Rome, sent forward his servant with orders to +mark every tavern where the wine was good with the word <i>est</i>, in +large letters of chalk. On arriving at this hotel, the monk saw +the signal thrice written over the door—<i>Est! Est! Est!</i> +He put up his mule, and drank of Montefiascone till he died. +His servant wrote his epitaph, which is still seen in the church +of St. Florian:—</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="o1">"Propter minium <span class="s07">EST</span>, <span class="s07">EST</span>,</p> +<p>Dominus meus mortuus <span class="s07">EST</span>!"</p> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_368" id="Page_368">368</a></span> +"<i>Est, Est, Est!</i>" is the motto upon the sign of the hotel to +this day.</p> + +<hr class="l15" /> + +<p>In wandering about Viterbo in search of amusement, while the +horses were baiting, I stumbled upon the shop of an antiquary. +After looking over his medals, Etruscan vases, cameos, &c., a +very interesting collection, I inquired into the state of trade for +such things in Viterbo. He was a cadaverous, melancholy +looking old man, with his pockets worn quite out with the habit +of thrusting his hands into them, and about his mouth and eye +there was the proper virtuoso expression of inquisitiveness and +discrimination. He kept also a small <i>café</i> adjoining his shop, +into which we passed, as he shrugged his shoulders at my question. +I had wondered to find a vender of costly curiosities in a town of +such poverty, and I was not surprised at the sad fortunes which +had followed upon his enterprise. They were a base herd, he +said, of the people, utterly ignorant of the value of the precious +objects he had for sale and he had been compelled to open a +<i>café</i>, and degrade himself by waiting on them for a contemptible +<i>crazie</i> worth of coffee, while his lovely antiquities lay unappreciated +within. The old gentleman was eloquent upon his +misfortunes. He had not been long in trade, and had collected +his museum originally for his own amusement. He was an odd +specimen, in a small way, of a man who was quite above his +sphere, and suffered for his superiority. I bought a pretty +<i>intaglio</i>, and bade him farewell, after an hour's acquaintance, +with quite the feeling of a friend.</p> + +<hr class="l15" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_369" id="Page_369">369</a></span></p> + +<p>Mount Cimino rose before us soon after leaving Viterbo, and +we walked up most of the long and gentle ascent, inhaling the +odor of the spicy plants for which it is famous, and looking out +sharply for the brigands with which it is always infested. English +carriages are constantly robbed on this part of the route of late. +The robbers are met usually in parties of ten and twelve, and, a +week before we passed, Lady Berwick (the widow of an English +nobleman, and a sister of the famous Harriet Wilson) was +stopped and plundered in broad mid-day. The excessive distress +among the peasantry of these misgoverned States accounts for +these things, and one only wonders why there is not even more +robbing among such a starving population. This mountain, by +the way, and the pretty lake below it, are spoken of in the +Æneid: "<i>Cimini cum monte locum</i>," etc. There is an ancient +tradition, that in the crescent-shaped valley which the lake fills, +there was formerly a city, which was overwhelmed by the rise of +the water, and certain authors state that when the lake is clear, +the ruins are still to be seen at the bottom.</p> + +<hr class="l15" /> + +<p>The sun rose upon us as we reached the mountain above +Baccano, on the sixth day of our journey, and, by its clear +golden flood, we saw the dome of St. Peter's, at a distance of +sixteen miles, towering amid the campagna in all its majestic +beauty. We descended into the vast plain, and traversed its +gentle undulations for two or three hours. With the forenoon +well advanced, we turned into the valley of the Tiber, and saw +the home of Raphael, a noble chateau on the side of a hill, near +the river, and, in the little plain between, the first peach-trees we +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_370" id="Page_370">370</a></span> +had seen, in full blossom. The tomb of Nero is on one side of +the road, before crossing the Tiber, and on the other a newly +painted and staring <i>restaurant</i>, where the modern Roman +cockneys drive for punch and ices. The bridge of Pontemolle, +by which we passed into the immediate suburb of Rome, was the +ancient <i>Pons Æmilius</i>, and here Cicero arrested the conspirators +on their way to join Catiline in his camp. It was on the same +bridge, too, that Constantine saw his famous vision, and gained +his victory over the tyrant Maxentius.</p> + +<p>Two miles over the <i>Via Flaminia</i>, between garden walls that +were ornamented with sculpture and inscription in the time of +Augustus, brought us to the <i>Porta del Popolo</i>. The square +within this noble gate is modern, but very imposing. Two +streets diverge before you, as far away as you can see into the +heart of the city, a magnificent fountain sends up its waters in +the centre, the façades of two handsome churches face you as +you enter, and on the right and left are gardens and palaces of +princely splendor. Gay and sumptuous equipages cross it in +every direction, driving out to the villa Borghese, and up to the +Pincian mount, the splendid troops of the Pope are on guard, and +the busy and stirring population of modern Rome swell out to +its limit like the ebb and flow of the sea. All this disappoints +while it impresses the stranger. He has come to Rome—but it +was <i>old</i> Rome that he had pictured to his fancy. The Forum, +the ruins of her temples, the palaces of her emperors, the homes +of her orators, poets, and patriots, the majestic relics of the once +mistress of the world, are the features in his anticipation. But +he enters by a modern gate to a modern square, and pays his +modern coin to a whiskered officer of customs; and in the place +of a venerable Belisarius begging an obolus in classic Latin, he is +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_371" id="Page_371">371</a></span> +beset by a troop of lusty and filthy lazzaroni entreating for +a <i>baioch</i> in the name of the Madonna, and in effeminate Italian. +He drives down the Corso, and reads nothing but French signs, +and sees all the familiar wares of his own country exposed for +sale, and every other person on the <i>pave</i> is an Englishman, with +a narrow-rimmed hat and whalebone stick, and with an hour at +the Dogama, where his baggage is turned inside out by a snuffy +old man who speaks French, and a reception at a hotel where the +porter addresses him in his own language, whatever it may be; +he goes to bed under Parisian curtains, and tries to dream of the +Rome he could not realize while awake. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_372" id="Page_372"></a></span></p> + +<h3>LETTER LIV.</h3> + +<p class="ch_sum"> +APPIAN WAY—TOMB OF CECILIA METELLA—ALBANO—TOMB OF THE +CURIATII—ARICIA—TEMPLE OF DIANA—FOUNTAIN OF EGERIA—LAKE +OF NEMI—VELLETRI—PONTINE MARSHES—CONVENT—CANAL—TERRACINA—SAN +FELICE—FONDI—STORY OF JULIA +GONZAGA—CICERO'S GARDEN AND TOMB—MOLA—MINTURNA—RUINS +OF AN AMPHITHEATRE AND TEMPLE—FALERNIAN MOUNT +AND WINE—THE DOCTOR OF ST. AGATHA—CAPUA—ENTRANCE +INTO NAPLES—THE QUEEN.</p> + +<p>With the intention of returning to Rome for the ceremonies of +the holy week, I have merely passed through on my way to Naples. +We left it the morning after our arrival, going by the "Appian +way" to mount Albano, which borders the Campagna on the +south, at a distance of fifteen miles. This celebrated road is +lined with the ruined tombs of the Romans. Off at the right, +some four or five miles from the city, rises the fortress-like <i>tomb +of Cecilia Metella</i>, so exquisitely mused upon by Childe Harold. +This, says Sismondi, with the tombs of Adrian and Augustus, +became fortresses of banditti, in the thirteenth century, and were +taken by Brancallone, the Bolognese governor of Rome, who +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_373" id="Page_373">373</a></span> +hanged the marauders from the walls. It looks little like "a +woman's grave."</p> + +<p>We changed horses at the pretty village of Albano, and, on +leaving it, passed an ancient mausoleum, believed to be the tomb +of the Curiatii who fought the Horatii on this spot. It is a large +structure, and had originally four pyramids on the corners, two +of which only remain.</p> + +<p>A mile from Albano lies Aricia, in a country of the loveliest +rural beauty. Here was the famous temple of Diana, and here +were the lake and grove sacred to the "virgin huntress," and +consecrated as her home by peculiar worship. The fountain of +Egeria is here, where Numa communed with the nymph, and the +lake of Nemi, on the borders of which the temple stood, and which +was called <i>Diana's mirror</i> (<i>speculum Dianæ</i>), is at this day, perhaps, +one of the sweetest gems of natural scenery in the world.</p> + +<p>We slept at Velletri, a pretty town of some twelve thousand +inhabitants, which stands on a hill-side, leaning down to the +Pontine marshes. It was one of the grand days of carnival, and +the streets were full of masks, walking up and down in their +ridiculous dresses, and committing every sort of foolery. The +next morning, by daylight, we were upon the Pontine marshes, +the long thirty miles level of which we passed in an unbroken trot, +one part of a day's journey of seventy-five miles, done by the +<i>same horses</i>, at the rate of six miles in the hour! They are small, +compact animals, and look in good condition, though they do as +much habitually.</p> + +<p>At a distance of fifteen miles from Velletri, we passed a convent, +which is built opposite the spot where St. Paul was met by +his friends, on his journey from the seaside to Rome. The +canal upon which Horace embarked on his celebrated journey to +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_374" id="Page_374">374</a></span> +Brundusium, runs parallel with the road for its whole distance. +This marshy desert is inhabited by a race of as wretched beings, +perhaps, as are to be found upon the face of the earth. The +pestiferous miasma of the pools is certain destruction to health, +and the few who are needed at the distant post-houses, crawl out +to the road-side like so many victims from a pest-house, stooping +with weakness, hollow-eyed, and apparently insensible to everything. +The feathered race seems exempt from its influence, and +the quantities of game of every known description are incredible. +The ground was alive with wild geese, turkeys, pigeons, plover, +ducks, and numerous birds we did not know, as far as the eye +could distinguish. The travelling books caution against sleeping +in the carriage while passing these marshes, but we found it next +to impossible to resist the heavy drowsiness of the air.</p> + +<p>At Terracina the marshes end, and the long avenue of elms +terminates at the foot of a romantic precipice, which is washed +by the Mediterranean. The town is most picturesquely built between +the rocky wall and the sea. We dined with the hollow +murmur of the surf in our ears, and then, presenting our passports, +entered the kingdom of Naples. This Terracina, by the +way, was the ancient <i>Anxur</i>, which Horace describes in his +line—</p> + +<p class="blockquot"> +"Impositum late saxis candentibus Anxur." +</p> + +<p>For twenty or thirty miles before arriving at Terracina, we +had seen before us the headland of Circœum, lying like a mountain +island off the shore. It is usually called San Felice, from +the small town seated upon it. This was the ancient abode of +the "daughter of the sun," and here were imprisoned, according +to Homer, the champions of Ulysses, after their metamorphoses. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_375" id="Page_375">375</a></span></p> + +<p>From Terracina to Fondi, we followed the old Appian way, a +road hedged with flowering myrtles and orange trees laden with +fruit. Fondi itself is dirtier than imagination could picture it, +and the scowling men in the streets look like myrmidons of Fra +Diavolo, their celebrated countryman. This town, however, was +the scene of the romantic story of the beautiful Julia Gonzaga, +and was destroyed by the corsair Barbarossa, who had intended to +present the rarest beauty of Italy to the Sultan. It was to the +rocky mountains above the town that she escaped in her night-dress, +and lay concealed till the pirate's departure.</p> + +<p>In leaving Fondi, we passed the ruined walls of a garden said +to have belonged to Cicero, whose tomb is only three leagues +distant. Night came on before we reached the tomb, and we +were compelled to promise ourselves a pilgrimage to it on our +return.</p> + +<p>We slept at Mola, and here Cicero was assassinated. The +ruins of his country-house are still here. The town lies in the +lap of a graceful bay, and in all Italy, it is said, there is no spot +more favored by nature. The mountains shelter it from the +winds of the north; the soil produces, spontaneously, the orange, +the myrtle, the olive, delicious grapes, jasmine, and many odoriferous +herbs. This and its neighborhood was called, by the +great orator and statesman who selected it for his retreat, "the +most beautiful patrimony of the Romans." The Mediterranean +spreads out from its bosom, the lovely islands near Naples bound +its view, Vesuvius sends up its smoke and fire in the south, and +back from its hills stretches a country fertile and beautiful as a +paradise. This is a place of great resort for the English and +other travellers in the summer. The old palaces are turned into +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_376" id="Page_376">376</a></span> +hotels, and we entered our inn through an avenue of shrubs that +must have been planted and trimmed for a century.</p> + +<hr class="l15" /> + +<p>We left Mola before dawn and crossed the small river Garigliano +as the sun rose. A short distance from the southern bank, +we found ourselves in the midst of ruins, the golden beams of the +sun pouring upon us through the arches of some once magnificent +structure, whose area is now crossed by the road. This was the +ancient Minturna, and the ruins are those of an amphitheatre, +and a temple of Venus. Some say that it was in the marshes +about the now waste city, that the soldier sent by Sylla to kill +Marius, found the old hero, and, struck with his noble mien, fell +with respect at his feet.</p> + +<p>The road soon enters a chain of hills, and the scenery becomes +enchanting. At the left of the first ascent lies the Falernian +mount, whose wines are immortalized by Horace. It is a beautiful +hill, which throws round its shoulder to the south, and is +covered with vineyards. I dismounted and walked on while the +horses breathed at the post-house of St. Agatha, and was overtaken +by a good-natured-looking man, mounted on a mule, of +whom I made some inquiry respecting the modern Falernian. +He said it was still the best wine of the neighborhood, but was +far below its ancient reputation, because never kept long enough +to ripen. It is at its prime from the fifteenth to the twentieth +year, and is usually drank the first or second. My new acquaintance, +I soon found, was the physician of the two or three small +villages nested about among the hills and a man of some pretensions +to learning. I was delighted with his frank good-humor, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_377" id="Page_377">377</a></span> +and a certain spice of drollery in his description of his patients. +The peasants at work in the fields saluted him from any distance +as he passed; and the pretty contadini going to St. Agatha with +their baskets on their heads, smiled as he nodded, calling them all +by name, and I was rather amused than offended with the inquisitiveness +he manifested about my age, family, pursuits, and even +morals. His mule stopped of its own will, at the door of the +apothecary of the small village on the summit of the hill, and as +the carriage came in sight the doctor invited me, seizing my hand +with a look of friendly sincerity, to stop at St. Agatha on my +return, to shoot, and drink Falernian with him for a month. +The apothecary stopped the vetturino at the door; and, to the +astonishment of my companions within, the doctor seized me in +his arms and kissed me on both sides of my face with a volume +of blessings and compliments, which I had no breath in my surprise +to return. I have made many friends on the road in this +country of quick feelings, but the doctor of St. Agatha had a +readiness of sympathy which threw all my former experience into +the shade.</p> + +<p>We dined at Capua, the city whose luxuries enervated Hannibal +and his soldiers—the "<i>dives, amorosa, felix</i>" Capua. It is +in melancholy contrast with the description now—its streets +filthy, and its people looking the antipodes of luxury. The +climate should be the same, as we dined with open doors, and +with the branch of an orange tree heavy with fruit hanging in at +the window, in a month that with us is one of the wintriest.</p> + +<p>From Capua to Naples, the distance is but fifteen miles, over +a flat, uninteresting country. We entered "this third city in the +world" in the middle of the afternoon, and were immediately surrounded +with beggars of every conceivable degree of misery. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_378" id="Page_378">378</a></span> +We sat an hour at the gate while our passports were recorded, +and the vetturino examined, and then passing up a noble street, +entered a dense crowd, through which was creeping slowly a +double line of carriages. The mounted dragoons compelled our +postillion to fall into the line, and we were two hours following in +a fashionable corso with our mud-spattered vehicle and tired +horses, surrounded by all that was brilliant and gay in Naples. +It was the last day of carnival. Everybody was abroad, and we +were forced, however unwillingly to see all the rank and beauty +of the city. The carriages in this fine climate are all open, and +the ladies were in full dress. As we entered the Toledo, the +cavalcade came to a halt, and with hats off and handkerchiefs +flying in every direction about them, the young new-married +Queen of Naples rode up the middle of the street preceded and +followed by outriders in the gayest livery. She has been married +about a month, is but seventeen, and is acknowledged to be +the most beautiful woman in the kingdom. The description I +had heard of her, though very extravagant, had hardly done her +justice. She is a little above the middle height, with a fine lift +to her head and neck, and a countenance only less modest and +maidenly than noble. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_379" id="Page_379"></a></span></p> + +<h3>LETTER LV.</h3> + +<p class="ch_sum"> +ROME—FRONT OF ST. PETER'S—EQUIPAGES OF THE CARDINALS—BEGGARS—BODY +OF THE CHURCH—TOMB OF ST. PETER—THE +TIBER—FORTRESS-TOMB OF ADRIAN—JEWS' QUARTER—FORUM +BARBERINI PALACE—PORTRAIT OF BEATRICE CENCI—HER +MELANCHOLY HISTORY—PICTURE OF THE FORNARINA—LIKENESS +OF GIORGIONE'S MISTRESS—JOSEPH AND POTIPHAR'S +WIFE—THE PALACES DORIA AND SCIARRA—PORTRAIT OF +OLIVIA WALDACHINI—OF "A CELEBRATED WIDOW"—OF +SEMIRAMIS—CLAUDE'S LANDSCAPES—BRILL'S—BRUGHEL'S—NOTTI'S +"WOMAN CATCHING FLEAS"—DA VINCI'S QUEEN +GIOVANNA—PORTRAIT OF A FEMALE DORIA—PRINCE DORIA—PALACE +SCIARRA—BRILL AND BOTH'S LANDSCAPES—CLAUDE'S—PICTURE +OF NOAH INTOXICATED—ROMANA'S FORNARINA—DA +VINCI'S TWO PICTURES.</p> + +<p>Drawn in twenty different directions on starting from my +lodgings this morning, I found myself, undecided where to pass +my day, in front of St. Peter's. Some gorgeous ceremony was +just over, and the sumptuous equipages of the cardinals, blazing +in the sun with their mountings of gold and silver, were driving +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_380" id="Page_380">380</a></span> +up and dashing away from the end of the long colonnades, producing +any effect upon the mind rather than a devout one. I +stood admiring their fiery horses and gay liveries, till the last +rattled from the square, and then mounted to the deserted +church. Its vast vestibule was filled with beggars, diseased in +every conceivable manner, halting, groping, and crawling about +in search of strangers of whom to implore charity—a contrast to +the splendid pavement beneath and the gold and marble above +and around, which would reconcile one to see the "mighty +dome" melted into alms, and his holiness reduced to a plain +chapel and a rusty cassock.</p> + +<p>Lifting the curtain I stood in the body of the church. There +were perhaps twenty persons, at different distances, on its immense +floor, the farthest off (<i>six hundred and fourteen feet from +me!</i>) looking like a pigmy in the far perspective. St. Peter's is +less like a church than a collection of large churches enclosed +under a gigantic roof. The chapels at the sides are larger than +most houses of public worship in our country, and of these there +may be eight or ten, not included in the effect of the vast interior. +One is lost in it. It is a city of columns and sculpture +and mosaic. Its walls are encrusted with precious stones and +masterly workmanship to the very top, and its wealth may be +conceived when you remember that, standing in the centre and +raising your eyes aloft, there are <i>four hundred and forty feet</i> between +you and the roof of the dome—the height, almost of a +mountain.</p> + +<p>I walked up toward the tomb of St. Peter, passing in my way +a solitary worshipper here and there, upon his knees, and arrested +constantly by the exquisite beauty of the statuary with which the +columns are carved. Accustomed as we are in America, to +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_381" id="Page_381">381</a></span> +churches filled with pews, it is hardly possible to imagine the +noble effect of a vast mosaic floor, unencumbered even with a +chair, and only broken by a few prostrate figures, just specking +its wide area. All Catholic churches are without fixed seats, and +St. Peter's seems scarce measurable to the eye, it is so far and +clear, from one extremity to the other.</p> + +<p>I passed the hundred lamps burning over the tomb of St. +Peter, the lovely female statue (covered with a bronze drapery, +because its exquisite beauty was thought dangerous to the morality +of the young priests), reclining upon the tomb of Paul III., +the ethereal figures of Canova's geniuses weeping at the door of +the tomb of the Stuarts (where sleeps the pretender Charles +Edward), the thousand thousand rich and beautiful monuments +of art and taste crowding every corner of this wondrous church—I +passed them, I say, with the same lost and unexamining, unparticularizing +feeling which I cannot overcome in this place—a +mind borne quite off its feet and confused and overwhelmed with +the tide of astonishment—the one grand impression of the whole. +I dare say, a little more familiarity with St. Peter's will do away +the feeling, but I left the church, after two hours loitering in its +aisles, despairing, and scarce wishing to examine or make a note.</p> + +<p>Those beautiful fountains, moistening the air over the whole +area of the column encircled front!—and that tall Egyptian +pyramid, sending up its slender and perfect spire between! One +lingers about, and turns again and again to gaze around him, as +he leaves St. Peter's, in wonder and admiration.</p> + +<p>I crossed the Tiber, at the fortress-tomb of Adrian, and thridding +the long streets at the western end of Rome, passed through +the Jews' quarter, and entered the Forum. The sun lay warm +among the ruins of the great temples and columns of ancient +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_382" id="Page_382">382</a></span> +Rome, and, seating myself on a fragment of an antique frieze, +near the noble arch of Septimius Severus, I gazed on the scene, +for the first time, by daylight. I had been in Rome, on my first +visit, during the full moon, and my impressions of the Forum +with this romantic enhancement were vivid in my memory. One +would think it enough to be upon the spot at any time, with +light to see it, but what with modern excavations, fresh banks of +earth, carts, boys playing at marbles, and wooden sentry-boxes, +and what with the Parisian promenade, made by the French +through the centre, the imagination is too disturbed and hindered +in daylight. The moon gives it all one covering of gray and +silver. The old columns stand up in all their solitary majesty, +wrecks of beauty and taste; silence leaves the fancy to find a +voice for itself; and from the palaces of the Cesars to the prisons +of the capitol, the whole train of emperors, senators, conspirators, +and citizens, are summoned with but half a thought and the +magic glass is filled with moving and re-animated Rome. There, +beneath those walls, on the right, in the Mamertine prisons, +perished Jugurtha (and there, too, were imprisoned St. Paul and +St. Peter), and opposite, upon the Palatine-hill, lived the mighty +masters of Rome, in the "palaces of the Cesars," and beneath +the majestic arch beyond, were led, as a seal of their slavery, the +captives from Jerusalem, and in these temples, whose ruins cast +their shadows at my feet, walked and discoursed Cicero and the +philosophers, Brutus and the patriots, Catiline and the conspirators, +Augustus and the scholars and poets, and the great stranger +in Rome, St. Paul, gazing at the false altars, and burning in his +heart to reveal to them the "unknown God." What men have +crossed the shadows of these very columns! and what thoughts, +that have moved the world, have been born beneath them! +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_383" id="Page_383">383</a></span></p> + +<p>The Barberini palace contains three or four masterpieces of +painting. The most celebrated is the portrait of Beatrice Cenci, +by Guido. The melancholy and strange history of this beautiful +girl has been told in a variety of ways, and is probably familiar to +every reader. Guido saw her on her way to execution, and has +painted her as she was dressed, in the gray habit and head-dress +made by her own hands, and finished but an hour before she put +it on. There are engravings and copies of the picture all over +the world, but none that I have seen give any idea of the +excessive gentleness and serenity of the countenance. The eyes +retain traces of weeping, but the child-like mouth, the soft, girlish +lines of features that look as if they never had worn more than +the one expression of youthfulness and affection, are all in repose, +and the head is turned over the shoulder with as simple a sweetness +as if she had but looked back to say a good-night before +going to her chamber to sleep. She little looks like what she +was—one of the firmest and boldest spirits whose history is recorded. +After murdering her father for his fiendish attempts +upon her virtue, she endured every torture rather than disgrace +her family by confession, and was only moved from her constancy, +at last, by the agonies of her younger brother on the rack. Who +would read capabilities like these, in these heavenly and child-like +features?</p> + +<p>I have tried to purchase the life of the Cenci, in vain. A +bookseller told me to-day, that it was a forbidden book, on +account of its reflections upon the pope. Immense interest was +made for the poor girl, but, it is said, the papal treasury ran low, +and if she was pardoned, the large possessions of the Cenci family +could not have been confiscated.</p> + +<p>The gallery contains also, a delicious picture of the Fornarina +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_384" id="Page_384">384</a></span> +by Raphael himself, and a portrait of Giorgione's mistress, as a +Carthaginian slave, the same head multiplied so often in his and +Titian's pictures. The original of the admirable picture of +Joseph and the wife of Potiphar, is also here. A copy of it is in +the gallery of Florence.</p> + +<p>I have passed a day between the two palaces Doria and Sciarra, +nearly opposite each other in the Corso at Rome. The first is an +immense gallery of perhaps a thousand pictures, distributed +through seven large halls, and four galleries encircling the court. +In the first four rooms I found nothing that struck me particularly. +In the fifth was a portrait, by an unknown artist, of Olivia +Waldachini, the favorite and sister-in-law of Pope Innocent X., +a handsome woman, with that round fulness in the throat and +neck, which (whether it existed in the originals, or is a part of +a painter's ideal of a woman of pleasure), is universal in portraits +of that character. In the same room was a portrait of a "celebrated +widow," by Vandyck,<a name="FNanchor_7" id="FNanchor_7" href="#Footnote_7" class="fnanchor">[7]</a> a had-been beautiful woman, in a +staid cap (the hands wonderfully painted), and a large and rich +picture of Semiramis, by one of the Carraccis.</p> + +<p>In the galleries hung the landscapes by Claude, famous through +the world. It is like roving through a paradise, to sit and look +at them. His broad green lawns, his half-hidden temples, his +life-like luxuriant trees, his fountains, his sunny streams—all +flush into the eye like the bright opening of a Utopia, or some +dream over a description from Boccaccio. It is what Italy might +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_385" id="Page_385">385</a></span> +be in a golden age—her ruins rebuilt into the transparent air, her +woods unprofaned, her people pastoral and refined, and every +valley a landscape of Arcadia. I can conceive no higher pleasure +for the imagination than to see a Claude in travelling through +Italy. It is finding a home for one's more visionary fancies—those +children of moonshine that one begets in a colder clime, +but scarce dares acknowledge till he has seen them under a more +congenial sky. More plainly, one does not know whether his +abstract imaginations of pastoral life and scenery are not ridiculous +and unreal, till he has seen one of these landscapes, and felt +<i>steeped</i>, if I may use such a word, in the very loveliness which +inspired the pencil of the painter. There he finds the pastures, +the groves, the fairy structures, the clear waters, the straying +groups, the whole delicious scenery, as bright as in his dreams, +and he feels as if he should bless the artist for the liberty to +acknowledge freely to himself the possibility of so beautiful a +world.</p> + +<p>We went on through the long galleries, going back again and +again to see the Claudes. In the third division of the gallery +were one or two small and bright landscapes, by Brill, that would +have enchanted us if seen elsewhere; and four strange pictures, +by Breughel, representing the four elements, by a kind of half-poetical, +half-supernatural landscapes, one of which had a very +lovely view of a distant village. Then there was the famous +picture of the "woman catching fleas" by Gherardodelle Notti, +a perfect piece of life. She stands close to a lamp, with a vessel +of hot water before her, and is just closing her thumb and finger +over a flea, which she has detected on the bosom of her dress. +Some eight or ten are boiling already in the water, and the +expression upon the girl's face is that of the most grave and +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_386" id="Page_386">386</a></span> +unconscious interest in her employment. Next to this amusing +picture hangs a portrait of Queen Giovanna, of Naples, by +Leonardo da Vinci, a copy of which I had seen, much prized, in +the possession of the archbishop of Torento. It scarce looks like +the talented and ambitious queen she was, but it does full justice +to her passion for amorous intrigue—a face full of the woman.</p> + +<p>The last picture we came to, was one not even mentioned in +the catalogue, an old portrait of one of the females of the Doria +family. It was a girl of eighteen, with a kind of face that in life +must have been extremely fascinating. While we were looking +at it, we heard a kind of gibbering laugh from the outer apartment, +and an old man in a cardinal's dress, dwarfish in size, and +with deformed and almost useless legs, came shuffling into the +gallery, supported by two priests. His features were imbecility +itself, rendered almost horrible by the contrast of the cardinal's +red cap. The <i>custode</i> took off his hat and bowed low, and the +old man gave us a half-bow and a long laugh in passing, and disappeared +at the end of the gallery. This was the Prince Doria, +the owner of the palace, and a cardinal of Rome! the sole +remaining representative of one of the most powerful and ambitious +families of Italy! There could not be a more affecting type +of the great "mistress of the world" herself. Her very children +have dwindled into idiots.</p> + +<p>We crossed the Corso to the <i>Palace Sciarra</i>. The collection +here is small, but choice. Half a dozen small but exquisite landscapes, +by Brill and Both, grace the second room. Here are also +three small Claudes, very, very beautiful. In the next room is a +finely-colored but most indecent picture of Noah intoxicated, by +Andrea Sacchi, and a portrait by Giulio Romano, of Raphael's +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_387" id="Page_387">387</a></span> +celebrated Fornarina, to whose lovely face one becomes so +accustomed in Italy, that it seems like that of an acquaintance.</p> + +<p>In the last room are two of the most celebrated pictures in +Rome. The first is by Leonardo da Vinci, and represents +Vanity and Modesty, by two females standing together in conversation—one +a handsome, gay, volatile looking creature, covered +with ornaments, and listening unwillingly to what seems a +lecture from the other, upon her foibles. The face of the other +is a heavenly conception of woman—earnest, delicate, and lovely—the +idea one forms to himself, before intercourse with the +world, gives him a distaste for its purity. The moral lesson of +the picture is more forcible than language. The painter deserved +to have died, as he did, in the arms of an emperor.</p> + +<p>The other picture represents two gamblers cheating a youth, a +very striking picture of nature. It is common from the engravings. +On the opposite side of the room, is a very expressive picture, by +Schidone. On the ruins of an old tomb stands a skull, beneath +which is written—"<i>I, too, was of Arcadia</i>;" and, at a little +distance, gazing at it in attitudes of earnest reflection, stand two +shepherds, struck simultaneously with the moral. It is a poetical +thought, and wrought out with great truth and skill.</p> + +<hr class="l15" /> + +<p>Our eyes aching and our attention exhausted with pictures, we +drove from the Sciarra to the ruined palaces of the Cesars. +Here, on an eminence above the Tiber, with the Forum beneath +us on one side, the Coliseum on the other, and all the towers and +spires of modern and Catholic Rome arising on her many hills +beyond, we seated ourselves on fragments of marble, half buried +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_388" id="Page_388">388</a></span> +in the grass, and mused away the hours till sunset. On this spot +Romulus founded Rome. The princely Augustus, in the last +days of her glory, laid here the foundations of his imperial palace, +which, continued by Caligula and Tiberius, and completed by +Domitian, covered the hill, like a small city. It was a labyrinth +of temples, baths, pavilions, fountains, and gardens, with a large +theatre at the western extremity; and adjoining the temple of +Apollo, was a library filled with the best authors, and ornamented +with a colossal bronze statue of Apollo, "of excellent Etruscan +workmanship." "Statues of the fifty daughters of Danaus Siuramdert +surrounded the portico" (of this same temple), "and +opposite them were equestrian statues of their husbands." About +a hundred years ago, accident discovered, in the gardens buried +in rubbish, a magnificent hall, two hundred feet in length and +one hundred and thirty-two in breadth, supposed to have been +built by Domitian. It was richly ornamented with statues, and +columns of precious marbles, and near it were baths in excellent +preservation. "But," says Stark, "immense and superb as was +this first-built palace of the Cesars, Nero, whose extravagance +and passion for architecture knew no limits, thought it much too +small for him, and extended its edifices and gardens from the +Palatine to the Esquiline. After the destruction of the whole, +by fire, sixty-five years after Christ, he added to it his celebrated +'Golden House,' which extended from one extremity to the other +of the Cœlian Hill."<a name="FNanchor_8" id="FNanchor_8" href="#Footnote_8" class="fnanchor">[8]</a></p> + +<p>The ancient walls, which made the whole of the Mount Palatine +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_389" id="Page_389">389</a></span> +a fortress, still hold together its earth and its ruins. It is a broad +tabular eminence, worn into footpaths which wind at every moment +around broken shafts of marble, fragments of statuary, or broken +and ivy-covered fountains. Part of it is cultivated as a vineyard, +by the degenerate modern Romans, and the baths, into which the +water still pours from aqueducts encrusted with aged stalactites +are public washing-places for the contadini, eight or ten of whom +were splashing away in their red jackets, with gold bodkins in +their hair, while we were moralizing on their worthier progenitors +of eighteen centuries ago. It is a beautiful spot of itself, and +with the delicious soft sunshine of an Italian spring, the tall green +grass beneath our feet, and an air as soft as June just stirring +the myrtles and jasmines, growing wild wherever the ruins gave +them place, our enjoyment of the overpowering associations of +the spot was ample and untroubled. I could wish every refined +spirit in the world had shared our pleasant hour upon the Palatine. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_390" id="Page_390"></a></span></p> + +<h3>LETTER LVI.</h3> + +<p class="ch_sum"> +ANNUAL DOWRIES TO TWELVE GIRLS—VESPERS IN THE CONVENT +OF SANTA TRINITA—RUINS OF ROMAN BATHS—A MAGNIFICENT +MODERN CHURCH WITHIN TWO ANCIENT HALLS—GARDENS OF +MECÆNAS—TOWER WHENCE NERO SAW ROME ON FIRE—HOUSES +OF HORACE AND VIRGIL—BATHS OF TITUS AND CARACALLA.</p> + +<p>The yearly ceremony of giving dowries to twelve girls, was +performed by the Pope, this morning, in the church built over +the ancient temple of Minerva. His Holiness arrived, in state, +from the Vatican, at ten, followed by his red troop of cardinals, +and preceded by a clerical courier, on a palfrey, and the body-guard +of nobles. He blessed the crowd, right and left, with his +three fingers (precisely as a Parisian dandy salutes his friend +across the street), and, descending from his carriage (which is +like a good-sized glass boudoir upon wheels), he was received in +the papal sedan, and carried into the church by his Swiss bearers. +My legation button carried me through the guard, and I found +an excellent place under a cardinal's wing, in the penetralia +within the railing of the altar. Mass commenced presently, with +a chant from the celebrated choir of St. Peter's. Room was +then made through the crowd, the cardinals put on their red +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_391" id="Page_391">391</a></span> +caps, and the small procession of twelve young girls entered from +a side chapel, bearing each a taper in her hand, and robed to the +eyes in white, with a chaplet of flowers round the forehead. I +could form no judgment of anything but their eyes and feet. A +Roman eye could not be otherwise than fine, and a Roman +woman's foot could scarce be other than ugly, and, consequently, +there was but one satin slipper in the group that a man might +not have worn, and every eye I could see from my position, +might have graced an improvisatrice. They stopped in front of +the throne, and, giving their long tapers to the servitors, mounted +in couples, hand in hand, and kissed the foot of his Holiness, who, +at the same time, leaned over and blessed them, and then turning +about, walked off again behind the altar in the same order in which +they had entered.</p> + +<p>The choir now struck up their half-unearthly chant (a music +so strangely shrill and clear, that I scarce know whether the +sensation is pleasure or pain), the Pope was led from his throne +to his sedan, and his mitre changed for a richly jewelled crown, +the bearers lifted their burden, the guard presented arms, the +cardinals summoned their officious servants to unrobe, and the +crowd poured out as it came.</p> + +<p>This ceremony, I found upon inquiry, is performed every +year, <i>on the day of the annunciation</i>—just nine months before +Christmas, and is intended to commemorate the incarnation of +our Saviour.</p> + +<hr class="l15" /> + +<p>As I was returning from a twilight stroll upon the Pincian hill +this evening, the bells of the convent of Santa Trinita rung to +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_392" id="Page_392">392</a></span> +vespers. I had heard of the singing of the nuns in the service at +the convent chapel, but the misbehavior of a party of English +had excluded foreigners, of late, and it was thought impossible to +get admittance. I mounted the steps, however, and rung at the +door. It was opened by a pale nun, of thirty, who hesitated a +moment, and let me pass. In a small, plain chapel within, the +service of the altar was just commencing, and, before I reached +a seat, a low plaintive chant commenced, in female voices from +the choir. It went on with occasional interruptions from the +prayers, for perhaps an hour. I can not describe the excessive +mournfulness of the music. One or two familiar hymns occurred +in the course of it, like airs in a recitative, the same sung in our +churches, but the effect was totally different. The neat, white +caps of the nuns were just visible over the railing before the +organ, and, as I looked up at them and listened to their melancholy +notes, they seemed, to me, mourning over their exclusion +from the world. The small white cloud from the censer mounted +to the ceiling, and creeping away through the arches, hung over +the organ till it was lost to the eye in the dimness of the twilight. +It was easy, under the influence of their delightful music, to +imagine within it the wings of that tranquilizing resignation, one +would think so necessary to keep down the heart in these lonely +cloisters.</p> + +<hr class="l15" /> + +<p>The most considerable ruins of ancient Rome are those of the +<i>Baths</i>. The Emperors Titus, Caracalla, Nero, and Agrippa, +constructed these immense places of luxury, and the remains of +them are among the most interesting and beautiful relics to be +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_393" id="Page_393">393</a></span> +found in the world. It is possible that my readers have as imperfect +an idea of the extent of a Roman bath as I have had, +and I may as well quote from the information given by writers on +antiquities. "They were open every day, to both sexes. In +each of the great baths, there were sixteen hundred seats of marble, +for the convenience of the bathers, and three thousand two +hundred persons could bathe at the same time. There were +splendid porticoes in front for promenade, arcades with shops, in +which was found every kind of luxury for the bath, and halls for +corporeal exercises, and for the discussion of philosophy; and +here the poets read their productions and rhetoricians harangued, +and sculptors and painters exhibited their works to the public. +The baths were distributed into grand halls, with ceilings enormously +high and painted with admirable frescoes, supported on +columns of the rarest marble, and the basins were of oriental alabaster, +porphyry, and jasper. There were in the centre vast +reservoirs, for the swimmers, and crowds of slaves to attend gratuitously +upon all who should come."</p> + +<p>The baths of Diocletian (which I visited to-day), covered an +enormous space. They occupied seven years in building, and +were the work of <i>forty thousand Christian slaves, two thirds of +whom died of fatigue and misery</i>! Mounting one of the seven +hills of Rome, we come to some half-ruined arches, of enormous +size, extending a long distance, in the sides of which were built +two modern churches. One was the work of Michael Angelo, +and one of his happiest efforts. He has turned two of the ancient +halls into a magnificent church, in the shape of a Greek cross, +leaving in their places eight gigantic columns of granite. After +St. Peter's it is the most imposing church in Rome.</p> + +<p>We drove thence to the baths of Titus, passing the site of the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_394" id="Page_394">394</a></span> +ancient gardens of Mecænas, in which still stands the tower from +which Nero beheld the conflagration of Rome. The houses of +Horace and Virgil communicated with this garden, but they are +now undistinguishable. We turned up from the Coliseum to the +left, and entered a gate leading to the baths of Titus. Five or +six immense arches presented their front to us, in a state of picturesque +ruin. We took a guide, and a long pole, with a lamp +at the extremity, and descended to the subterranean halls, to see +the still inimitable frescoes upon the ceilings. Passing through +vast apartments, to the ruined walls of which still clung, here +and there, pieces of the finely-colored stucco of the ancients, we +entered a suite of long galleries, some forty feet high, the arched +roofs of which were painted with the most exquisite art, in a kind +of fanciful border-work, enclosing figures and landscapes, in as +bright colors as if done yesterday. Farther on was the niche in +which was found the famous group of Laocoon, in a room belonging +to a subterranean palace of the emperor, communicating with +the baths. The Belvedere Meleager was also found here. The +imagination loses itself in attempting to conceive the splendor of +these under-ground palaces, blazing with artificial light, ornamented +with works of art, never equalled, and furnished with all +the luxury which an emperor of Rome, in the days when the +wealth of the world flowed into her treasury, could command for +his pleasure. How short life must have seemed to them, and +what a tenfold curse became death and the common ills of existence, +interrupting or taking away pleasures so varied and inexhaustible.</p> + +<p>These baths were built in the last great days of Rome, and +one reads the last stages of national corruption and, perhaps, the +secret of her fall, in the character of these ornamented walls. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_395" id="Page_395">395</a></span> +They breathe the very spirit of voluptuousness. Naked female +figures fill every plafond, and fauns and satyrs, with the most +licentious passions in their faces, support the festoons and hold +together the intricate ornament of the frescoes. The statues, +the pictures, the object of the place itself, inspired the wish for +indulgence, and the history of the private lives of the emperors +and wealthier Romans shows the effect in its deepest colors.</p> + +<p>We went on to the baths of Caracalla, the largest ruins of +Rome. They are just below the palaces of the Cesars, and ten +minutes' walk from the Coliseum. It is one labyrinth of gigantic +arches and ruined halls, the ivy growing and clinging wherever it +can fasten its root, and the whole as fine a picture of decay as +imagination could create. This was the favorite haunt of Shelley, +and here he wrote his fine tragedy of Prometheus. He +could not have selected a more fitting spot for solitary thought. +A herd of goats were climbing over one of the walls, and the +idle boy who tended them lay asleep in the sun, and every footstep +echoed loud through the place. We passed two or three +hours rambling about, and regained the populous streets of Rome +in the last light of the sunset. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_396" id="Page_396"></a></span></p> + +<h3>LETTER LVII.</h3> + +<p class="ch_sum"> +SUMMER WEATHER IN MARCH—BATHS OF CARACALLA—BEGINNING +OF THE APPIAN WAY—TOMB OF THE SCIPIOS—CATACOMBS—CHURCH +OF SAN SEBASTIANO—YOUNG CAPUCHIN FRIAR—TOMBS +OF THE EARLY CHRISTIAN MARTYRS—CHAMBER WHERE +THE APOSTLES WORSHIPPED—TOMB OF CECILIA METELLA—THE +CAMPAGNA—CIRCUS OF CARACALLA OR ROMULUS—TEMPLE +DEDICATED TO RIDICULE—KEATS'S GRAVE—FOUNTAIN OF EGERIA—THE +WOOD WHERE NUMA MET THE NYMPH—HOLY WEEK.</p> + +<p>The last days of March have come, clothed in sunshine and +summer. The grass is tall in the Campagna, the fruit-trees +are in blossom, the roses and myrtles are in full flower, the +shrubs are in full leaf, the whole country about breathes of June. +We left Rome this morning on an excursion to the "Fountain +of Egeria." A more heavenly day never broke. The gigantic +baths of Caracalla turned us aside once more, and we stopped +for an hour in the shade of their romantic arches, admiring +the works, while we execrated the character of their ferocious +builder.</p> + +<p>This is the beginning of the ancient Appian Way, and, a little +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_397" id="Page_397">397</a></span> +farther on, sunk in the side of a hill near the road, is the beautiful +doric tomb of the Scipios. We alighted at the antique gate, +a kind of portico, with seats of stone beneath, and reading the +inscription, "<i>Sepulchro degli Scipioni</i>" mounted by ruined +steps to the tomb. A boy came out from the house, in the vineyard +above, with candles, to show us the interior, but, having no +curiosity to see the damp cave from which the sarcophagi have +been removed (to the museum), we sat down upon a bank of +grass opposite the chaste façade, and recalled to memory the +early-learnt history of the family once entombed within. The +edifice (for it is more like a temple to a river-nymph or a dryad +than a tomb) was built by an ancestor of the great Scipio Africanus, +and here was deposited the noble dust of his children. +One feels, in these places, as if the improvisatore's inspiration +was about him—the fancy draws, in such vivid colors, the scenes +that have passed where he is standing. The bringing of the +dead body of the conqueror of Africa from Rome, the passing of +the funeral train beneath the portico, the noble mourners, the +crowd of people, the eulogy of perhaps some poet or orator, +whose name has descended to us—the air seems to speak, and +the gray stones of the monument against which the mourners of +the Scipios have leaned, seem to have had life and thought, like +the ashes they have sheltered.</p> + +<p>We drove on to the <i>Catacombs</i>. Here, the legend says, St. +Sebastian was martyred and the modern church of St. Sebastiano +stands over the spot. We entered the church, where we +found a very handsome young capuchin friar, with his brown +cowl and the white cord about his waist, who offered to conduct +us to the catacombs. He took three wax-lights from the sacristy, +and we entered a side door, behind the tomb of the saint, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_398" id="Page_398">398</a></span> +and commenced a descent of a long flight of stone steps. We +reached the bottom and found ourselves upon damp ground, following +a narrow passage, so low that I was compelled constantly +to stoop, in the sides of which were numerous small niches of the +size of a human body. These were the tombs of the early Christian +martyrs. We saw near a hundred of them. They were +brought from Rome, the scene of their sufferings, and buried in +these secret catacombs by the small church of, perhaps, the immediate +converts of St. Paul and the apostles. What food for +thought is here, for one who finds more interest in the humble +traces of the personal followers of Christ, who knew his face and +had heard his voice, to all the splendid ruins of the works of the +persecuting emperors of his time! Most of the bones have been +taken from their places, and are preserved at the museum, or +enclosed in the rich sarcophagi raised to the memory of the martyrs +in the Catholic churches. Of those that are left we saw one. +The niche was closed by a thin slab of marble, through a crack +of which the monk put his slender candle. We saw the skeleton +as it had fallen from the flesh in decay, untouched, perhaps, since +the time of Christ.</p> + +<p>We crossed through several cross-passages, and came to a +small chamber, excavated simply in the earth, with an earthern +altar, and an antique marble cross above. This was the scene +of the forbidden worship of the early Christians, and before this +very cross, which was, perhaps, then newly selected as the emblem +of their faith, met the few dismayed followers of Christ, +hidden from their persecutors, while they breathed their forbidden +prayers to their lately crucified Master.</p> + +<p>We reascended to the light of day by the rough stone steps, +worn deep by the feet of those who, for ages, for so many different +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_399" id="Page_399">399</a></span> +reasons, have passed up and down; and, taking leave of our +capuchin conductor, drove on to the next object upon the road—the +<i>tomb of Cecilia Metella</i>. It stands upon a slight elevation, +in the Appian Way, a "stern round tower," with the ivy dropping +over its turrets and waving from the embrasures, looking +more like a castle than a tomb. Here was buried "the wealthiest +Roman's wife," or, according to Corinne, his unmarried daughter. +It was turned into a fortress by the marauding nobles of the thirteenth +century, who sallied from this and the tomb of Adrian, +plundering the ill-defended subjects of Pope Innocent IV. till +they were taken and hanged from the walls by Brancaleone, the +Roman senator. It is built with prodigious strength. We +stooped in passing under the low archway, and emerged into the +round chamber within, a lofty room, open to the sky, in the circular +wall of which there is a niche for a single body. Nothing +could exceed the delicacy and fancy with which Childe Harold +muses on this spot.</p> + +<p>The lofty turrets command a wide view of the Campagna, the +long aqueducts stretching past at a short distance, and forming a +chain of noble arches from Rome to the mountains of Albano. +Cole's picture of the Roman Campagna, as seen from one of these +elevations, is, I think, one of the finest landscapes ever painted.</p> + +<p>Just below the tomb of Metella, in a flat valley, lie the extensive +ruins of what is called the "circus of Caracalla" by some, +and the "circus of Romulus" by others—a scarcely distinguishable +heap of walls and marble, half buried in the earth and moss; +and not far off stands a beautiful ruin of a small temple dedicated +(as some say) to <i>Ridicule</i>. One smiles to look at it. If the +embodying of that which is powerful, however, should make a +deity, the dedication of a temple to <i>ridicule</i> is far from amiss. In +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_400" id="Page_400">400</a></span> +our age particularly, one would think, the lamp should be relit, +and the reviewers should repair the temple. Poor Keats sleeps +in his grave scarce a mile from the spot, a human victim sacrificed, +not long ago, upon its highest altar.</p> + +<p>In the same valley almost hidden with the luxuriant ivy waving +before the entrance, flows the lovely <i>Fountain of Egeria</i>, +trickling as clear and musical into its pebbly bed as when visited +by the enamored successor of Romulus twenty-five centuries ago! +The hill above leans upon the single arch of the small temple +which embosoms it, and the green soft meadow spreads away +from the floor, with the brightest verdure conceivable. We +wound around by a half-worn path in descending the hill, and, +putting aside the long branches of ivy, entered an antique chamber, +sprinkled with quivering spots of sunshine, at the extremity +of which, upon a kind of altar, lay the broken and defaced statue +of the nymph. The fountain poured from beneath in two +streams as clear as crystal. In the sides of the temple were six +empty niches, through one of which stole, from a cleft in the +wall, a little stream, which wandered from its way. Flowers, +pale with growing in the shade, sprang from the edges of the +rivulet as it found its way out, the small creepers, dripping with +moisture, hung out from between the diamond-shaped stones +of the roof, the air was refreshingly cool, and the leafy door +at the entrance, seen against the sky, looked of a transparent +green, as vivid as emerald. No fancy could create a sweeter +spot. The fountain and the inspiration it breathed into Childe +Harold are worthy of each other.</p> + +<p>Just above the fountain, on the crest of a hill, stands a thick +grove, supposed to occupy the place of the consecrated wood, in +which Numa met the nymph. It is dark with shadow, and full +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_401" id="Page_401">401</a></span> +of birds, and might afford a fitting retreat for meditation to another +king and lawgiver. The fields about it are so thickly studded +with flowers, that you cannot step without crushing them, +and the whole neighborhood seems a favorite of nature. The +rich banker, Torlonia, has bought this and several other classic +spots about Rome—possessions for which he is more to be envied +than for his purchased dukedom.</p> + +<p>All the travelling world assembles at Rome for the ceremonies +of the holy week. Naples, Florence, and Pisa, send their hundreds +of annual visitors, and the hotels and palaces are crowded +with strangers of every nation and rank. It would be difficult to +imagine a gayer or busier place than this usually sombre city has +become within a few days. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_402" id="Page_402"></a></span></p> + +<h3>LETTER LVIII.</h3> + +<p class="ch_sum"> +PALM SUNDAY—SISTINE CHAPEL—ENTRANCE OF THE POPE—THE +CHOIR—THE POPE ON HIS THRONE—PRESENTING THE +PALMS—PROCESSION—BISHOP ENGLAND'S LECTURE—HOLY +TUESDAY—THE MISERERE—ACCIDENTS IN THE CROWD—TENEBRÆ—THE +EMBLEMATIC CANDLES—HOLY THURSDAY—FRESCOES +OF MICHAEL ANGELO—"CREATION OF EVE"—"LOT +INTOXICATED"—DELPHIC SYBIL—POPE WASHING PILGRIMS' +FEET—STRIKING RESEMBLANCE OF ONE TO JUDAS—POPE AND +CARDINALS WAITING UPON PILGRIMS AT DINNER.</p> + +<p>Palm Sunday opens the ceremonies. We drove to the Vatican +this morning, at nine, and, after waiting a half hour in the +crush, kept back, at the point of the spear, by the Pope's Swiss +guard, I succeeded in getting an entrance into the Sistine chapel. +Leaving the ladies of the party behind the grate, I passed two +more guards, and obtained a seat among the cowled and bearded +dignitaries of the church and state within, where I could observe +the ceremony with ease.</p> + +<p>The Pope entered, borne in his gilded chair by twelve men, +and, at the same moment, the chanting from the Sistine choir +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_403" id="Page_403">403</a></span> +commenced with one long, piercing note, by a single voice, producing +the most impressive effect. He mounted his throne as +high as the altar opposite him, and the cardinals went through +their obeisances, one by one, their trains supported by their servants, +who knelt on the lower steps behind them. The palms +stood in a tall heap beside the altar. They were beautifully +woven in wands of perhaps six feet in length, with a cross at the +top. The cardinal nearest the papal chair mounted first, and a +palm was handed him. He laid it across the knees of the Pope, +and, as his holiness signed the cross upon it, he stooped, and +kissed the embroidered cross upon his foot, then kissed the palm, +and taking it in his two hands, descended with it to his seat. +The other forty or fifty cardinals did the same, until each was +provided with a palm. Some twenty other persons, monks of +apparent clerical rank of every order, military men, and members +of the Catholic embassies, followed and took palms. A procession +was then formed, the cardinals going first with their +palms held before them, and the Pope following, in his chair, +with a small frame of palmwork in his hands, in which was woven +the initial of the Virgin. They passed out of the Sistine chapel, +the choir chanting most delightfully, and, having made a tour +around the vestibule, returned in the same order.</p> + +<p>The ceremony is intended to represent the entrance of the +Saviour into Jerusalem. Bishop England, of Charleston, South +Carolina, delivered a lecture at the house of the English cardinal +Weld, a day or two ago, explanatory of the ceremonies of the +Holy week. It was principally an apology for them. He confessed +that, to the educated, they appeared empty, and even +absurd rites, but they were intended not for the refined, but the +vulgar, whom it was necessary to instruct and impress through +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_404" id="Page_404">404</a></span> +their outward senses. As nearly all these rites, however, take +place in the Sistine chapel, which no person is permitted to enter +who is not furnished with a ticket, and in full dress, his argument +rather fell to the ground.</p> + +<p>With all the vast crowd of strangers in Rome, I went to the +Sistine chapel on <i>Holy Tuesday</i>, to hear the far-famed <i>Miserere</i>. +It is sung several times during the holy week, by the Pope's +choir, and has been described by travellers, of all nations, in the +most rapturous terms. The vestibule was a scene of shocking +confusion, for an hour, a constant struggle going on between the +crowd and the Swiss guard, amounting occasionally to a fight, in +which ladies fainted, children screamed, men swore, and, unless +by force of contrast, the minds of the audience seemed likely to +be little in tune for the music. The chamberlains at last arrived, +and two thousand people attempted to get into a small chapel +which scarce holds four hundred. Coat-skirts, torn cassocks, +hats, gloves, and fragments of ladies' dresses, were thrown up by +the suffocating throng, and, in the midst of a confusion beyond +description, the mournful notes of the <i>tenebræ</i> (or lamentations of +Jeremiah) poured in full volume from the choir. Thirteen candles +burned in a small pyramid within the paling of the altar, and +twelve of these, representing the apostles, were extinguished, one +by one (to signify their desertion at the cross), during the singing +of the <i>tenebræ</i>. The last, which was left burning, represented +the mother of Christ. As the last before this was extinguished, +the music ceased. The crowd had, by this time, become +quiet. The twilight had deepened through the dimly-lit chapel, +and the one solitary lamp looked lost at the distance of the altar. +Suddenly the <i>miserére</i> commenced with one high prolonged note, +that sounded like a wail; another joined it, and another and another, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_405" id="Page_405">405</a></span> +and all the different parts came in, with a gradual swell of +plaintive and most thrilling harmony, to the full power of the +choir. It continued for perhaps half an hour. The music was +simple, running upon a few notes, like a dirge, but there were +voices in the choir that seemed of a really supernatural sweetness. +No instrument could be so clear. The crowd, even in +their uncomfortable positions, were breathless with attention, and +the effect was universal. It is really extraordinary music, and +if but half the rites of the Catholic church had its power over the +mind, a visit to Rome would have quite another influence.</p> + +<p>The candles were lit, and the motley troop of cardinals and +red-legged servitors passed out. The harlequin-looking Swiss +guard stood to their tall halberds, the chamberlains and mace-bearers, +in their cassock and frills, took care that the males and +females should not mix until they reached the door, the Pope +disappeared in the sacristy, and the gay world, kept an hour beyond +their time, went home to cold dinners.</p> + +<hr class="l15" /> + +<p>The ceremonies of <i>Holy Thursday</i> commenced with the mass +in the Sistine chapel. Tired of seeing genuflections, and listening +to a mumbling of which I could not catch a syllable, I took +advantage of my privileged seat, in the Ambassador's box, to +lean back and study the celebrated frescoes of Michael Angelo +upon the ceiling. A little drapery would do no harm to any of +them. They illustrate, mainly, passages of scripture history, but +the "creation of Eve," in the centre, is an astonishingly fine +representation of a naked man and woman, as large as life; and +"Lot intoxicated and exposed before his two daughters," is +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_406" id="Page_406">406</a></span> +about as immodest a picture, from its admirable expression as +well as its nudity, as could easily be drawn. In one corner there +is a most beautiful draped figure of the <i>Delphic Sybil</i>—and I +think this bit of heathenism is almost the only very decent part +of the Pope's most consecrated chapel.</p> + +<p>After the mass, the host was carried, with a showy procession, +to be deposited among the thousand lamps in the Capella Paolina, +and, as soon as it had passed, there was a general rush for the +room in which the Pope was to <i>wash the feet of the pilgrims</i>.</p> + +<p>Thirteen men, dressed in white, with sandals open at the top, +and caps of paper covered with white linen, sat on a high bench, +just under a beautiful copy of the last supper of Da Vinci, in +gobelin tapestry. It was a small chapel, communicating with +the Pope's private apartments. Eleven of the pilgrims were as +vulgar and brutal-looking men as could have been found in the +world; but of the two in the centre, one was the personification +of wild fanaticism. He was pale, emaciated, and abstracted. +His hair and beard were neglected, and of a singular blackness. +His lips were firmly set in an expression of severity. His brows +were gathered gloomily over his eyes, and his glances, occasionally +sent among the crowd, were as glaring and flashing as a +tiger's. With all this, his countenance was lofty, and if I had +seen the face on canvas, as a portrait of a martyr, I should have +thought it finely expressive of courage and devotion. The man +on his left wept, or pretended to weep, continually; but every +person in the room was struck with his extraordinary resemblance +to <i>Judas</i>, as he is drawn in the famous picture of the Last Supper. +It was the same marked face, the same treacherous, ruffian look, +the same style of hair and beard, to a wonder. It is possible +that he might have been chosen on purpose, the twelve pilgrims +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_407" id="Page_407">407</a></span> +being intended to represent the twelve apostles of whom Judas +was one—but if accidental, it was the most remarkable coincidence +that ever came under my notice. He looked the hypocrite +and traitor complete, and his resemblance to the Judas in the +picture directly over his head, would have struck a child.</p> + +<p>The Pope soon entered from his apartments, in a purple stole, +with a cape of dark crimson satin, and the mitre of silver-cloth, +and, casting the incense into the golden censer, the white smoke +was flung from side to side before him, till the delightful odor +filled the room. A short service was then chanted, and the choir +sang a hymn. His Holiness was then unrobed, and a fine napkin, +trimmed with lace, was tied about him by the servitors, and with +a deacon before him, bearing a splendid pitcher and basin, and a +procession behind him, with large bunches of flowers, he crossed +to the pilgrims' bench. A priest, in a snow-white tunic, raised +and bared the foot of the first. The Pope knelt, took water in +his hand, and slightly rubbed the instep, and then drying it well +with a napkin, he kissed it.</p> + +<p>The assistant-deacon gave a large bunch of flowers and a napkin +to the pilgrim, as the Pope left him, and another person in rich +garments, followed, with pieces of money presented in a wrapper +of white paper. The same ceremony took place with each—one +foot only being honored with a lavation. When his Holiness +arrived at the "Judas," there was a general stir, and every one +was on tip-toe to watch his countenance. He took his handkerchief +from his eyes, and looked at the Pope very earnestly, and +when the ceremony was finished, he seized the sacred hand, and, +imprinting a kiss upon it, flung himself back, and buried his face +again in his handkerchief, quite overwhelmed with his feelings. +The other pilgrims took it very coolly, comparatively, and one +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_408" id="Page_408">408</a></span> +of them seemed rather amused than edified. The Pope returned +to his throne, and water was poured over his hands. A cardinal +gave him a napkin, his splendid cape was put again over his +shoulders, and, with a paternoster the ceremony was over.</p> + +<p>Half an hour after, with much crowding and several losses of +foothold and temper, I had secured a place in the hall where the +apostles, as the pilgrims are called after the washing, were to +dine, waited on by the Pope and cardinals. With their gloomy +faces and ghastly white caps and white dresses, they looked more +like criminals waiting for execution, than guests at a feast. They +stood while the Pope went round with a gold pitcher and basin, +to wash their hands, and then seating themselves, his Holiness, +with a good-natured smile, gave each a dish of soup, and said +something in his ear, which had the effect of putting him at his +ease. The table was magnificently set out with the plate and +provisions of a prince's table, and spite of the thousands of eyes +gazing on them, the pilgrims were soon deep in the delicacies of +every dish, even the lachrymose Judas himself, eating most voraciously. +We left them at their dessert. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_409" id="Page_409"></a></span></p> + +<h3>LETTER LIX.</h3> + +<p class="ch_sum"> +SEPULCHRE OF CAIUS CESTIUS—PROTESTANT BURYING GROUND—GRAVES +OF KEATS AND SHELLEY—SHELLEY'S LAMENT OVER +KEATS—GRAVES OF TWO AMERICANS—BEAUTY OF THE BURIAL +PLACE—MONUMENTS OVER TWO INTERESTING YOUNG FEMALES—INSCRIPTION +ON KEATS' MONUMENT—THE STYLE OF KEATS' +POEMS—GRAVE OF DR. BELL—RESIDENCE AND LITERARY +UNDERTAKINGS OF HIS WIDOW.</p> + +<p>A beautiful pyramid, a hundred and thirteen feet high, built +into the ancient wall of Rome, is the proud <i>Sepulchre of Caius +Cestius</i>. It is the most imperishable of the antiquities, standing +as perfect after eighteen hundred years as if it were built but +yesterday. Just beyond it, on the declivity of a hill, over the +ridge of which the wall passes, crowning it with two mouldering +towers, lies the <i>Protestant burying-ground</i>. It looks toward +Rome, which appears in the distance, between Mount Aventine +and a small hill called Mont Testaccio, and leaning to the southeast, +the sun lies warm and soft upon its banks, and the grass +and wild flowers are there the earliest and tallest of the Campagna. +I have been here to-day, to see the graves of <i>Keats and</i> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_410" id="Page_410">410</a></span> +<i>Shelley</i>. With a cloudless sky and the most delicious air ever +breathed, we sat down upon the marble slab laid over the ashes +of poor Shelley, and read his own lament over Keats, who sleeps +just below, at the foot of the hill. The cemetery is rudely +formed into three terraces, with walks between, and Shelley's +grave and one other, without a name, occupy a small nook above, +made by the projections of a mouldering wall-tower, and crowded +with ivy and shrubs, and a peculiarly fragrant yellow flower, +which perfumes the air around for several feet. The avenue by +which you ascend from the gate is lined with high bushes of the +marsh-rose in the most luxuriant bloom, and all over the cemetery +the grass is thickly mingled with flowers of every die. In +his preface to his lament over Keats, Shelley says, "he was +buried in the romantic and lonely cemetery of the Protestants, +under the pyramid which is the tomb of Cestius, and the massy +walls and towers, now mouldering and desolate, which formed +the circuit of ancient Rome." It is an open space among the +ruins, covered in winter with violets and daisies. "<i>It might +make one in love with death, to think that one should be buried in +so sweet a place.</i>" If Shelley had chosen his own grave at the +time, he would have selected the very spot where he has since +been laid—the most sequestered and flowery nook of the place he +describes so feelingly. In the last verses of the elegy, he speaks +of it again with the same feeling of its beauty:— +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_411" id="Page_411">411</a></span></p> + +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i4"><span class="o1">"The spirit of the spot shall lead</span></p> +<p class="i1">Thy footsteps to a slope of green access,</p> +<p class="i1">Where, like an infant's smile, over the dead,</p> +<p>A light of laughing flowers along the grass is spread.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i1">"And gray walls moulder round, on which dull time</p> +<p class="i1">Feeds like slow fire upon a hoary brand:</p> +<p class="i1">And one keen pyramid, with wedge sublime,</p> +<p class="i1">Pavilioning the dust of him who planned</p> +<p class="i1">This refuge for his memory, doth stand</p> +<p class="i1">Like flame transformed to marble; and <i>beneath</i></p> +<p class="i1"><i>A field is spread, on which a newer band</i></p> +<p class="i1"><i>Have pitched, in heaven's smile, their camp of death</i>,</p> +<p>Welcoming him we lose, with scarce extinguished breath.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="o1">"Here pause: these graves are all <i>too young as yet</i></p> +<p class="i1"><i>To have outgrown the sorrow which consigned</i></p> +<p class="i1"><i>Its charge to each</i>."</p> +</div> +</div> + +<p>Shelley has left no poet behind, who could write so touchingly +of his burial-place in turn. He was, indeed, as they have graven +on his tombstone, "<i>cor cordium</i>"—the heart of hearts. Dreadfully +mistaken as he was in his principles, he was no less the soul +of genius than the model of a true heart and of pure intentions. +Let who will cast reproach upon his memory, I believe, for one, +that his errors were of the kind most venial in the eye of Heaven, +and I read, almost like a prophesy, the last lines of his elegy on +one he believed had gone before him to a happier world:</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="i1"><span class="o1">"Burning through the inmost veil of heaven,</span></p> +<p>The soul of Adonais, like a star,</p> +<p>Beacons from the abode where the Eternal are."</p> +</div> + +<p>On the second terrace of the declivity, are ten or twelve +graves, two of which bear the names of Americans who have died +in Rome. A portrait carved in bas-relief, upon one of the slabs, +told me, without the inscription, that one whom I had known was +buried beneath.<a name="FNanchor_9" id="FNanchor_9" href="#Footnote_9" class="fnanchor">[9]</a> The slightly rising mound was covered with +small violets, half hidden by the grass. It takes away from the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_412" id="Page_412">412</a></span> +pain with which one stands over the grave of an acquaintance or +a friend, to see the sun lying so warm upon it, and the flowers +springing so profusely and cheerfully. Nature seems to have +cared for those who have died so far from home, binding the +earth gently over them with grass, and decking it with the most +delicate flowers.</p> + +<p>A little to the left, on the same bank, is the new-made grave +of a very young man, Mr. Elliot. He came abroad for health, +and died at Rome, scarce two months since. Without being +disgusted with life, one feels, in a place like this, a certain +reconciliation, if I may so express it, with the thought of a +burial—an almost willingness, if his bed could be laid amid such +loveliness, to be brought and left here to his repose. Purely +imaginary as any difference in this circumstance is, it must, at +least, always affect the sick powerfully; and with the common +practice of sending the dying to Italy, as a last hope, I consider +the exquisite beauty of this place of burial, as more than a common +accident of happiness.</p> + +<p>Farther on, upon the same terrace, are two monuments that +interested me. One marks the grave of a young English girl,<a name="FNanchor_10" id="FNanchor_10" href="#Footnote_10" class="fnanchor">[10]</a> +the pride of a noble family, and, as a sculptor told me, who had +often seen and admired her, a model of high-born beauty. She +was riding with a party on the banks of the Tiber, when her +horse became unmanageable, and backed into the river. She +sank instantly, and was swept so rapidly away by the current, +that her body was not found for many months. Her tombstone +is adorned with a bas-relief, representing an angel receiving her +from the waves. + +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_413" id="Page_413">413</a></span></p> + +<p>The other is the grave of a young lady of twenty, who was at +the baths of Lucca, last summer, in pursuit of health. She died +at the first approach of winter. I had the melancholy pleasure +of knowing her slightly, and we used to meet her in the winding +path upon the bank of the romantic river Lima, at evening, +borne in a sedan, with her mother and sister walking at her side, +the fairest victim consumption ever seized. She had all the +peculiar beauty of the disease, the transparent complexion, and +the unnaturally bright eye, added to features cast in the clearest +and softest mould of female loveliness. She excited general +interest even among the gay and dissipated crowd of a watering +place; and if her sedan was missed in the evening promenade, +the inquiry for her was anxious and universal. She is buried in +a place that seems made for such as herself.</p> + +<p>We descended to the lower enclosure at the foot of the slight +declivity. The first grave here is that of <i>Keats</i>. The inscription +on his monument runs thus: "<i>This grave contains all that was +mortal of a young English poet, who, on his death-bed, in the bitterness +of his heart at the malicious power of his enemies, desired these +words to be engraved on his tomb</i>: <span class="s07">HERE LIES ONE WHOSE NAME +WAS WRITTEN IN WATER</span>." He died at Rome in 1821. Every +reader knows his history and the cause of his death. Shelley +says, in the preface to his elegy, "The savage criticism on his +poems, which appeared in the Quarterly Review, produced the +most violent effect on his susceptible mind; the agitation thus +originated ended in a rupture of a blood-vessel in the lungs; a +rapid consumption ensued, and the succeeding acknowledgments, +from more candid critics, of the true greatness of his powers, +were ineffectual to heal the wound thus wantonly inflicted." +Keats was, no doubt, a poet of very uncommon promise. He +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_414" id="Page_414">414</a></span> +had all the wealth of genius within him, but he had not learned, +before he was killed by criticism, the received, and, therefore, +the best manner of producing it for the eye of the world. Had +he lived longer, the strength and richness which break continually +through the affected style of Endymion and Lamia and his other +poems, must have formed themselves into some noble monuments +of his powers. As it is, there is not a poet living who could surpass +the material of his "Endymion"—a poem, with all its faults, +far more full of beauties. But this is not the place for criticism. +He is buried fitly for a poet, and sleeps beyond criticism now. +Peace to his ashes!</p> + +<p>Close to the grave of Keats is that of Dr. Bell, the author of +"Observations on Italy." This estimable man, whose comments on +the fine arts are, perhaps, as judicious and high-toned as any ever +written, has left behind him, in Naples (where he practised his +profession for some years), a host of friends, who remember and +speak of him as few are remembered and spoken of in this +changing and crowded portion of the world. His widow, who +edited his works so ably and judiciously, lives still at Naples, and +is preparing just now a new edition of his book on Italy. Having +known her, and having heard from her own lips many particulars +of his life, I felt an additional interest in visiting his +grave. Both his monument and Keats's are almost buried in +the tall flowering clover of this beautiful place. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_415" id="Page_415"></a></span></p> + +<h3>LETTER LX.</h3> + +<p class="ch_sum"> +PRESENTATION AT THE PAPAL COURT—PILGRIMS GOING TO +VESPERS—PERFORMANCE OF THE MISERERE—TARPEIAN ROCK—THE +FORUM—PALACE OF THE CESARS—COLISEUM.</p> + +<p>I have been presented to the Pope this morning, in company +with several Americans—Mr. and Mrs. Gray, of Boston, Mr. +Atherton and daughters, and Mr. Walsh of Philadelphia, and +Mr. Mayer of Baltimore. With the latter gentleman, I arrived +rather late, and found that the rest of the party had been already +received, and that his Holiness was giving audience, at the +moment, to some Russian ladies of rank. Bishop England, of +Charleston, however, was good enough to send in once more, +and, in the course of a few minutes, the chamberlain in waiting +announced to us that <i>Il Padre Santo</i> would receive us. The +ante-room was a picturesque and rather peculiar scene. Clusters +of priests, of different rank, were scattered about in the corners, +dressed in a variety of splendid costumes, white, crimson, and +ermine, one or two monks, with their picturesque beards and +flowing dresses of gray or brown, were standing near one of the +doors, in their habitually humble attitudes; two gentlemen mace-bearers +guarded the door of the entrance to the Pope's presence, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_416" id="Page_416">416</a></span> +their silver batons under their arms, and their open breasted +cassocks covered with fine lace; the deep bend of the window was +occupied by the American party of ladies, in the required black +veils; and around the outer door stood the helmeted guard, a dozen +stout men-at-arms, forming a forcible contrast to the mild faces +and priestly company within.</p> + +<p>The mace-bearers lifted the curtain, and the Pope stood before +us, in a small plain room. The Irish priest who accompanied us +prostrated himself on the floor, and kissed the embroidered +slipper, and Bishop England hastily knelt and kissed his hand, +turning to present us as he rose. His Holiness smiled, and +stepped forward, with a gesture of his hand, as if to prevent our +kneeling, and, as the bishop mentioned our names, he looked at +us and nodded smilingly, but without speaking to us. Whether +he presumed we did not speak the language, or whether he +thought us too young to answer for ourselves, he confined his +inquiries about us entirely to the good bishop, leaving me, as I +wished, at leisure to study his features and manner. It was easy +to conceive that the father of the Catholic church stood before me, +but I could scarcely realize that it was a sovereign of Europe, and +the temporal monarch of millions. He was dressed in a long +vesture of snow-white flannel, buttoned together in front, with a +large crimson velvet cape over his shoulders, and band and tassels +of silver cloth hanging from beneath. A small white scull-cap +covered the crown of his head, and his hair, slightly grizzled, fell +straight toward a low forehead, expressive of good-nature merely. +A large emerald on his finger, and slippers wrought in gold, with +a cross on the instep, completed his dress. His face is heavily +moulded, but unmarked, and expressive mainly of sloth and +kindness; his nose is uncommonly large, rather pendant than +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_417" id="Page_417">417</a></span> +prominent, and an incipient double chin, slightly hanging cheeks, +and eyes, over which the lids drop, as if in sleep, at the end of +every sentence, confirm the general impression of his presence—that +of an indolent and good old man. His inquiries were +principally of the Catholic church in Baltimore (mentioned by +the bishop as the city of Mr. Mayer's residence), of its processions, +its degree of state, and whether it was recognised by the +government. At the first pause in the conversation, his Holiness +smiled and bowed, the Irish priest prostrated himself again, and +kissed his foot, and, with a blessing from the father of the church, +we retired.</p> + +<p>On the evening of holy Thursday, as I was on my way to St. +Peter's to hear the <i>miserere</i> once more, I overtook the procession +of pilgrims going up to vespers. The men went first in couples, +following a cross, and escorted by gentlemen penitents covered +conveniently with sackcloth, their eyes peeping through two holes, +and their well-polished boots beneath, being the only indications +by which their penance could be betrayed to the world. The +pilgrims themselves, perhaps a hundred in all, were the dirtiest +collection of beggars imaginable, distinguished from the lazars in +the street, only by a long staff with a faded bunch of flowers +attached to it, and an oil-cloth cape stitched over with scallop-shells. +Behind came the female pilgrims, and these were led by +the first ladies of rank in Rome. It was really curious to see the +mixture of humility and pride. There were, perhaps, fifty ladies +of all ages, from sixteen to fifty, walking each between two filthy +old women who supported themselves by her arms, while near +them, on either side of the procession, followed their splendid +equipages, with numerous servants, in livery, on foot, as if to +contradict to the world their temporary degradation. The lady +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_418" id="Page_418">418</a></span> +penitents, unlike the gentlemen, walked in their ordinary dress. +I had several acquaintances among them; and it was inconceivable, +to me, how the gay, thoughtless, fashionable creatures I had +met in the most luxurious drawing-rooms of Rome, could be +prevailed upon to become a part in such a ridiculous parade of +humility. The chief penitent, who carried a large, heavy crucifix +at the head of the procession, was the Princess ——, at whose +weekly soirees and balls assemble all that is gay and pleasure-loving +in Rome. Her two nieces, elegant girls of eighteen or +twenty, walked at her side, carrying lighted candles, of four or +five feet in length, in broad day-light, through the streets!</p> + +<p>The procession crept slowly up to the church, and I left them +kneeling at the tomb of St. Peter, and went to the side chapel, to +listen to the <i>miserere</i>. The choir here is said to be inferior to +that in the Sistine chapel, but the circumstances more than make +up for the difference, which, after all, it takes a nice ear to detect. +I could not but congratulate myself, as I sat down upon the base +of a pillar, in the vast aisle, without the chapel where the choir +were chanting, with the twilight gathering in the lofty arches, +and the candles of the various processions creeping to the +consecrated sepulchre from the distant parts of the church. It +was so different in that crowded and suffocating chapel of the +Vatican, where, fine as was the music, I vowed positively never +to subject myself to such annoyance again.</p> + +<p>It had become almost dark, when the last candle but one was +extinguished in the symbolical pyramid, and the first almost painful +note of the <i>miserere</i> wailed out into the vast church of St. +Peter. For the next half hour, the kneeling listeners, around +the door of the chapel, seemed spell-bound in their motionless +attitudes. The darkness thickened, the hundred lamps at the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_419" id="Page_419">419</a></span> +far-off sepulchre of the saint, looked like a galaxy of twinkling +points of fire, almost lost in the distance; and from the now +perfectly obscured choir, poured, in ever-varying volume, the +dirge-like music, in notes inconceivably plaintive and affecting. +The power, the mingled mournfulness and sweetness, the impassioned +fulness, at one moment, and the lost, shrieking wildness +of one solitary voice, at another, carry away the soul like a +whirlwind. I have never been so moved by anything. It is not +in the scope of language to convey an idea to another of the effect +of the <i>miserere</i>.</p> + +<p>It was not till several minutes after the music had ceased, that +the dark figures rose up from the floor about me. As we +approached the door of the church, the full moon, about three +hours risen, poured broadly under the arch of the portico, inundating +the whole front of the lofty dome with a flood of light, such as +falls only on Italy. There seemed to be no atmosphere between. +Daylight is scarce more intense. The immense square, with its +slender obelisk and embracing crescents of colonnade, lay spread +out as definitely to the eye as at noon, and the two famous +fountains shot up their clear waters to the sky, the moonlight +streamed through the spray, and every drop as visible and bright +as a diamond.</p> + +<p>I got out of the press of carriages, and took a by-street along +the Tiber, to the Coliseum. Passing the Jews' quarter, which +shuts at dark by heavy gates, I found myself near the Tarpeian +rock, and entered the Forum, behind the ruins of the temple of +Fortune. I walked toward the palace of the Cesars, stopping to +gaze on the columns, whose shadows have fallen on the same spot, +where I now saw them, for sixteen or seventeen centuries. It +checks the blood at one's heart, to stand on the spot and remember +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_420" id="Page_420">420</a></span> +it. There was not the sound of a footstep through the whole +wilderness of the Forum. I traversed it to the arch of Titus in +a silence, which, with the majestic ruins around, seemed almost +supernatural—the mind was left so absolutely to the powerful +associations of the place.</p> + +<p>Ten minutes more brought me to the Coliseum. Its gigantic +walls, arches on arches, almost to the very clouds, lay half in +shadow, half in light, the ivy hung trembling in the night air, +from between the cracks of the ruin, and it looked like some +mighty wreck in a desert. I entered, and a hundred voices +announced to me the presence of half the fashion of Rome. I +had forgotten that it was <i>the mode</i> "to go to the Coliseum by +moonlight." Here they were dancing and laughing about the +arena where thousands of Christians had been torn by wild +beasts, for the amusement of the emperors of Rome; where +gladiators had fought and died; where the sands beneath their +feet were more eloquent of blood than any other spot on the face +of the earth—and one sweet voice proposed a dance, and another +wished she could have music and supper, and the solemn old +arches re-echoed with shouts and laughter. The travestie of the +thing was amusing. I mingled in the crowd, and found acquaintances +of every nation, and an hour I had devoted to romantic +solitude and thought passed away, perhaps, quite as agreeably, in +the nonsense of the most thoughtless triflers in society. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_421" id="Page_421"></a></span></p> + +<h3>LETTER LXI.</h3> + +<p class="ch_sum"> +VIGILS OVER THE HOST—CEREMONIES OF EASTER SUNDAY—THE +PROCESSION—HIGH MASS—THE POPE BLESSING THE PEOPLE—CURIOUS +ILLUMINATION—RETURN TO FLORENCE—RURAL +FESTA—HOSPITALITY OF THE FLORENTINES—EXPECTED MARRIAGE +OF THE GRAND DUKE.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Rome</span>, 1833.—This is Friday of the holy week. The host, +which was deposited yesterday amid its thousand lamps in the +Paoline chapel, was taken from its place this morning, in solemn +procession, and carried back to the Sistine, after lying in the +consecrated place twenty-four hours. Vigils were kept over it +all night. The Paoline chapel has no windows, and the lights +are so disposed as to multiply its receding arches till the eye is +lost in them. The altar on which the host lay was piled up to +the roof in a pyramid of light, and with the prostrate figures +constantly covering the floor, and the motionless soldier in +antique armor at the entrance, it was like some scene of wild +romance.</p> + +<p>The ceremonies of Easter Sunday were performed where all +others should have been—in the body of St. Peter's. Two lines +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_422" id="Page_422">422</a></span> +of soldiers, forming an aisle up the centre, stretched from the +square without the portico to the sacred sepulchre. Two +temporary platforms for the various diplomatic corps and other +privileged persons occupied the sides, and the remainder of the +church was filled by thousands of strangers, Roman peasantry, and +contadini (in picturesque red boddices, and with golden bodkins +through their hair), from all the neighboring towns.</p> + +<p>A loud blast of trumpets, followed by military music, announced +the coming of the procession. The two long lines of soldiers +presented arms, and the esquires of the Pope entered first, in red +robes, followed by the long train of proctors, chamberlains, mitre-bearers, +and incense-bearers, the men-at-arms, escorting the +procession on either side. Just before the cardinals, came a +cross-bearer, supported on either side by men in showy surplices +carrying lights, and then came the long and brilliant line of +white-headed cardinals, in scarlet and ermine. The military +dignitaries of the monarch preceded the Pope, a splendid mass of +uniforms, and his Holiness then appeared, supported, in his great +gold and velvet chair, upon the shoulders of twelve men, clothed +in red damask, with a canopy over his head, sustained by eight +gentlemen, in short, violet-colored silk mantles. Six of the +Swiss guard (representing the six Catholic canons) walked near +the Pope, with drawn swords on their shoulders, and after his +chair followed a troop of civil officers, whose appointments I did +not think it worth while to enquire. The procession stopped +when the Pope was opposite the "chapel of the holy sacrament," +and his Holiness descended. The tiara was lifted from his head +by a cardinal, and he knelt upon a cushion of velvet and gold to +adore the "sacred host," which was exposed upon the altar. +After a few minutes he returned to his chair, his tiara was again +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_423" id="Page_423">423</a></span> +set on his head, and the music rang out anew, while the procession +swept on to the sepulchre.</p> + +<p>The spectacle was all splendor. The clear space through the +vast area of the church, lined with glittering soldiery, the +dazzling gold and crimson of the coming procession, the high +papal chair, with the immense fan-banners of peacock's feathers, +held aloft, the almost immeasurable dome and mighty pillars, +above and around, and the multitudes of silent people, produced +a scene which, connected with the idea of religious worship, and +added to by the swell of a hundred instruments of music, quite +dazzled and overpowered me.</p> + +<p>The high mass (performed but three times a year) proceeded. +At the latter part of it, the Pope mounted to the altar, and, after +various ceremonies, elevated the sacred host. At the instant +that the small white wafer was seen between the golden candlesticks, +the two immense lines of soldiers dropped upon their +knees, and all the people prostrated themselves at the same +instant.</p> + +<p>This fine scene over, we hurried to the square in front of the +church, to secure places for a still finer one—that of the Pope +blessing the people. Several thousand troops, cavalry and footmen, +were drawn up between the steps and the obelisk, in the +centre of the piazza, and the immense area embraced by the two +circling colonnades was crowded by, perhaps, a hundred thousand +people, with eyes directed to one single point. The variety of +bright costumes, the gay liveries of the ambassadors' and cardinals' +carriages, the vast body of soldiery, and the magnificent frame of +columns and fountains in which this gorgeous picture was contained, +formed the grandest scene conceivable.</p> + +<p>In a few minutes the Pope appeared in the balcony, over the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_424" id="Page_424">424</a></span> +great door of St. Peter's. Every hat in the vast multitude was +lifted and every knee bowed in an instant. <i>Half a nation +prostrate together, and one gray old man lifting up his hands to +heaven and blessing them!</i></p> + +<p>The cannon of the castle of St. Angelo thundered, the +innumerable bells of Rome pealed forth simultaneously, the +troops fell into line and motion, and the children of the two +hundred and fifty-seventh successor of St. Peter departed +<i>blessed</i>.</p> + +<p>In the evening all the world assembled to see the illumination, +which it is useless to attempt to describe.</p> + +<p>The night was cloudy and black, and every line in the +architecture of the largest building in the world was defined in +light, even to the cross, which, as I have said before, is at the +height of a mountain from the base. For about an hour it was a +delicate but vast structure of shining lines, like a drawing of a +glorious temple on the clouds. At eight, as the clock struck, +flakes of fire burst from every point, and the whole building +seemed started into flame. It was done by a simultaneous +kindling of torches in a thousand points, a man stationed at each. +The glare seemed to exceed that of noonday. No description can +give an idea of it.</p> + +<p>I am not sure that I have not been a little tedious in describing +the ceremonies of the holy week. Forsyth says in his bilious +book, that he "never could read, and certainly never could write, +a description of them." They have struck me, however, as +particularly unlike anything ever seen in our own country, and I +have endeavored to draw them slightly and with as little particularity +as possible. I trust that some of the readers of the Mirror +may find them entertaining and novel. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_425" id="Page_425">425</a></span></p> + +<hr class="l15" /> + +<p><span class="smcap">Florence</span>, 1833.—I found myself at six this morning, where +I had found myself at the same hour a year before—in the midst +of the rural festa in the Cascine of Florence. The Duke, to-day, +breakfasts at his farm. The people of Florence, high and low, +come out, and spread their repasts upon the fine sward of the +openings in the wood, the roads are watered, and the royal +equipages dash backward and forward, while the ladies hang their +shawls in the trees, and children and lovers stroll away into the +shade, and all looks like a scene from Boccaccio.</p> + +<p>I thought it a picturesque and beautiful sight last year, and so +described it. But I was a stranger then, newly arrived in +Florence, and felt desolate amid the happiness of so many. A +few months among so frank and warm-hearted a people as the +Tuscans, however, makes one at home. The tradesman and his +wife, familiar with your face, and happy to be seen in their +holyday dresses, give you the "<i>buon giorno</i>" as you pass, and a +cup of red wine or a seat at the cloth on the grass is at your +service in almost any group in the <i>prato</i>. I am sure I should +not find so many acquaintances in the town in which I have +passed my life.</p> + +<p>A little beyond the crowd, lies a broad open glade of the +greenest grass, in the very centre of the woods of the farm. A +broad fringe of shade is flung by the trees along the eastern side, +and at their roots cluster the different parties of the nobles and +the ambassadors. Their gayly-dressed <i>chasseurs</i> are in waiting, +the silver plate quivers and glances, as the chance rays of the sun +break through the leaves over head, and at a little distance, in +the road, stand their showy equipages in a long line from the +great oak to the farmhouse.</p> + +<p>In the evening, there was an illumination of the green alleys +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_426" id="Page_426">426</a></span> +and the little square in front of the house, and a band of music +for the people. Within, the halls were thrown open for a ball. +It was given by the Grand Duke to the Duchess of Litchtenberg, +the widow of Eugene Beauharnois. The company assembled at +eight, and the presentations (two lovely countrywomen of our +own among them), were over at nine. The dancing then +commenced, and we drove home, through the fading lights still +burning in the trees, an hour or two past midnight.</p> + +<p>The Grand Duke is about to be married to one of the princesses +of Naples, and great preparations are making for the event. +He looks little like a bridegroom, with his sad face, and unshorn +beard and hair. It is, probably, not a marriage of inclination, +for the fat princess expecting him, is every way inferior to the +incomparable woman he has lost, and he passed half the last +week in a lonely visit to the chamber in which she died, in his +palace at Pisa. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_427" id="Page_427"></a></span></p> + +<h3>LETTER LXII.</h3> + +<p class="ch_sum"> +BOLOGNA—MALIBRAN—PARMA—NIGHTINGALES OF LOMBARDY—PLACENZA—AUSTRIAN +SOLDIERS—THE SIMPLON—MILAN—RESEMBLANCE +TO PARIS—THE CATHEDRAL—GUERCINO'S HAGAR—MILANESE +COFFEE.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Milan.</span>—My fifth journey over the Apennines—dull of +course. On the second evening we were at Bologna. The long +colonnades pleased me less than before, with their crowds of +foreign officers and ill-dressed inhabitants, and a placard for the +opera, announcing Malibran's last night, relieved us of the +prospect of a long evening of weariness. The divine music of +<i>La Norma</i> and a crowded and brilliant audience, enthusiastic in +their applause, seemed to inspire this still incomparable creature +even beyond her wont. She sang with a fulness, an abandonment, +a passionate energy and sweetness that seemed to come from a +soul rapt and possessed beyond control, with the melody it had +undertaken. They were never done calling her on the stage after +the curtain had fallen. After six re-appearances, she came out +once more to the footlights, and murmuring something inaudible +from her lips that showed strong agitation, she pressed her hands +together, bowed till her long hair, falling over her shoulders, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_428" id="Page_428">428</a></span> +nearly touched her feet, and retired in tears. She is the siren +of Europe for me!</p> + +<p>I was happy to have no more to do with the Duke of Modena, +than to eat a dinner in his capital. We did "not forget the +picture," but my inquiries for it were as fruitless as before. I +wonder whether the author of the Pleasures of Memory has the +pleasure of remembering having seen the picture himself! +"Tassoni's bucket which is not the true one," is still shown in +the tower, and the keeper will kiss the cross upon his fingers, that +Samuel Rogers has written a false line.</p> + +<p>At Parma we ate parmesan and saw <i>the</i> Correggio. The angel +who holds the book up to the infant Saviour, the female laying her +cheek to his feet, the countenance of the holy child himself, are +creations that seem apart from all else in the schools of painting. +They are like a group, not from life, but from heaven. They are +superhuman, and, unlike other pictures of beauty which stir the +heart as if they resembled something one had loved or might +have loved, these mount into the fancy like things transcending +sympathy, and only within reach of an intellectual and elevated +wonder. This is the picture that Sir Thomas Lawrence returned +six times in one day to see. It is the only thing I saw to admire +in the Duchy of Maria Louisa. An Austrian regiment marched +into the town as we left it, and an Italian at the gate told us that +the Duchess had disbanded her last troops of the country, and +supplied their place with these yellow and black Croats and +Illyrians. Italy is Austria now to the foot of the Apennines—if +not to the top of Radicofani.</p> + +<p>Lombardy is full of nightingales. They sing by day, however +(as not specified in poetry). They are up quite as early as the +lark, and the green hedges are alive with their gurgling and +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_429" id="Page_429">429</a></span> +changeful music till twilight. Nothing can exceed the fertility +of these endless plains. They are four or five hundred miles of +uninterrupted garden. The same eternal level road, the same +rows of elms and poplars on either side, the same long, slimy +canals, the same square, vine-laced, perfectly green pastures and +cornfields, the same shaped houses, the same-voiced beggars with +the same sing-song whine, and the same villanous Austrians +poring over your passports and asking to be paid for it, from the +Alps to the Apennines. It is wearisome, spite of green leaves +and nightingales. A bare rock or a good brigand-looking +mountain would so refresh the eye!</p> + +<p>At Placenza, one of those admirable German bands was +playing in the public square, while a small corps of picked men +were manœuvred. Even an Italian, I should think, though he +knew and felt it was the music of his oppressors, might have been +pleased to listen. And pleased they seemed to be—for there +were hundreds of dark-haired and well-made men, with faces and +forms for heroes, standing and keeping time with the well-played +instruments, as peacefully as if there were no such thing as +liberty, and no meaning in the foreign uniforms crowding them +from their own pavement. And there were the women of +Placenza, nodding from the balconies to the white mustaches and +padded coats strutting below, and you would never dream Italy +thought herself wronged, watching the exchange of courtesies +between her dark-eyed daughters and these fair-haired coxcombs.</p> + +<p>We crossed the Po, and entered Austria's <i>nominal</i> dominions. +They rummaged our baggage as if they smelt republicanism +somewhere, and after showing a strong disposition to retain a +volume of very bad poetry as suspicious, and detaining us two +long hours, they had the modesty to ask to be paid for letting us +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_430" id="Page_430">430</a></span> +off lightly. When we declined it, the <i>chef</i> threatened us a +precious searching "<i>the next time</i>." How willingly I would +submit to the annoyance to have that <i>next time</i> assured to me! +Every step I take toward the bounds of Italy, pulls so upon my +heart!</p> + +<p>As most travellers come into Italy over the Simplon, Milan +makes generally the first enthusiastic chapter in their books. I +have reversed the order myself, and have a better right to praise +it from comparison. For exterior, there is certainly no city in +Italy comparable to it. The streets are broad and noble, the +buildings magnificent, the pavement quite the best in Europe, +and the Milanese (all of whom I presume I have seen, for it is +Sunday, and the streets swarm with them), are better dressed, +and look "better to do in the world" than the Tuscans, who are +gayer and more Italian, and the Romans, who are graver and +vastly handsomer. Milan is quite like Paris. The showy and +mirror-lined <i>cafés</i>, the elegant shops, the variety of strange +people and costumes, and a new gallery lately opened in imitation +of the glass-roofed <i>passages</i> of the French capital, make one +almost feel that the next turn will bring him upon the +Boulevards.</p> + +<p>The famous cathedral, nearly completed by Napoleon, is a sort +of Aladdin creation, quite too delicate and beautiful for the open +air. The filmly traceries of gothic fretwork, the needle-like +minarets, the hundreds of beautiful statues with which it is +studded, the intricate, graceful, and bewildering architecture of +every window and turret, and the frost-like frailness and delicacy +of the whole mass, make an effect altogether upon the eye that +must stand high on the list of new sensations. It is a vast +structure withal, but a middling easterly breeze, one would think +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_431" id="Page_431">431</a></span> +in looking at it, would lift it from its base and bear it over the +Atlantic like the meshes of a cobweb. Neither interior nor +exterior impresses you with the feeling of awe common to other +large churches. The sun struggles through the immense windows +of painted glass, staining every pillar and carved cornice with the +richest hues, and wherever the eye wanders it grows giddy with +the wilderness of architecture. The people on their knees are +like paintings in the strong artificial light, the checkered pavement +seems trembling with a quivering radiance, the altar is far +and indistinct, and the lamps burning over the tomb of Saint +Carlo, shine out from the centre like gems glistening in the +midst of some enchanted hall. This reads very like rhapsody, +but it is the way the place impressed me. It is like a great +dream. Its excessive beauty scarce seems constant while the eye +rests upon it.</p> + +<p>The <i>Brera</i> is a noble palace, occupied by the public galleries +of statuary and painting. I felt on leaving Florence that I could +give pictures a very long holyday. To live on them, as one does +in Italy, is like dining from morn till night. The famous +Guercino, is at Milan, however, the "Hagar," which Byron talks +of so enthusiastically, and I once more surrendered myself to a +cicerone. The picture catches your eye on your first entrance. +There is that harmony and effect in the color that mark a +masterpiece, even in a passing glance. Abraham stands in the +centre of the group, a fine, prophet-like, "green old man," with +a mild decision in his eye, from which there is evidently no +appeal. Sarah has turned her back, and you can just read in the +half-profile glance of her face, that there is a little pity mingled +in her hard-hearted approval of her rival's banishment. But +Hagar—who can describe the world of meaning in her face? +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_432" id="Page_432">432</a></span> +The closed lips have in them a calm incredulousness, contradicted +with wonderful nature in the flushed and troubled forehead, and +the eyes red with long weeping. The gourd of water is hung +over her shoulder, her hand is turning her sorrowful boy from the +door, and she has looked back once more, with a large tear +coursing down her cheek, to read in the face of her master if she +is indeed driven forth for ever. It is the instant before pride and +despair close over her heart. You see in the picture that the +next moment is the crisis of her life. Her gaze is straining upon +the old man's lips, and you wait breathlessly to see her draw up +her bending form, and depart in proud sorrow for the wilderness. +It is a piece of powerful and passionate poetry. It affects you +like nothing but a reality. The eyes get warm, and the heart +beats quick, and as you walk away you feel as if a load of +oppressive sympathy was lifting from your heart.</p> + +<p>I have seen little else in Milan, except Austrian soldiers, of +whom there are fifteen thousand in this single capital! The +government has issued an order to officers not on duty, to appear +in citizen's dress, it is supposed, to diminish the appearance of so +much military preparation. For the rest, they make a kind of +coffee here, by boiling it with cream, which is better than +anything of the kind either in Paris or Constantinople; and the +Milanese are, for slaves, the most civil people I have seen, after +the Florentines. There is little English society here; I know +not why, except that the Italians are rich enough to be exclusive +and make their houses difficult of access to strangers. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_433" id="Page_433"></a></span></p> + +<h3>LETTER LXIII.</h3> + +<p class="ch_sum"> +A MELANCHOLY PROCESSION—LAGO MAGGIORE—ISOLA BELLA—THE +SIMPLON—MEETING A FELLOW-COUNTRYMAN—THE VALLEY +OF THE RHONE.</p> + +<p>In going out of the gates of Milan, we met a cart full +of peasants, tied together and guarded by <i>gens d'armes</i>, the fifth +sight of the kind that has crossed us since we passed the Austrian +border. The poor fellows looked very innocent and very sorry. +The extent of their offences probably might be the want of a +passport, and a desire to step over the limits of his majesty's +possessions. A train of beautiful horses, led by soldiers along +the ramparts, the property of the Austrian officers, were in melancholy +contrast to their sad faces.</p> + +<p>The clear snowy Alps soon came in sight, and their cold +beauty refreshed us in the midst of a heat that prostrated every +nerve in the system. It is only the first of May, and they are +mowing the grass everywhere on the road, the trees are in their +fullest leaf, the frogs and nightingales singing each other down, +and the grasshopper would be a burden. Toward night we +crossed the Sardinian frontier, and in an hour were set down at +an auberge on the bank of Lake Maggiore, in the little town of +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_434" id="Page_434">434</a></span> +Arona. The mountains on the other side of the broad and +mirror-like water, are speckled with ruined castles, here and +there a boat is leaving its long line of ripples behind in its course, +the cattle are loitering home, the peasants sit on the benches +before their doors, and all the lovely circumstances of a rural +summer's sunset are about us, in one of the very loveliest spots +in nature. A very old Florence friend is my companion, and +what with mutual reminiscences of sunny Tuscany, and the +deepest love in common for the sky over our heads, and the +green land around us, we are noting down "red days" in our +calendar of travel.</p> + +<p>We walked from Arona by sunrise, four or five miles along +the borders of Lake Maggiore. The kind-hearted peasants on +their way to the market raised their hats to us in passing, and I +was happy that the greeting was still "<i>buon giorno</i>." Those +dark-lined mountains before us were to separate me too soon +from the mellow accents in which it was spoken. As yet, however, +it was all Italian—the ultra-marine sky, the clear, half-purpled +hills, the inspiring air—we felt in every pulse that it was +still Italy.</p> + +<p>We were at Baveno at an early hour, and took a boat for <i>Isola +Bella</i>. It looks like a gentleman's villa afloat. A boy would +throw a stone entirely over it in any direction. It strikes you +like a kind of toy as you look at it from a distance, and getting +nearer, the illusion scarcely dissipates—for, from the water's +edge, the orange-laden terraces are piled one above another like +a pyramidal fruit-basket, the villa itself peers above like a sugar +castle, and it scarce seems real enough to land upon. We pulled +round to the northern side, and disembarked at a broad stone +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_435" id="Page_435">435</a></span> +staircase, where a cicerone, with a look of suppressed wisdom, +common to his vocation, met us with the offer of his services.</p> + +<p>The entrance-hall was hung with old armor, and a magnificent +suite of apartments above, opening on all sides upon the lake, +was lined thickly with pictures, none of them remarkable except +one or two landscapes by the savage Tempesta. Travellers going +the other way would probably admire the collection more than +we. We were glad to be handed over by our pragmatical custode +to a pretty contadina, who announced herself as the gardener's +daughter, and gave us each a bunch of roses. It was a +proper commencement to an acquaintance upon Isola Bella. +She led the way to the water's edge, where, in the foundations +of the palace, a suite of eight or ten spacious rooms is constructed +<i>a la grotte</i>—with a pavement laid of small stones of +different colors, walls and roof of fantastically set shells and +pebbles, and statues that seem to have reason in their nudity. +The only light came in at the long doors opening down to the +lake, and the deep leather sofas, and dark cool atmosphere, with +the light break of the waves outside, and the long views away +toward Isola Madra, and the far-off opposite shore, composed +altogether a most seductive spot for an indolent humor and a +summer's day. I shall keep it as a cool recollection till sultry +summers trouble me no more.</p> + +<p>But the garden was the prettiest place. The lake is lovely +enough any way; but to look at it through perspectives of orange +alleys, and have the blue mountains broken by stray branches of +tulip-trees, clumps of crimson rhododendron, and clusters of citron, +yellower than gold; to sit on a garden-seat in the shade of a +thousand roses, with sweet-scented shrubs and verbenums, and a +mixture of novel and delicious perfumes embalming the air about +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_436" id="Page_436">436</a></span> +you, and gaze up at snowy Alps and sharp precipices, and down +upon a broad smooth mirror in which the islands lie like clouds, +and over which the boats are silently creeping with their white +sails, like birds asleep in the sky—why (not to disparage nature), +it seems to my poor judgment, that these artificial appliances are +an improvement even to Lago Maggiore.</p> + +<p>On one side, without the villa walls, are two or three small +houses, one of which is occupied as a hotel; and here, if I had a +friend with matrimony in his eye, would I strongly recommend +lodgings for the honeymoon. A prettier cage for a pair of billing +doves no poet would conceive you.</p> + +<p>We got on to Domo d'Ossola to sleep, saying many an oft-said +thing about the entrance to the valleys of the Alps. They seem +common when spoken of, these romantic places, but they are not +the less new in the glow of a first impression.</p> + +<p>We were a little in start of the sun this morning, and commenced +the ascent of the Simplon by a gray summer's dawn, before +which the last bright star had not yet faded. From Domo +d'Ossola we rose directly into the mountains, and soon wound into +the wildest glens by a road which was flung along precipices and +over chasms and waterfalls like a waving riband. The horses +went on at a round trot, and so skilfully are the difficulties of the +ascent surmounted, that we could not believe we had passed the +spot that from below hung above us so appallingly. The route +follows the foaming river Vedro, which frets and plunges along at +its side or beneath its hanging bridges, with the impetuosity of a +mountain torrent, where the stream is swollen at every short distance +with pretty waterfalls, messengers from the melting snows +on the summits. There was one, a water-<i>slide</i> rather than a fall, +which I stopped long to admire. It came from near the peak of +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_437" id="Page_437">437</a></span> +the mountain, leaping at first from a green clump of firs, and descending +a smooth inclined plane, of perhaps two hundred feet. +The effect was like drapery of the most delicate lace, dropping +into festoons from the hand. The slight waves overtook each +other and mingled and separated, always preserving their elliptical +and foaming curves, till, in a smooth scoop near the bottom, +they gathered into a snowy mass, and leaped into the Vedro in +the shape of a twisted shell. If wishing could have witched it +into Mr. Cole's sketch-book, he would have a new variety of +water for his next composition.</p> + +<p>After seven hours' driving, which scarce seemed ascending but +for the snow and ice and the clear air it brought us into, we stopped +to breakfast at the village of Simplon, "three thousand, two +hundred and sixteen feet above the sea level." Here we first +realized that we had left Italy. The landlady spoke French and +the postillions German! My sentiment has grown threadbare +with travel, but I don't mind confessing that the circumstance +gave me an unpleasant thickness in the throat. I threw open the +southern window, and looked back toward the marshes of Lombardy, +and if I did not say the poetical thing, it was because</p> + +<p class="blockquot"> +"It is the silent grief that cuts the heart-strings." +</p> + +<p>In sober sadness, one may well regret any country where his life +has been filled fuller than elsewhere of sunshine and gladness; +and such, by a thousand enchantments, has Italy been to me. +Its climate is life in my nostrils, its hills and valleys are the +poetry of such things, and its marbles, pictures, and palaces, beset +the soul like the very necessities of existence. You can exist +elsewhere, but oh! you <i>live</i> in Italy! +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_438" id="Page_438">438</a></span></p> + +<p>I was sitting by my English companion on a sledge in front of +the hotel, enjoying the sunshine, when the diligence drove up, +and six or eight young men alighted. One of them, walking up +and down the road to get the cramp of a confined seat out of his +legs, addressed a remark to us in English. We had neither of +us seen him before, but we exclaimed simultaneously, as he +turned away, "That's an American." "How did you know he +was not an Englishman?" I asked. "Because," said my friend, +"he spoke to us without an introduction and without a reason, as +Englishmen are not in the habit of doing, and because he ended +his sentence with 'sir,' as no Englishman does except he is +talking to an inferior, or wishes to insult you. And how did you +know it?" asked he. "Partly by instinct," I answered, "but +more, because though a traveller, he wears a new hat that cost +him ten dollars, and a new cloak that cost him fifty, (a peculiarly +American extravagance,) because he made no inclination of his +body either in addressing or leaving us, though his intention was +to be civil, and because he used fine dictionary words to express +a common idea, which, by the way, too, betrays his southern +breeding. And if you want other evidence, he has just asked +the gentleman near him to ask the conducteur something about +his breakfast, and an American is the only man in the world who +ventures to come abroad without at least French enough to keep +himself from starving." It may appear ill-natured to write +down such criticisms on one's own countryman; but the national +peculiarities by which we are distinguished from foreigners, +seemed so well defined in this instance, that I thought it worth +mentioning. We found afterward that our conjecture was right. +His name and country were on the brass plate of his portmanteau +in most legible letters, and I recognized it directly as the address +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_439" id="Page_439">439</a></span> +of an amiable and excellent man, of whom I had once or twice +heard in Italy, though I had never before happened to meet him. +Three of the faults oftenest charged upon our countrymen, are +<i>over-fine clothes</i>, <i>over fine-words</i>, and <i>over-fine</i>, or <i>over-free +manners</i>!</p> + +<p>From Simplon we drove two or three miles between heaps of +snow, lying in some places from ten to six feet deep. Seven +hours before, we had ridden through fields of grain almost ready +for the harvest. After passing one or two galleries built over +the road to protect it from the avalanches where it ran beneath +the loftier precipices, we got out of the snow, and saw Brig, the +small town at the foot of the Simplon, on the other side, lying +almost directly beneath us. It looked as if one might toss his +cap down into its pretty gardens. Yet we were four or five +hours in reaching it, by a road that seemed in most parts scarcely +to descend at all. The views down the valley of the Rhone, +which opened continually before us, were of exquisite beauty, +The river itself, which is here near its source, looked like a +meadow rivulet in its silver windings, and the gigantic Helvetian +Alps which rose in their snow on the other side of the valley, +were glittering in the slant rays of a declining sun, and of a +grandeur of size and outline which diminished, even more than +distance, the river and the clusters of villages at their feet. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_440" id="Page_440"></a></span></p> + +<h3>LETTER LXIV.</h3> + +<p class="ch_sum"> +SWITZERLAND—LA VALAIS—THE CRETINS AND THE GOITRES—A +FRENCHMAN'S OPINION OF NIAGARA—LAKE LEMAN—CASTLE +OF CHILLON—ROCKS OF MEILLERIE—REPUBLICAN AIR—MONT +BLANC—GENEVA—THE STEAMER—PARTING SORROW.</p> + +<p>We have been two days and a half loitering down through the +Swiss canton of Valais, and admiring every hour the magnificence +of these snow-capped and green-footed Alps. The little +chalets seem just lodged by accident on the crags, or stuck +against slopes so steep, that the mowers of the mountain-grass +are literally let down by ropes to their dizzy occupation. The +goats alone seem to have an exemption from all ordinary laws of +gravitation, feeding against cliffs which it makes one giddy to +look on only; and the short-waisted girls dropping a courtesy +and blushing as they pass the stranger, emerge from the little +mountain-paths, and stop by the first spring, to put on their +shoes and arrange their ribands coquetishly, before entering the +village.</p> + +<p>The two dreadful curses of these valleys meet one at every +step—the <i>cretins</i>, or natural fools, of which there is at least one +in every family; and the <i>goitre</i> or swelled throat, to which there +is hardly an exception among the women. It really makes travelling +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_441" id="Page_441">441</a></span> +in Switzerland a melancholy business, with all its beauty; at +every turn in the road, a gibbering and moaning idiot, and in +every group of females, a disgusting array of excrescences too +common even to be concealed. Really, to see girls that else +were beautiful, arrayed in all their holyday finery, but with a +defect that makes them monsters to the unaccustomed eye, their +throats swollen to the size of their heads, seems to me one of the +most curious and pitiable things I have met in my wanderings. +Many attempts have been made to account for the growth of the +<i>goitre</i>, but it is yet unexplained. The men are not so subject to +it as the women, though among them, even, it is frightfully +common. But how account for the continual production by +ordinary parents of this brute race of <i>cretins</i>? They all look +alike, dwarfish, large-mouthed, grinning, and of hideous features +and expression. It is said that the children of strangers, born in +the valley, are very likely to be idiots, resembling the cretin +exactly. It seems a supernatural curse upon the land. The +Valaisians, however, consider it a blessing to have one in the +family.</p> + +<p>The dress of the women of La Valais is excessively unbecoming, +and a pretty face is rare. Their manners are kind and +polite, and at the little <i>auberges</i>, where we have stopped on the +road, there has been a cleanliness and a generosity in the supply +of the table, which prove virtues among them, not found in Italy.</p> + +<p>At Turtmann, we made a little excursion into the mountains to +see a cascade. It falls about a hundred feet, and has just now +more water than usual from the melting of the snows. It is a +pretty fall. A Frenchman writes in the book of the hotel, that +he has seen Niagara and Trenton Falls, in America, and that +they do not compare with the cascade of Turtmann! +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_442" id="Page_442">442</a></span></p> + +<p>From Martigny the scenery began to grow richer, and after +passing the celebrated Fall of the Pissevache (which springs +from the top of a high Alp almost into the road, and is really a +splendid cascade), we approached Lake Leman in a gorgeous +sunset. We rose a slight hill, and over the broad sheet of +water on the opposite shore, reflected with all its towers in a +mirror of gold, lay the <i>castle of Chillon</i>. A bold green mountain, +rose steeply behind, the sparkling village of Vevey lay +farther down on the water's edge; and away toward the sinking +sun, stretched the long chain of the Jura, teinted with all the +hues of a dolphin. Never was such a lake of beauty—or it +never sat so pointedly for its picture. Mountains and water, +chateaux and shallops, vineyards and verdure, could do no more. +We left the carriage and walked three or four miles along the +southern bank, under the "Rocks of Meillerie," and the spirit of +St. Preux's Julie, if she haunt the scene where she caught her +death, of a sunset in May, is the most enviable of ghosts. I do +not wonder at the prating in albums of Lake Leman. For me, +it is (after Val d'Arno from Fiesoli) the <i>ne plus ultra</i> of a +scenery Paradise.</p> + +<p>We are stopping for the night at St. Gingoulf, on a swelling +bank of the lake, and we have been lying under the trees in +front of the hotel till the last perceptible teint is gone from the +sky over Jura. Two pedestrian gentlemen, with knapsacks and +dogs, have just arrived, and a whole family of French people, +including parrots and monkeys, came in before us, and are deafening +the house with their chattering. A cup of coffee, and then +good night!</p> + +<p>My companion, who has travelled all over Europe on foot, +confirms my opinion that there is no drive on the continent, equal +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_443" id="Page_443">443</a></span> +to the forty miles between the rocks of Meillerie and Geneva, on +the southern bank of the Leman. The lake is not often much +broader than the Hudson, the shores are the noble mountains +sung so gloriously by Childe Harold; Vevey, Lausanne, Copet, +and a string of smaller villages, all famous in poetry and story, +fringe the opposite water's edge with cottages and villages, while +you wind for ever along a green lane following the bend of the +shore, the road as level as your hall pavement, and green hills +massed up with trees and verdure, overshadowing you continually. +The world has a great many sweet spots in it, and I have found +many a one which would make fitting scenery for the brightest +act of life's changeful drama—but here is one, where it seems to +me as difficult not to feel genial and kindly, as for Taglioni to +keep from floating away like a smoke-curl when she is dancing in +La Bayadere.</p> + +<p>We passed a bridge and drew in a long breath to try the +difference in the air—we were in the <i>republic</i> of Geneva. It +smelt very much as it did in the dominions of his majesty of +Sardinia—sweet-briar, hawthorn, violets and all. I used to +think when I first came from America, that the flowers (republicans +by nature as well as birds) were less fragrant under a +monarchy.</p> + +<p>Mont Blanc loomed up very white in the south, but like other +distinguished persons of whom we form an opinion from the +description of poets, the "monarch of mountains" did not seem +to me so <i>very</i> superior to his fellows. After a look or two at +him as we approached Geneva, I ceased straining my head out of +the cabriolet, and devoted my eyes to things more within the +scale of my affections—the scores of lovely villas sprinkling the +hills and valleys by which we approached the city. Sweet—sweet +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_444" id="Page_444">444</a></span> +places they are to be sure! And then the month is May, +and the straw-bonneted and white-aproned girls, ladies and +peasants alike, were all out at their porches and balconies, lover-like +couples were sauntering down the park-lanes, <i>one</i> servant +passed us with a tri-cornered blue billet-doux between his thumb +and finger, the nightingales were singing their very hearts away +to the new-blown roses, and a sense of summer and seventeen, +days of sunshine and sonnet-making, came over me irresistibly. +I should like to see June out in Geneva.</p> + +<p>The little steamer that makes the tour of Lake Leman, began +to "phiz" by sunrise directly under the windows of our hotel. +We were soon on the pier, where our entrance into the boat was +obstructed by a weeping cluster of girls, embracing and parting +very unwillingly with a young lady of some eighteen years, who +was lovely enough to have been wept for by as many grown-up +gentlemen. Her own tears were under better government, +though her sealed lips showed that she dared not trust herself +with her voice. After another and another lingering kiss, the +boatman expressed some impatience, and she tore herself from +their arms and stepped into the waiting batteau. We were soon +along side the steamer, and sooner under way, and then, having +given one wave of her handkerchief to the pretty and sad group +on the shore, our fair fellow-passenger gave way to her feelings, +and sinking upon a seat, burst into a passionate flood of tears. +There was no obtruding on such sorrow, and the next hour or +two were employed by my imagination in filling up the little +drama, of which we had seen but the touching conclusion.</p> + +<p>I was pleased to find the boat (a new one) called the "Winkelreid," +in compliment to the vessel which makes the same +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_445" id="Page_445">445</a></span> +voyage in Cooper's "Headsman of Berne." The day altogether +had begun like a chapter in a romance.</p> + +<p class="blockquot"> +"Lake Leman wooed us with its crystal face," +</p> + +<p>but there was the filmiest conceivable veil of mist over its +unruffled mirror, and the green uplands that rose from its edge +had a softness like dreamland upon their verdure. I know not +whether the tearful girl whose head was drooping over the railing +felt the sympathy, but I could not help thanking nature for her, +in my heart, the whole scene was so of the complexion of her +own feelings. I could have "thrown my ring into the sea," like +Policrates Samius, "to have cause for sadness too."</p> + +<p>The "Winkelreid" has (for a republican steamer), rather the +aristocratical arrangement of making those who walk <i>aft</i> the +funnel pay twice as much as those who choose to promenade +<i>forward</i>—for no earthly reason that I can divine, other than +that those who pay dearest have the full benefit of the oily +gases from the machinery, while the humbler passenger breathes +the air of heaven before it has passed through that improving +medium. Our youthful Niobe, two French ladies not particularly +pretty, an Englishman with a fishing-rod and gun, and a +coxcomb of a Swiss artist to whom I had taken a special aversion +at Rome, from a criticism I overheard upon my favorite picture +in the Colonna, my friends and myself, were the exclusive +inhalers of the oleaginous atmosphere of the stern. A crowd of +the ark's own miscellaneousness thronged the forecastle—and so +you have the programme of a day on Lake Leman. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_446" id="Page_446"></a></span></p> + +<h3>LETTER LXV.</h3> + +<p class="ch_sum"> +LAKE LEMAN—AMERICAN APPEARANCE OF THE GENEVESE—STEAMBOAT +OF THE RHONE—GIBBON AND ROUSSEAU—ADVENTURE +OF THE LILIES—GENEVESE JEWELLERS—RESIDENCE OF +VOLTAIRE—BYRON'S NIGHT-CAP—VOLTAIRE'S WALKING-STICK +AND STOCKINGS.</p> + +<p>The water of Lake Leman looks very like other water, though +Byron and Shelley were nearly drowned in it; and Copet, a +little village on the Helvetian side, where we left three women +and took up one man (the village ought to be very much obliged +to us), is no Paradise, though Madame de Stael made it her +residence. There <i>are</i> Paradises, however, with very short +distances between, all the way down the northern shore; and +angels in them, if women are angels—a specimen or two of the +sex being visible with the aid of the spyglass, in nearly every +balcony and belvidere, looking upon the water. The taste in +country-houses seems to be here very much the same as in New +England, and quite unlike the half-palace, half-castle style +common in Italy and France. Indeed the dress, physiognomy, +and manners of old Geneva might make an American Genevese +fancy himself at home on the Leman. There is that subdued +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_447" id="Page_447">447</a></span> +decency, that grave respectableness, that black-coated, straight-haired, +saint-like kind of look which is universal in the small towns +of our country, and which is as unlike France and Italy, as a +playhouse is unlike a Methodist chapel. You would know the +people of Geneva were Calvinists, whisking through the town +merely in a diligence.</p> + +<p>I lost sight of the town of Morges, eating a tête-à-tête +breakfast with my friend in the cabin. Switzerland is the only +place out of America where one gets cream for his coffee. I cry, +Morges mercy on that plea.</p> + +<p>We were at Lausanne at eleven, having steamed forty miles in +five hours. This is not quite up to the thirty-milers on the +Hudson, of which I see accounts in the papers, but we had the +advantage of not being blown up, either going or coming, and of +looking for a continuous minute on a given spot in the scenery. +Then we had an iron railing between us and that portion of the +passengers who prefer garlic to lavender-water, and we achieved +our breakfast without losing our tempers or complexions, in a +scramble. The question of superiority between Swiss and +American steamers, therefore, depends very much on the value +you set on life, temper, and time. For me, as my time is not +measured in "diamond sparks," and as my life and temper are +the only gifts with which fortune has blessed me, I prefer the +Swiss.</p> + +<p>Gibbon lived at Lausanne, and wrote here the last chapter of +his History of Rome—a circumstance which he records with +affection. It is a spot of no ordinary beauty, and the public +promenade, where we sat and looked over to Vevey and Chillon, +and the Rocks of Meillerie, and talked of Rousseau, and agreed +that it was a scene, "<i>faite pour une Julie, pour une Claire, et pour</i> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_448" id="Page_448">448</a></span> +<i>un Saint Preux</i>," is one of the places, where, if I were to "play +statue," I should like to grow to my seat, and compromise, merely, +for eyesight. We have one thing against Lausanne, however,—it +is up hill and a mile from the water; and if Gibbon walked +often from Ouchet at noon, and "larded the way" as freely as +we, I make myself certain he was not the fat man his biographers +have drawn him.</p> + +<p>There were some other circumstances at Lausanne which +interested <i>us</i>—but which criticism has decided can not be +obtruded upon the public. We looked about for "Julie" and +"Clare," spite of Rousseau's "<i>ne les y cherchez pas</i>," and gave a +blind beggar a sous (all he asked) for a handful of lilies-of-the-valley, +pitying him ten times more than if he had lost his eyes +out of Switzerland. To be blind on Lake Leman! blind within +sight of Mont Blanc! We turned back to drop another sous +into his hat, as we reflected upon it.</p> + +<p>The return steamer from Vevey (I was sorry not to go to +Vevey for Rousseau's sake, and as much for Cooper's), took us +up on its way to Geneva, and we had the advantage of seeing the +same scenery in a different light. Trees, houses, and mountains, +are so much finer seen <i>against</i> the sun, with the deep shadows +toward you!</p> + +<p>Sitting by the stern, was a fat and fair Frenchwoman, who, like +me, had bought lilies, and about as many. With a very natural +facility of dramatic position, I imagined it had established a kind +of sympathy between us, and proposed to myself, somewhere in +the fair hours, to make it serve as an introduction. She went +into the cabin after a while, to lunch on cutlets and beer, and +returned to the deck without her lilies. Mine lay beside me, +within reach of her four fingers; and, as I was making up my +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_449" id="Page_449">449</a></span> +mind to offer to replace her loss, she coolly took them up, and +without even a French monosyllable, commenced throwing them +overboard, stem by stem. It was very clear she had mistaken +them for her own. As the last one flew over the tafferel, the +gentleman who paid for <i>la biere et les cottelettes</i>, husband or lover, +came up with a smile and a flourish, and reminded her that she +had left her bouquet between the mustard and the beer bottle. +<i>Sequiter</i>, a scene. The lady apologized, and I disclaimed; and +the more I insisted on the delight she had given me by throwing +my pretty lilies into Lake Leman, the more she made herself +unhappy, and insisted on my being inconsolable. One should +come abroad to know how much may be said upon throwing +overboard a bunch of lilies!</p> + +<p>The clouds gathered, and we had some hopes of a storm, but the +"darkened Jura" was merely dim, and the "live thunder" waited +for another Childe Harold. We were at Geneva at seven, and +had the whole population to witness our debarkation. The pier +where we landed, and the new bridge across the outlet of the +Rhone, are the evening promenade.</p> + +<p>The far-famed jewellers of Geneva are rather an aristocratic +class of merchants. They are to be sought in chambers, and +their treasures are produced box by box, from locked drawers, +and bought, if at all, without the pleasure of "beating down." +They are, withal, a gentlemanly class of men; and, of the +principal one, as many stories are told as of Beau Brummel. +He has made a fortune by his shop, and has the manners of a +man who can afford to buy the jewels out of a king's crown.</p> + +<p>We were sitting at the <i>table d'hote</i>, with about forty people, on +the first day of our arrival, when the servant brought us each a +gilt-edged note, sealed with an elegant device; invitations, we +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_450" id="Page_450">450</a></span> +presumed, to a ball, at least. Mr. So-and-so (I forget the name), +begged pardon for the liberty he had taken, and requested us to +call at his shop in the Rue de Rhone, and look at his varied +assortment of bijouterie. A card was enclosed, and the letter in +courtly English. We went, of course; as who would not? The +cost to him was a sheet of paper, and the trouble of sending to +the hotel for a list of the new arrivals. I recommend the system +to all callow Yankees, commencing a "pushing business."</p> + +<p>Geneva is full of foreigners in the summer, and it has quite +the complexion of an agreeable place. The environs are, of +course, unequalled, and the town itself is a stirring and gay +capital, full of brilliant shops, handsome streets and promenades, +where everything is to be met but pretty women. Female +beauty would come to a good market anywhere in Switzerland. +We have seen but one pretty girl (our Niobe of the steamer), +since we lost sight of Lombardy. They dress well here, and +seem modest, and have withal an air of style; but of some five +hundred ladies, whom I may have seen in the valley of the Rhone +and about this neighborhood, it would puzzle a modern Appelles +to compose an endurable Venus. I understand a fair countryman +of ours is about taking up her residence in Geneva; and +if Lake Leman does not "woo her," and the "live thunder" +leap down from Jura, the jewellers, at least, will crown her +queen of the Canton, and give her the tiara at cost.</p> + +<p>I hope "Maria Wilhelmina Amelia Skeggs" will forgive me +for having gone to <i>Ferney</i> in an <i>omnibus</i>! Voltaire lived just +under the Jura, on a hill-side, overlooking Geneva and the lake, +with a landscape before him in the foreground, that a painter +could not improve, and Mont Blanc and its neighbor mountains, +the breaks to his horizon. At six miles off, Geneva looks very +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_451" id="Page_451">451</a></span> +beautifully, astride the exit of the Rhone from the lake; and the +lake itself looks more like a broad river, with its edges of +verdure and its outer-frame of mountains. We walked up an +avenue to a large old villa, embosomed in trees, where an old +gardener appeared, to show us the grounds. We said the proper +thing under the tree planted by the philosopher, fell in love with +the view from twenty points, met an English lady in one of the +arbors, the wife of a French nobleman to whom the house +belongs, and were bowed into the hall by the old man and handed +over to his daughter to be shown the curiosities of the interior. +These were Voltaire's rooms, just as he left them. The ridiculous +picture of his own apotheosis, painted under his own +direction, and representing him offering his Henriade to Apollo, +with all the authors of his time dying of envy at his feet, +occupies the most conspicuous place over his chamber-door. +Within was his bed, the curtains nibbled quite bare by relic-gathering +travellers; a portrait of the Empress Catharine, +embroidered by her own hand, and presented to Voltaire; his +own portrait and Frederick the Great's, and many of the philosophers', +including Franklin. A little monument stands opposite +the fireplace, with the inscription, "<i>mon esprit est partout, et mon +cœur est ici</i>." It is a snug little dormitory, opening with one +window to the west; and, to those who admire the character of +the once illustrious occupant, a place for very tangible musing. +They showed us afterward his walking-stick, a pair of silk-stockings +he had half worn, and a night-cap. The last article is +getting quite fashionable as a relic of genius. They show +Byron's at Venice. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_452" id="Page_452"></a></span></p> + +<h3>LETTER LXVI.</h3> + +<p class="ch_sum"> +PRACTICAL BATHOS OF CELEBRATED PLACES—TRAVELLING COMPANIONS +AT THE SIMPLON—CUSTOM-HOUSE COMFORTS—TRIALS +OF TEMPER—CONQUERED AT LAST!—DIFFERENT ASPECTS OF +FRANCE, ITALY, AND SWITZERLAND—FORCE OF POLITENESS.</p> + +<p>Whether it was that I had offended the genius of the spot, by +coming in an omnibus, or from a desire I never can resist in such +places, to travesty and ridicule the mock solemnities with which +they are exhibited, certain it is that I left Ferney, without having +encountered, even in the shape of a more serious thought, the +spirit of Voltaire. One reads the third canto of Childe Harold +in his library, and feels as if "Lausanne and Ferney" <i>should</i> be +very interesting places to the traveller, and yet when he is shown +Gibbon's bower by a fellow scratching his head and hitching up +his trousers the while, and the nightcap that enclosed the busy +brain from which sprang the fifty brilliant <i>tomes</i> on his shelves, by +a country-girl, who hurries through her drilled description, with +her eye on the silver <i>douceur</i> in his fingers, he is very likely to +rub his hand over his eyes, and disclaim, quite honestly, all pretensions +to enthusiasm. And yet, I dare say, I shall have a +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_453" id="Page_453">453</a></span> +great deal of pleasure in remembering that I <i>have been</i> at Ferney. +As an English traveller would say, "I have <i>done</i> Voltaire!"</p> + +<p>Quite of the opinion that it was not doing justice to Geneva to +have made but a three days' stay in it, regretting not having seen +Sismondi and Simond, and a whole coterie of scholars and authors, +whose home it is, and with a mind quite made up to return to +Switzerland, when my <i>beaux jours</i> of love, money, and leisure, +shall have arrived, I crossed the Rhone at sunrise, and turned +my face toward Paris.</p> + +<p>The Simplon is much safer travelling than the pass of the Jura. +We were all day getting up the mountains by roads that would +make me anxious, if there were a neck in the carriage I would rather +should not be broken. My company, fortunately, consisted of +three Scotch spinsters, who would try any precipice of the Jura, +I think, if there were a lover at the bottom. If the horses had +backed in the wrong place, it would have been to all three, I am +sure, a deliverance from a world in whose volume of happiness,</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="i11">"their leaf</p> +<p>By some o'er-hasty angel was misplaced."</p> +</div> + +<p>As to my own neck and my friend's, there is a special providence +for bachelors, even if they were of importance enough to merit a +care. Spinsters and bachelors, we all arrived safely at Rousses, +the entrance to France, and here, if I were to write before +repeating the alphabet, you would see what a pen could do in a +passion.</p> + +<p>The carriage was stopped by three custom-house officers, and +taken under a shed, where the doors were closed behind it. We +were then required to dismount and give our honors that we had +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_454" id="Page_454">454</a></span> +nothing new in the way of clothes; no "jewelry; no unused +manufactures of wool, thread, or lace; no silk of floss silk; no +polished metals, plated or varnished; no toys, (except a heart +each); nor leather, glass, or crystal manufactures." So far, I +kept my temper.</p> + +<p>Our trunks, carpet-bags, hat-boxes, dressing-cases, and <i>portfeuilles</i>, +were then dismounted and critically examined—every +dress and article unfolded; shirts, cravats, unmentionables and +all, and searched thoroughly by two ruffians, whose fingers were +no improvement upon the labors of the washerwoman. In an +hour's time or so we were allowed to commence repacking. Still, +I kept my temper.</p> + +<p>We were then requested to walk into a private room, while the +ladies, for the same purpose, were taken, by a woman, into another. +Here we were requested to unbutton our coats, and, begging +pardon for the liberty, these courteous gentlemen thrust +their hands into our pockets, felt in our bosoms, pantaloons, and +shoes, examined our hats, and even eyed our "pet curls" very +earnestly, in the expectation of finding us crammed with Geneva +jewelry. Still, I kept my temper.</p> + +<p>Our trunks were then put upon the carriage, and a sealed +string put upon them, which we were not to cut till we arrived in +Paris. (Nine days!) They then demanded to be paid for the +sealing, and the fellows who had unladen the carriage were to be +paid for their labor. This done, we were permitted to drive on. +Still, I kept my temper!</p> + +<p>We arrived, in the evening, at Morez, in a heavy rain. We +were sitting around a comfortable fire, and the soup and fish were +just brought upon the table. A soldier entered and requested us +to walk to the police-office. "But it rains hard, and our dinner +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_455" id="Page_455">455</a></span> +is just ready." The man in the mustache was inexorable. The +commissary closed his office at eight, and we must go instantly to +certify to our passports, and get new ones for the interior. +Cloaks and umbrellas were brought, and, <i>bon gre</i>, <i>mal gre</i>, we +walked half a mile in the mud and rain to a dirty commissary, +who kept us waiting in the dark fifteen minutes, and then, making +out a description of the person of each, demanded half a dollar +for the new passport, and permitted us to wade back to our +dinner. This had occupied an hour, and no improvement to +soup or fish. Still, I kept my temper—rather!</p> + +<p>The next morning, while we were forgetting the annoyances +of the previous night, and admiring the new-pranked livery of +May by a glorious sunshine, a civil <i>arretez vous</i> brought up the +carriage to the door of <i>another custom-house</i>! The order was to +dismount, and down came once more carpet-bags, hat-boxes, and +dressing-cases, and a couple of hours were lost again in a fruitless +search for contraband articles. When it was all through, and the +officers and men <i>paid</i> as before, we were permitted to proceed +with the gracious assurance that we should not be troubled again +till we got to Paris! I bade the commissary good morning, +felicitated him on the liberal institutions of his country and his +zeal in the exercise of his own agreeable vocation, and—I am +free to confess—lost my temper! Job and Xantippe's husband! +could I help it!</p> + +<p>I confess I expected better things of <i>France</i>. In Italy, +where you come to a new dukedom every half-day, you do not +much mind opening your trunks, for they are petty princes and +need the pitiful revenue of contraband articles and the officer's +fee. Yet even they leave the person of the traveller sacred; and +where in the world, except in France, is a party, travelling evidently +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_456" id="Page_456">456</a></span> +for pleasure, subjected <i>twice at the same border</i> to the degrading +indignity of a search! Ye "hunters of Kentucky"—thank +heaven that you can go into Tennessee without having +your "plunder" overhauled and your pockets searched by successive +parties of scoundrels, whom you are to pay "by order of +the government," for their trouble!</p> + +<hr class="l15" /> + +<p>The Simplon, which you pass in a day, divides two nations, +each other's physical and moral antipodes. The handsome, picturesque, +lazy, unprincipled Italian, is left in the morning in his +own dirty and exorbitant inn; and, on the evening of the same +day, having crossed but a chain of mountains, you find yourself +in a clean auberge, nestled in the bosom of a Swiss valley, another +language spoken around you, and in the midst of a people, +who seem to require the virtues they possess to compensate them +for more than their share of uncomeliness. You travel a day or +two down the valley of the Rhone, and when you are become +reconciled to <i>cretins</i> and <i>goitres</i>, and ill-dressed and worse formed +men and women, you pass in another single day the chain of the +Jura, and find yourself in France—a country as different from +both Switzerland and Italy, as they are from each other. How is +it that these diminutive cantons preserve so completely their +nationality? It seems a problem to the traveller who passes from +one to the other without leaving his carriage.</p> + +<p>One is compelled to like France in spite of himself. You are +no sooner over the Jura than you are enslaved, past all possible +ill-humor, by the universal politeness. You stop for the night +at a place, which, as my friend remarked, resembles an inn only +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_457" id="Page_457">457</a></span> +in its <i>in</i>-attention, and after a bad supper, worse beds, and every +kind of annoyance, down comes my lady-hostess in the morning +to receive her coin, and if you can fly into a passion with <i>such</i> a +cap, and <i>such</i> a smile, and <i>such</i> a "<i>bon jour</i>," you are of less +penetrable stuff than man is commonly made of.</p> + +<p>I loved Italy, but detested the Italians. I detest France, but +I can not help liking the French. "Politeness is among the +virtues," says the philosopher. Rather, it takes the place of +them all. What can you believe ill of a people whose slightest +look toward you is made up of grace and kindness.</p> + +<p>We are dawdling along thirty miles a day through Burgundy, +sick to death of the bare vine-stakes, and longing to see a festooned +vineyard of Lombardy. France is such an ugly country! +The diligences lumber by, noisy and ludicrous; the cow-tenders +wear cocked hats; the beggars are in the true French extreme, +theatrical in all their misery; the climate is rainy and cold, and +as unlike that of Italy as if a thousand leagues separated them, +and the roads are long, straight, dirty, and uneven. There is +neither pleasure nor comfort, neither scenery nor antiquities, nor +accommodations for the weary—nothing but <i>politeness</i>. And it +is odd how it reconciles you to it all. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_458" id="Page_458"></a></span></p> + +<h3>LETTER LXVII.</h3> + +<p class="ch_sum"> +PARIS AND LONDON—REASONS FOR LIKING PARIS—JOYOUSNESS +OF ITS CITIZENS—LAFAYETTE'S FUNERAL—ROYAL RESPECT AND +GRATITUDE—ENGLAND—DOVER—ENGLISH NEATNESS AND COMFORT, +AS DISPLAYED IN THE HOTELS, WAITERS, FIRES, BELL-ROPES, +LANDSCAPES, WINDOW-CURTAINS, TEA-KETTLES, STAGE-COACHES, +HORSES, AND EVERYTHING ELSE—SPECIMEN OF +ENGLISH RESERVE—THE GENTLEMAN DRIVER OF FASHION—A +CASE FOR MRS. TROLLOPE.</p> + +<p>It is pleasant to get back to Paris. One meets everybody +there one ever saw; and operas and coffee, Taglioni and Leontine +Fay, the belles and the Boulevards, the shops, spectacles, +life, lions, and lures to every species of pleasure, rather give you +the impression that, outside the barriers of Paris, time is wasted +in travel.</p> + +<p>What pleasant idlers they look! The very shopkeepers seem +standing behind their counters for amusement. The soubrette +who sells you a cigar, or ties a crape on your arm (it was for +poor old Lafayette), is coiffed as for a ball; the <i>frotteur</i> who +takes the dust from your boots, sings his lovesong as he brushes +away, the old man has his bouquet in his bosom, and the beggar +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_459" id="Page_459">459</a></span> +looks up at the new statue of Napoleon in the Place Vendome—everybody +has some touch of fancy, some trace of a heart on the +look-out, at least, for pleasure.</p> + +<p>I was at Lafayette's funeral. They buried the old patriot like +a criminal. Fixed bayonets before and behind his hearse, his +own National Guard disarmed, and troops enough to beleaguer a +city, were the honors paid by the "citizen king" to the man who +had made him! The indignation, the scorn, the bitterness, expressed +on every side among the people, and the ill-smothered +cries of disgust as the two <i>empty</i> royal carriages went by, in the +funeral train, seemed to me strong enough to indicate a settled +and universal hostility to the government.</p> + +<p>I met Dr. Bowring on the Boulevard after the funeral was +over. I had not seen him for two years, but he could talk of +nothing but the great event of the day—"You have come in +time," he said, "to see how they carried the old general to his +grave! What would they say to this in America? Well—let +them go on! We shall see what will come of it? They have +buried Liberty and Lafayette together—our last hope in Europe +is quite dead with him!"</p> + +<hr class="l15" /> + +<p>After three delightful days in Paris we took the northern diligence; +and, on the second evening, having passed hastily +through Montreuil, Abbeville, Boulogne, and voted the road the +dullest couple of hundred miles we had seen in our travels, we +were set down in Calais. A stroll through some very indifferent +streets, a farewell visit to the last French <i>café</i>, we were likely to +see for a long time, and some unsatisfactory inquiries about Beau +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_460" id="Page_460">460</a></span> +Brummel, who is said to live here still, filled up till bedtime our +last day on the continent.</p> + +<p>The celebrated Countess of Jersey was on board the steamer, +and some forty or fifty plebeian stomachs shared with her +fashionable ladyship and ourselves the horrors of a passage +across the channel. It is rather the most disagreeable sea I +ever traversed, though I <i>have</i> seen "the Euxine," "the roughest +sea the traveller e'er ——s," etc., according to Don Juan.</p> + +<p>I was lying on my back in a berth when the steamer reached +her moorings at Dover, and had neither eyes nor disposition to +indulge in the proper sentiment on approaching the "white cliffs" +of my fatherland. I crawled on deck, and was met by a wind as +cold as December, and a crowd of rosy English faces on the pier, +wrapped in cloaks and shawls, and indulging curiosity evidently +at the expense of a shiver. It was the first of June!</p> + +<p>My companion led the way to a hotel, and we were introduced +by <i>English</i> waiters (I had not seen such a thing in three years, +and it was quite like being waited on by gentlemen), to two blazing +coal fires in the "coffee room" of the "Ship." Oh what a +comfortable place it appeared! A rich Turkey carpet snugly +fitted, nice-rubbed mahogany tables, the morning papers from +London, bellropes that <i>would</i> ring the bell, doors that <i>would</i> +shut, a landlady that spoke English, and was kind and civil; and, +though there were eight or ten people in the room, no noise +above the rustle of a newspaper, and positively, rich red damask +curtains, neither second-hand nor shabby, to the windows! A +greater contrast than this to the things that answer to them on +the continent, could scarcely be imagined.</p> + +<p><i>Malgré</i> all my observations on the English, whom I have +found elsewhere the most open-hearted and social people in the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_461" id="Page_461">461</a></span> +world, they are said by themselves and others to be just the contrary; +and, presuming they were different in England, I had +made up my mind to seal my lips in all public places, and be +conscious of nobody's existence but my own. There were +several elderly persons dining at the different tables; and one +party, of a father and son, waited on by their own servants in +livery. Candles were brought in, the different cloths were +removed; and, as my companion had gone to bed, I took up a +newspaper to keep me company over my wine. In the course +of an hour, some remark had been addressed to me, provocative +of conversation, by almost every individual in the room! The +subjects of discussion soon became general, and I have seldom +passed a more social and agreeable evening. And so much for +the first specimen of English reserve!</p> + +<p>The fires were burning brilliantly, and the coffee-room was in +the nicest order when we descended to our breakfast at six the +next morning. The tea-kettle sung on the hearth, the toast was +hot, and done to a turn, and the waiter was neither sleepy nor +uncivil—all, again, very unlike a morning at a hotel in <i>la belle</i> +France.</p> + +<p>The coach rattled up to the door punctually at the hour; and, +while they were putting on my way-worn baggage, I stood looking +in admiration at the carriage and horses. They were four beautiful +bays, in small, neat harness of glazed leather, brass-mounted, +their coats shining like a racer's, their small, blood-looking heads +curbed up to stand exactly together, and their hoofs blacked and +brushed with the polish of a gentleman's boots. The coach was +gaudily painted, the only thing out of taste about it; but it was +admirably built, the wheel-horses were quite under the coachman's +box, and the whole affair, though it would carry twelve or +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_462" id="Page_462">462</a></span> +fourteen people, covered less ground than a French one-horse +cabriolet. It was altogether quite a study.</p> + +<p>We mounted to the top of the coach; "all right," said the +ostler, and away shot the four fine creatures, turning their small +ears, and stepping together with the ease of a cat, at ten miles +in the hour. The driver was dressed like a Broadway idler, and +sat in his place, and held his "ribands" and his tandemwhip +with a confident air of superiority, as if he were quite convinced +that he and his team were beyond criticism—and so they were! +I could not but smile at contrasting his silence and the speed and +ease with which we went along, with the clumsy, cumbrous +diligence or vetturino, and the crying, whipping, cursing and ill-appointed +postillions of France and Italy. It seems odd, in a +two hours' passage, to pass over such strong lines of national +difference—so near, and not even a shading of one into the other.</p> + +<p>England is described always very justly, and always in the +same words: "it is all one garden." There is not a cottage +between Dover and London (seventy miles), where a poet might +not be happy to live. I saw a hundred little spots I coveted +with quite a heart-ache. There was no poverty on the road. +Everybody seemed employed, and everybody well-made and +healthy. The relief from the deformity and disease of the wayside +beggars of the continent was very striking.</p> + +<p>We were at Canterbury before I had time to get accustomed +to my seat. The horses had been changed twice; the coach, it +seemed to me, hardly stopping while it was done; way-passengers +were taken up and put down, with their baggage, without a +word, and in half a minute; money was tossed to the keeper of +the turnpike gate as we dashed through; the wheels went over +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_463" id="Page_463">463</a></span> +the smooth road without noise, and with scarce a sense of motion—it +was the perfection of travel.</p> + +<p>The new driver from Canterbury rather astonished me. He +drove into London every day, and was more of a "<i>swell</i>." He +owned the first team himself, four blood horses of great beauty, +and it was a sight to see him drive them! His language was +free from all slang, and very gentlemanlike and well chosen, and +he discussed everything. He found out that I was an American, +and said we did not think enough of the memory of Washington. +Leaving his bones in the miserable brick tomb, of which he had +descriptions, was not, in his opinion, worthy of a country like +mine. He went on to criticise Julia Grisi (the new singer just +then setting London on fire), hummed airs from "<i>Il Pirati</i>," to +show her manner; sang an English song like Braham; gave a +decayed Count, who sat on the box, some very sensible advice +about the management of a wild son; drew a comparison +between French and Italian women (he had travelled); told us +who the old Count was in very tolerable French, and preferred +Edmund Kean and Fanny Kemble to all actors in the world. +His taste and his philosophy, like his driving, were quite unexceptionable. +He was, withal, very handsome, and had the easy +and respectful manners of a well-bred person. It seemed very +odd to give him a shilling at the end of the journey.</p> + +<p>At Chatham we took up a very elegantly dressed young man, +who had come down on a fishing excursion. He was in the +army, and an Irishman. We had not been half an hour on the +seat together, before he had discovered, by so many plain questions, +that I was an American, a stranger in England, and an +acquaintance of a whole regiment of his friends in Malta and +Corfu. If this had been a Yankee, thought I, what a chapter it +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_464" id="Page_464">464</a></span> +would have made for Basil Hall or Madame Trollope! With all +his inquisitiveness I liked my companion, and half accepted his +offer to drive me down to Epsom the next day to the races. I +know no American who would have beaten <i>that</i> on a stage-coach +acquaintance. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_465" id="Page_465"></a></span></p> + +<h3>LETTER LXVIII.</h3> + +<p class="ch_sum"> +FIRST VIEW OF LONDON—THE KING'S BIRTHDAY—PROCESSION OF +MAIL COACHES—REGENT STREET—LADY BLESSINGTON—THE +ORIGINAL PELHAM—BULWER, THE NOVELIST—JOHN GALT—D'ISRAELI, +THE AUTHOR OF VIVIAN GREY—RECOLLECTIONS OF +BYRON—INFLUENCE OF AMERICAN OPINIONS ON ENGLISH LITERATURE.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">London.</span>—From the top of Shooter's Hill we got our first +view of London—an indistinct, architectural mass, extending all +round to the horizon, and half enveloped in a dim and lurid +smoke. "That is St. Paul's!—there is Westminster Abbey!—there +is the tower of London!" What directions were these to +follow for the first time with the eye!</p> + +<p>From Blackheath (seven or eight miles from the centre of +London), the beautiful hedges disappeared, and it was one continued +mass of buildings. The houses were amazingly small, a +kind of thing that would do for an object in an imitation perspective +park, but the soul of neatness pervaded them. Trelises +were nailed between the little windows, roses quite overshadowed +the low doors, a painted fence enclosed the hand's breadth of +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_466" id="Page_466">466</a></span> +grass-plot, and very, oh, <i>very</i> sweet faces bent over lapfuls of +work beneath the snowy and looped-up curtains. It was all +home-like and amiable. There was an <i>affectionateness</i> in the +mere outside of every one of them.</p> + +<p>After crossing Waterloo Bridge, it was busy work for the eyes. +The brilliant shops, the dense crowds of people, the absorbed air +of every passenger, the lovely women, the cries, the flying +vehicles of every description, passing with the most dangerous +speed—accustomed as I am to large cities, it quite made me +dizzy. We got into a "jarvey" at the coach-office, and in half +an hour I was in comfortable quarters, with windows looking +down St. James street, and the most agreeable leaf of my life +to turn over. "Great emotions interfere little with the mechanical +operations of life," however, and I dressed and dined, +though it was my first hour in London.</p> + +<p>I was sitting in the little parlor alone over a fried sole and a +mutton cutlet, when the waiter came in, and pleading the crowded +state of the hotel, asked my permission to spread the other side +of the table for a clergyman. I have a kindly preference for the +cloth, and made not the slightest objection. Enter a fat man, +with top-boots and a hunting-whip, rosy as Bacchus, and excessively +out of breath with mounting one flight of stairs. Beefsteak +and potatoes, a pot of porter, and a bottle of sherry +followed close on his heels. With a single apology for the intrusion, +the reverend gentleman fell to, and we ate and drank for a +while in true English silence.</p> + +<p>"From Oxford, sir, I presume," he said at last, pushing back +his plate, with an air of satisfaction.</p> + +<p>"No, I had never the pleasure of seeing Oxford."</p> + +<p>"R—e—ally! may I take a glass of wine with you, sir?" +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_467" id="Page_467">467</a></span></p> + +<p>We got on swimmingly. He would not believe I had never +been in England till the day before, but his cordiality was no +colder for that. We exchanged port and sherry, and a most +amicable understanding found its way down with the wine. Our +table was near the window, and a great crowd began to collect at +the corner of St. James' street. It was the king's birth-day, +and the people were thronging to see the nobility come in state +from the royal <i>levee</i>. The show was less splendid than the same +thing in Rome or Vienna, but it excited far more of my admiration. +Gaudiness and tinsel were exchanged for plain richness +and perfect fitness in the carriages and harness, while the horses +were incomparably finer. My friend pointed out to me the +different liveries as they turned the corner into Piccadilly, the duke +of Wellington's among others. I looked hard to see His Grace; +but the two pale and beautiful faces on the back seat, carried +nothing like the military nose on the handles of the umbrellas.</p> + +<p>The annual procession of mail-coaches followed, and it was +hardly less brilliant. The drivers and guard in their bright red +and gold uniforms, the admirable horses driven so beautifully, the +neat harness, the exactness with which the room of each horse +was calculated, and the small space in which he worked, and the +compactness and contrivance of the coaches, formed altogether +one of the most interesting spectacles I have ever seen. My +friend, the clergyman, with whom I had walked out to see them +pass, criticised the different teams <i>con amore</i>, but in language +which I did not always understand. I asked him once for an +explanation; but he looked rather grave, and said something +about "gammon," evidently quite sure that my ignorance of +London was a mere quiz.</p> + +<p>We walked down Piccadilly, and turned into, beyond all +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_468" id="Page_468">468</a></span> +comparison, the most handsome street I ever saw. The Toledo +of Naples, the Corso of Rome, the Kohl-market of Vienna, the +Rue de la Paix and Boulevards of Paris, have each impressed +me strongly with their magnificence, but they are really nothing +to Regent-street. I had merely time to get a glance at it before +dark; but for breadth and convenience, for the elegance and +variety of the buildings, though all of the same scale and +material, and for the brilliancy and expensiveness of the shops, +it seemed to me quite absurd to compare it with anything +between New York and Constantinople—Broadway and the +Hippodrome included.</p> + +<p>It is the custom for the king's tradesmen to illuminate their +shops on His Majesty's birth-night, and the principal streets on +our return were in a blaze of light. The crowd was immense. +None but the lower order seemed abroad, and I cannot describe +to you the effect on my feelings on hearing my language spoken +by every man, woman, and child, about me. It seemed a +completely foreign country in every other respect, different from +what I had imagined, different from my own and all that I had +seen; and, coming to it last, it seemed to me the farthest off +and strangest country of all—and yet the little sweep who went +laughing through the crowd, spoke a language that I had heard +attempted in vain by thousands of educated people, and that I +had grown to consider next to unattainable by others, and almost +useless to myself. Still, it did not make me feel at home. +Everything else about me was too new. It was like some mysterious +change in my own ears—a sudden power of comprehension, +such as a man might feel who was cured suddenly of +deafness. You can scarcely enter into my feelings till you have +had the changes of French, Italian, German, Greek, Turkish, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_469" id="Page_469">469</a></span> +Illyrian, and the mixtures and dialects of each, rung upon your +hearing almost exclusively, as I have for years. I wandered +about as if I were exercising some supernatural faculty in a +dream.</p> + +<p>A friend in Italy had kindly given me a letter to Lady Blessington, +and with a strong curiosity to see this celebrated lady, I +called on the second day after my arrival in London. It was +"deep i' the afternoon," but I had not yet learned the full +meaning of "town hours." "Her ladyship had not come down +to breakfast." I gave the letter and my address to the powdered +footman, and had scarce reached home when a note arrived +inviting me to call the same evening at ten.</p> + +<p>In a long library lined alternately with splendidly bound books +and mirrors, and with a deep window of the breadth of the +room, opening upon Hyde Park, I found Lady Blessington alone. +The picture to my eye as the door opened was a very lovely one. +A woman of remarkable beauty half buried in a fauteuil of +yellow satin, reading by a magnificent lamp, suspended from the +centre of the arched ceiling; sofas, couches, ottomans, and +busts, arranged in rather a crowded sumptuousness through the +room; enamel tables, covered with expensive and elegant trifles +in every corner, and a delicate white hand relieved on the back +of a book, to which the eye was attracted by the blaze of its +diamond rings. As the servant mentioned my name, she rose +and gave me her hand very cordially, and a gentleman entering +immediately after, she presented me to her son-in-law, Count +D'Orsay, the well-known Pelham of London, and certainly the +most splendid specimen of a man, and a well-dressed one that I +had ever seen. Tea was brought in immediately, and conversation +went swimmingly on. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_470" id="Page_470">470</a></span></p> + +<p>Her ladyship's inquiries were principally about America, of +which, from long absence, I knew very little. She was extremely +curious to know the degrees of reputation the present popular +authors of England enjoy among us, particularly Bulwer, Galt, +and D'Israeli (the author of Vivian Grey.) "If you will come +to-morrow night," she said, "you will see Bulwer. I am +delighted that he is popular in America. He is envied and +abused by all the literary men of London, for nothing, I believe, +except that he gets five hundred pounds for his books and they +fifty, and knowing this, he chooses to assume a pride (some +people call it puppyism), which is only the armor of a sensitive +mind, afraid of a wound. He is to his friends, the most frank +and gay creature in the world, and open to boyishness with those +who he thinks understand and value him. He has a brother +Henry, who is as clever as himself in a different vein, and is just +now publishing a book on the present state of France. Bulwer's +wife, you know, is one of the most beautiful women in London, +and his house is the resort of both fashion and talent. He is +just now hard at work on a new book, the subject of which is +the last days of Pompeii. The hero is a Roman dandy, who +wastes himself in luxury, till this great catastrophe rouses him +and develops a character of the noblest capabilities. Is Galt +much liked?"</p> + +<p>I answered to the best of my knowledge that he was not. His +life of Byron was a stab at the dead body of the noble poet, which, +for one, I never could forgive, and his books were clever, but +vulgar. He was evidently not a gentleman in his mind. This +was the opinion I had formed in America, and I had never heard +another.</p> + +<p>"I am sorry for it," said Lady B., "for he is the dearest and +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_471" id="Page_471">471</a></span> +best old man in the world. I know him well. He is just on the +verge of the grave, but comes to see me now and then, and if you +had known how shockingly Byron treated him, you would only +wonder at his sparing his memory so much."</p> + +<p>"<i>Nil mortuis nisi bonum</i>," I thought would have been a better +course. If he had reason to dislike him, he had better not have +written since he was dead.</p> + +<p>"Perhaps—perhaps. But Galt has been all his life miserably +poor, and lived by his books. That must be his apology. Do +you know the D'Israeli's in America?"</p> + +<p>I assured her ladyship that the "Curiosities of Literature," by +the father, and "Vivian Grey and Contarini Fleming," by the +son, were universally known.</p> + +<p>"I am pleased at that, too, for I like them both. D'Israeli +the elder, came here with his son the other night. It would have +delighted you to see the old man's pride in him. He is very +fond of him, and as he was going away, he patted him on the head, +and said to me, "take care of him, Lady Blessington, for my sake. +He is a clever lad, but he wants ballast. I am glad he has the +honor to know you, for you will check him sometimes when I am +away!" D'Israeli, the elder, lives in the country, about twenty +miles from town, and seldom comes up to London. He is a very +plain old man in his manners, as plain as his son is the reverse. +D'Israeli, the younger, is quite his own character of Vivian Grey +crowded with talent, but very <i>soignè</i> of his curls, and a bit of a +coxcomb. There is no reserve about him, however, and he is the +only <i>joyous</i> dandy I ever saw."</p> + +<p>I asked if the account I had seen in some American paper of +a literary celebration at Canandaigua, and the engraving of her +ladyship's name with some others upon a rock, was not a quiz. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_472" id="Page_472">472</a></span></p> + +<p>"Oh, by no means. I was equally flattered and amused by the +whole affair. I have a great idea of taking a trip to America to +see it. Then the letter, commencing 'Most charming Countess—for +charming you must be since you have written the conversations +of Lord Byron'—oh, it was quite delightful. I have shown +it to everybody. By the way, I receive a great many letters +from America, from people I never heard of, written in the most +extraordinary style of compliment, apparently in perfectly good +faith. I hardly know what to make of them."</p> + +<p>I accounted for it by the perfect seclusion in which great numbers +of cultivated people live in our country, who having neither +intrigue, nor fashion, nor twenty other things to occupy their +minds as in England, depend entirely upon books, and consider +an author who has given them pleasure as a friend. America, I +said, has probably more literary enthusiasts than any country in +the world; and there are thousands of romantic minds in the +interior of New England, who know perfectly every writer this +side the water, and hold them all in affectionate veneration, +scarcely conceivable by a sophisticated European. If it were not +for such readers, literature would be the most thankless of vocations. +I, for one, would never write another line.</p> + +<p>"And do you think these are the people who write to me? If +I could think so, I should be exceedingly happy. People in +England are refined down to such heartlessness—criticism, private +and public, is so interested and so cold, that it is really +delightful to know there is a more generous tribunal. Indeed, I +think all our authors now are beginning to write for America. +We think already a great deal of your praise or censure."</p> + +<p>I asked if her ladyship had known many Americans.</p> + +<p>"Not in London, but a great many abroad. I was with Lord +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_473" id="Page_473">473</a></span> +Blessington in his yacht at Naples, when the American fleet was +lying there, eight or ten years ago, and we were constantly on board +your ships. I knew Commodore Creighton and Captain Deacon +extremely well, and liked them particularly. They were with us, +either on board the yacht or the frigate every evening, and I remember +very well the band playing always, "God save the King," +as we went up the side. Count d'Orsay here, who spoke very +little English at that time, had a great passion for Yankee Doodle, +and it was always played at his request."</p> + +<p>The Count, who still speaks the language with a very slight +accent, but with a choice of words that shows him to be a man of +uncommon tact and elegance of mind, inquired after several of the +officers, whom I have not the pleasure of knowing. He seemed +to remember his visits to the frigate with great pleasure. The +conversation, after running upon a variety of topics, which I +could not with propriety put into a letter for the public eye, +turned very naturally upon Byron. I had frequently seen the +Countess Guiccioli on the Continent, and I asked Lady Blessington +if she knew her.</p> + +<p>"No. We were at Pisa when they were living together, but, +though Lord Blessington had the greatest curiosity to see her, +Byron would never permit it. 'She has a red head of her own,' +said he, 'and don't like to show it.' Byron treated the poor +creature dreadfully ill. She feared more than she loved him."</p> + +<p>She had told me the same thing herself in Italy.</p> + +<p>It would be impossible, of course, to make a full and fair record +of a conversation of some hours. I have only noted one or two +topics which I thought most likely to interest an American reader. +During all this long visit, however, my eyes were very busy in +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_474" id="Page_474">474</a></span> +finishing for memory, a portrait of the celebrated and beautiful +woman before me.</p> + +<p>The portrait of Lady Blessington in the Book of Beauty is not +unlike her, but it is still an unfavorable likeness. A picture by +Sir Thomas Lawrence hung opposite me, taken, perhaps, at the +age of eighteen, which is more like her, and as captivating a +representation of a just matured woman, full of loveliness and +love, the kind of creature with whose divine sweetness the gazer's +heart aches, as ever was drawn in the painter's most inspired hour. +The original is now (she confessed it very frankly) forty. She +looks something on the sunny side of thirty. Her person is full, +but preserves all the fineness of an admirable shape; her foot is +not crowded in a satin slipper, for which a Cinderella might long +be looked for in vain, and her complexion (an unusually fair skin, +with very dark hair and eyebrows), is of even a girlish delicacy +and freshness. Her dress of blue satin (if I am describing her +like a milliner, it is because I have here and there a reader of the +Mirror in my eye who will be amused by it), was cut low and +folded across her bosom, in a way to show to advantage the round +and sculpture-like curve and whiteness of a pair of exquisite shoulders, +while her hair dressed close to her head, and parted simply +on her forehead with a rich <i>ferroniere</i> of turquoise, enveloped in +clear outline a head with which it would be difficult to find a fault. +Her features are regular, and her mouth, the most expressive of +them, has a ripe fulness and freedom of play, peculiar to the Irish +physiognomy, and expressive of the most unsuspicious good humor. +Add to all this a voice merry and sad by turns, but always +musical, and manners of the most unpretending elegance, yet +even more remarkable for their winning kindness, and you have +the most prominent traits of one of the most lovely and fascinating +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_475" id="Page_475">475</a></span> +women I have ever seen. Remembering her talents and +her rank, and the unenvying admiration she receives from the +world of fashion and genius, it would be difficult to reconcile her +lot to the "doctrine of compensation."</p> + +<p>There is one remark I may as well make here, with regard to +the personal descriptions and anecdotes with which my letters from +England will of course be filled. It is quite a different thing +from publishing such letters in London. America is much +farther off from England than England from America. You in +New York read the periodicals of this country, and know everything +that is done or written here, as if you lived within the sound +of Bow-bell. The English, however, just know of our existence, +and if they get a general idea twice a year of our progress in +politics, they are comparatively well informed. Our periodical +literature is never even heard of. Of course there can be no +offence to the individuals themselves in anything which a visitor +could write, calculated to convey an idea of the person or manners +of distinguished people to the American public. I mention it +lest, at first thought, I might seem to have abused the hospitality +or frankness of those on whom letters of introduction have given +me claims for civility. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_476" id="Page_476"></a></span></p> + +<h3>LETTER LXIX.</h3> + +<p class="ch_sum">THE LITERATI OF LONDON.</p> + +<p>Spent my first day in London in wandering about the finest +part of the West End. It is nonsense to compare it to any other +city in the world. From the Horse-Guards to the Regent's Park +alone, there is more magnificence in architecture than in the whole +of any other metropolis in Europe, and I have seen the most and +the best of them. Yet this, though a walk of more than two +miles, is but a small part even of the fashionable extremity of +London. I am not easily tired in a city; but I walked till I +could scarce lift my feet from the ground, and still the parks and +noble streets extended before and around me as far as the eye +could reach, and strange as they were in reality, the names were +as familiar to me as if my childhood had been passed among +them. "Bond Street," "Grosvenor Square," "Hyde Park," +look new to my eye, but they sound very familiar to my ear.</p> + +<p>The equipages of London are much talked of, but they exceed +even description. Nothing can be more perfect, or apparently +more simple than the gentleman's carriage that passes you in the +street. Of a modest color, but the finest material, the crest just +visible on the panels, the balance of the body upon its springs, +true and easy, the hammercloth and liveries of the neatest and +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_477" id="Page_477">477</a></span> +most harmonious colors, the harness slight and elegant, and the +horses "the only splendid thing" in the establishment—is a +description that answers the most of them. Perhaps the most +perfect thing in the world, however, is a St. James's-street +stanhope or cabriolet, with its dandy owner on the whip-seat, and +the "tiger" beside him. The attitudes of both the gentleman +and the "gentleman's gentleman" are studied to a point, but +nothing could be more knowing or exquisite than either. The +whole affair, from the angle of the bell-crowned hat (the prevailing +fashion on the steps of Crockford's at present), to the blood +legs of the thorough-bred creature in harness, is absolutely +faultless. I have seen many subjects for study in my first day's +stroll, but I leave the men and women and some other less important +features of London for maturer observation.</p> + +<p>In the evening I kept my appointment with Lady Blessington. +She had deserted her exquisite library for the drawing-room, and +sat, in fuller dress, with six or seven gentlemen about her. I +was presented immediately to all, and when the conversation was +resumed, I took the opportunity to remark the distinguished +coterie with which she was surrounded.</p> + +<p>Nearest me sat <i>Smith</i>, the author of "Rejected Addresses"—a +hale, handsome man, apparently fifty, with white hair, and a +very nobly-formed head and physiognomy. His eye alone, small +and with lids contracted into an habitual look of drollery, betrayed +the bent of his genius. He held a cripple's crutch in his hand, +and though otherwise rather particularly well dressed, wore a +pair of large India rubber shoes—the penalty he was paying, +doubtless, for the many good dinners he had eaten. He played +rather an <i>aside</i> in the conversation, whipping in with a quiz or a +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_478" id="Page_478">478</a></span> +witticism whenever he could get an opportunity, but more a +listener than a talker.</p> + +<p>On the opposite side of Lady B. stood Henry Bulwer, the +brother of the novelist, very earnestly engaged in a discussion of +some speech of O'Connell's. He is said by many to be as +talented as his brother, and has lately published a book on the +present state of France. He is a small man, very slight and +gentleman-like, a little pitted with the small-pox, and of very +winning and persuasive manners. I liked him at the first glance.</p> + +<p>His opponent in the argument was Fonblanc, the famous editor +of the Examiner, said to be the best political writer of his day. +I never saw a much worse face—sallow, seamed and hollow, his +teeth irregular, his skin livid, his straight black hair uncombed +and straggling over his forehead—he looked as if he might be the +gentleman</p> + +<p class="blockquot"> +Whose "coat was red, and whose breeches were blue." +</p> + +<p>A hollow, croaking voice, and a small, fiery black eye, with a +smile like a skeleton's, certainly did not improve his physiognomy. +He sat upon his chair very awkwardly, and was very +ill-dressed, but every word he uttered, showed him to be a man +of claims very superior to exterior attractions. The soft musical +voice, and elegant manner of the one, and the satirical, sneering +tone and angular gestures of the other, were in very strong +contrast.</p> + +<p>A German prince, with a star on his breast, trying with all his +might, but, from his embarrassed look, quite unsuccessfully, to +comprehend the drift of the argument, the Duke de Richelieu, +whom I had seen at the court of France, the inheritor of nothing +but the name of his great ancestor, a dandy and a fool, making +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_479" id="Page_479">479</a></span> +no attempt to listen, a famous traveller just returned from +Constantinople; and the splendid person of Count D'Orsay in a +careless attitude upon the ottoman, completed the <i>cordon</i>.</p> + +<p>I fell into conversation after a while with Smith, who, supposing +I might not have heard the names of the others, in the hurry +of an introduction, kindly took the trouble to play the dictionary, +and added a graphic character of each as he named him. Among +other things he talked a great deal of America, and asked me if +I knew our distinguished countryman, Washington Irving. I had +never been so fortunate as to meet him. "You have lost a +great deal," he said, "for never was so delightful a fellow. I +was once taken down with him into the country by a merchant, +to dinner. Our friend stopped his carriage at the gate of his +park, and asked us if we would walk through his grounds to the +house. Irving refused and held me down by the coat, so that +we drove on to the house together, leaving our host to follow +on foot. 'I make it a principle,' said Irving, 'never to walk +with a man through his own grounds. I have no idea of praising +a thing whether I like it or not. You and I will do them to-morrow +morning by ourselves.'" The rest of the company had +turned their attention to Smith as he began his story, and there +was a universal inquiry after Mr. Irving. Indeed the first +question on the lips of every one to whom I am introduced as an +American, are of him and Cooper. The latter seems to me to +be admired as much here as abroad, in spite of a common +impression that he dislikes the nation. No man's works could +have higher praise in the general conversation that followed, +though several instances were mentioned of his having shown an +unconquerable aversion to the English when in England. Lady +Blessington mentioned Mr. Bryant, and I was pleased at the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_480" id="Page_480">480</a></span> +immediate tribute paid to his delightful poetry by the talented +circle around her.</p> + +<p>Toward twelve o'clock, "Mr. Lytton Bulwer" was announced, +and enter the author of Pelham. I had made up my mind how +he <i>should</i> look, and between prints and descriptions thought I +could scarcely be mistaken in my idea of his person. No two +things could be more unlike, however, than the ideal Mr. Bulwer +in my mind and the real Mr. Bulwer who followed the announcement. +<i>Imprimis</i>, the gentleman who entered was not handsome. +I beg pardon of the boarding-schools—but he really <i>was not</i>. +The engraving of him published some time ago in America is as +much like any other man living, and gives you no idea of his +head whatever. He is short, very much bent in the back, +slightly knock-kneed, and, if my opinion in such matters goes +for anything, as ill-dressed a man for a gentleman, as you will +find in London. His figure is slight and very badly put together, +and the only commendable point in his person, as far as I could +see, was the smallest foot I ever saw a man stand upon. <i>Au +reste</i>, I liked his manners extremely. He ran up to Lady Blessington, +with the joyous heartiness of a boy let out of school; +and the "how d'ye, Bulwer!" went round, as he shook hands +with everybody, in the style of welcome usually given to "the +best fellow in the world." As I had brought a letter of introduction +to him from a friend in Italy, Lady Blessington introduced +me particularly, and we had a long conversation about Naples +and its pleasant society.</p> + +<p>Bulwer's head is phrenologically a fine one. His forehead +retreats very much, but is very broad and well marked, and the +whole air is that of decided mental superiority. His nose is +aquiline, and far too large for proportion, though he conceals its +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_481" id="Page_481">481</a></span> +extreme prominence by an immense pair of red whiskers, which +entirely conceal the lower part of his face in profile. His complexion +is fair, his hair profuse, curly, and of a light auburn, his +eye not remarkable, and his mouth contradictory, I should think, +of all talent. A more good-natured, habitually-smiling, nerveless +expression could hardly be imagined. Perhaps my impression is +an imperfect one, as he was in the highest spirits, and was not +serious the whole evening for a minute—but it is strictly and +faithfully <i>my impression</i>.</p> + +<p>I can imagine no style of conversation calculated to be more +agreeable than Bulwer's. Gay, quick, various, half-satirical, and +always fresh and different from everybody else, he seemed to talk +because he could not help it, and infected everybody with his +spirits. I can not give even the substance of it in a letter, +for it was in a great measure local or personal. A great deal of +fun was made of a proposal by Lady Blessington to take Bulwer +to America and show him at so much a head. She asked me +whether I thought it would be a good speculation. I took upon +myself to assure her ladyship, that, provided she played <i>showman</i> +the "concern," as they would phrase it in America, would be +certainly a profitable one. Bulwer said he would rather go in +disguise and hear them abuse his books. It would be pleasant, +he thought, to hear the opinions of people who judged him neither +as a member of parliament nor a dandy—simply a book-maker. +Smith asked him if he kept an amanuensis. "No," he said, "I +scribble it all out myself, and send it to the press in a most +ungentlemanlike hand, half print and half hieroglyphic, with all +its imperfections on its head, and correct in the proof—very +much to the dissatisfaction of the publisher, who sends me in a +bill of sixteen pounds six shillings and fourpence for extra corrections. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_482" id="Page_482">482</a></span> +Then I am free to confess I don't know grammar. Lady +Blessington, do you know grammar? I detest grammar. There +never was such a thing heard of before Lindley Murray. I +wonder what they did for grammar before his day! Oh, the +delicious blunders one sees when they are irretrievable! And +the best of it is, the critics never get hold of them. Thank +Heaven for second editions, that one may scratch out his blots, +and go down clean and gentleman-like to posterity!" Smith +asked him if he had ever reviewed one of his own books. "No—but +I <i>could</i>! And then how I should like to recriminate and +defend myself indignantly! I think I could be preciously +severe. Depend upon it nobody knows a book's defects half so +well as its author. I have a great idea of criticising my works +for my posthumous memoirs. Shall I, Smith? Shall I, Lady +Blessington?"</p> + +<p>Bulwer's voice, like his brother's, is exceedingly lover-like and +sweet. His playful tones are quite delicious, and his clear laugh +is the soul of sincere and careless merriment.</p> + +<p>It is quite impossible to convey in a letter scrawled literally, +between the end of a late visit and a tempting pillow, the +evanescent and pure spirit of a conversation of wits. I must +confine myself, of course, in such sketches, to the mere sentiment +of things that concern general literature and ourselves.</p> + +<p>"The Rejected Addresses" got upon his crutches about three +o'clock in the morning, and I made my exit with the rest, +thanking Heaven, that, though in a strange country, my mother +tongue was the language of its men of genius. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_483" id="Page_483"></a></span></p> + +<h3>LETTER LXX.</h3> + +<p class="ch_sum"> +LONDON—VISIT TO A RACE-COURSE—GIPSIES—THE PRINCESS +VICTORIA—SPLENDID APPEARANCE OF THE ENGLISH NOBILITY—A +BREAKFAST WITH ELIA AND BRIDGET ELIA—MYSTIFICATION—CHARLES +LAMB'S OPINION OF AMERICAN AUTHORS.</p> + +<p>I have just returned from <i>Ascot races</i>. Ascot Heath, on +which the course is laid out, is a high platform of land, beautifully +situated on a hill above Windsor Castle, about twenty-five +miles from London. I went down with a party of gentlemen in +the morning and returned at evening, doing the distance, with +relays of horses in something less than three hours. This, one +would think, is very fair speed, but we were passed continually +by the "bloods" of the road, in comparison with whom we +seemed getting on rather at a snail's pace.</p> + +<p>The scenery on the way was truly English—one series of +finished landscapes, of every variety of combination. Lawns, +fancy-cottages, manor-houses, groves, roses and flower-gardens +make up England. It surfeits the eye at last. You could not +drop a poet out of the clouds upon any part of it I have seen, +where, within five minutes' walk, he would not find himself in +Paradise. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_484" id="Page_484">484</a></span></p> + +<p>We flew past Virginia Water and through the sun-flecked +shades of Windsor Park, with the speed of the wind. On +reaching the Heath, we dashed out of the road, and cutting +through fern and brier, our experienced whip put his wheels on +the rim of the course, as near the stands as some thousands of +carriages arrived before us would permit, and then, cautioning us +to take the bearings of our position, lest we should lose him after +the race, he took off his horses, and left us to choose our own +places.</p> + +<p>A thousand red and yellow flags were flying from as many +snowy tents in the midst of the green heath; ballad-singers and +bands of music were amusing their little audiences in every +direction; splendid markees covering gambling-tables, surrounded +the winning-post; groups of country people were busy in every +bush, eating and singing, and the great stands were piled with +row upon row of human heads waiting anxiously for the exhilarating +contest.</p> + +<p>Soon after we arrived, the King and royal family drove up the +course with twenty carriages, and scores of postillions and outriders +in red and gold, flying over the turf as majesty flies in no +other country; and, immediately after, the bell rang to clear the +course for the race. <i>Such</i> horses! The earth seemed to fling +them off as they touched it. The lean jockeys, in their party-colored +caps and jackets, rode the fine-limbed, slender creatures +up and down together, and then returning to the starting-post, off +they shot like so many arrows from the bow.</p> + +<p><i>Whiz!</i> you could tell neither color nor shape as they passed +across the eye. Their swiftness was incredible. A horse of Lord +Chesterfield's was rather the favorite; and for the sake of his great-grandfather, +I had backed him with my small wager, "Glaucus is +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_485" id="Page_485">485</a></span> +losing," said some one on the top of a carriage above me, but +round they swept again, and I could just see that one glorious +creature was doubling the leaps of every other horse, and in a +moment Glaucus and Lord Chesterfield had won.</p> + +<p>The course between the races is a promenade of some +thousands of the best-dressed people in England. I thought I had +never seen so many handsome men and women, but particularly +<i>men</i>. The nobility of this country, unlike every other, is by far +the manliest and finest looking class of its population. The +<i>contadini</i> of Rome, the <i>lazzaroni</i> of Naples, the <i>paysans</i> of +France, are incomparably more handsome than their superiors in +rank, but it is strikingly different here. A set of more elegant +and well-proportioned men than those pointed out to me by my +friends as the noblemen on the course, I never saw, except only +in Greece. The Albanians are seraphs to look at.</p> + +<p>Excitement is hungry, and, after the first race, our party produced +their baskets and bottles, and spreading out the cold pie +and champaign upon the grass, between the wheels of the +carriages, we drank Lord Chesterfield's health and ate for our +own, in an <i>al fresco</i> style worthy of Italy. Two veritable Bohemians, +brown, black-eyed gipsies, the models of those I had seen +in their wicker tents in Asia, profited by the liberality of the +hour, and came in for an upper crust to a pigeon pie, that, to tell +the truth, they seemed to appreciate.</p> + +<p>Race followed race, but I am not a contributor to the Sporting +Magazine, and could not give you their merits in comprehensible +terms if I were.</p> + +<p>In one of the intervals, I walked under the King's stand, and +saw Her Majesty, the Queen, and the young Princess Victoria, +very distinctly. They were listening to a ballad-singer, and +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_486" id="Page_486">486</a></span> +leaning over the front of the box with an amused attention, quite +as sincere, apparently, as any beggar's in the ring. The Queen +is the plainest woman in her dominions, beyond a doubt. The +Princess is much better-looking than the pictures of her in the +shops, and, for the heir to such a crown as that of England, +quite unnecessarily pretty and interesting. She will be sold, +poor thing—bartered away by those great dealers in royal hearts, +whose grand calculations will not be much consolation to her, if +she happens to have a taste of her own.</p> + +<hr class="l15" /> + +<p>[The following sketch was written a short time previous to the +death of Charles Lamb.]</p> +<div class="blockquot"> +<p> +Invited to breakfast with a gentleman in the temple to meet +Charles Lamb and his sister—"Elia and Bridget Elia." I never +in my life had an invitation more to my taste. The essays of +Elia are certainly the most charming things in the world, +and it has been for the last ten years, my highest compliment +to the literary taste of a friend to present him with a copy. +Who has not smiled over the humorous description of Mrs. +Battle? Who that has read Elia would not give more to see +him than all the other authors of his time put together?</p> + +<p>Our host was rather a character. I had brought a letter of +introduction to him from Walter Savage Landor, the author of +Imaginary Conversations, living at Florence, with a request that +he would put me in the way of seeing one or two men about whom +I had a curiosity, Lamb more particularly. I could not have +been recommended to a better person. Mr. R. is a gentleman +who, everybody says, <i>should have been</i> an author, but who never +wrote a book. He is a profound German scholar, has travelled +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_487" id="Page_487">487</a></span> +much, is the intimate friend of Southey, Coleridge, and Lamb, +has breakfasted with Goëthe, travelled with Wordsworth through +France and Italy, and spends part of every summer with him, +and knows everything and everybody that is distinguished—in +short, is, in his bachelor's chambers in the temple, the friendly +nucleus of a great part of the talent of England.</p> + +<p>I arrived a half hour before Lamb, and had time to learn +some of his peculiarities. He lives a little out of London, and +is very much of an invalid. Some family circumstances have +tended to depress him very much of late years, and unless excited +by convivial intercourse, he scarce shows a trace of what he was. +He was very much pleased with the American reprint of his +Elia, though it contains several things which are not his—written +so in his style, however, that it is scarce a wonder the editor +should mistake them. If I remember right, they were "Valentine's +Day," the "Nuns of Caverswell," and "Twelfth Night." +He is excessively given to mystifying his friends, and is never so +delighted as when he has persuaded some one into the belief of +one of his grave inventions. His amusing biographical sketch of +Liston was in this vein, and there was no doubt in anybody's +mind that it was authentic, and written in perfectly good faith. +Liston was highly enraged with it, and Lamb was delighted in +proportion.</p> + +<p>There was a rap at the door at last, and enter a gentleman in +black small-clothes and gaiters, short and very slight in his +person, his head set on his shoulders with a thoughtful, forward +bent, his hair just sprinkled with gray, a beautiful, deep-set eye, +aquiline nose, and a very indescribable mouth. Whether it +expressed most humor or feeling, good nature or a kind of whimsical +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_488" id="Page_488">488</a></span> +peevishness, or twenty other things which passed over it by +turns, I can not in the least be certain.</p> + +<p>His sister, whose literary reputation is associated very closely +with her brother's, and who, as the original of "Bridget Elia," +is a kind of object for literary affection, came in after him. She +is a small, bent figure, evidently a victim to illness, and hears +with difficulty. Her face has been, I should think, a fine and +handsome one, and her bright gray eye is still full of intelligence +and fire. They both seemed quite at home in our friend's chambers, +and as there was to be no one else, we immediately drew +round the breakfast table. I had set a large arm chair for Miss +Lamb. "Don't take it, Mary," said Lamb, pulling it away from +her very gravely, "it appears as if you were going to have a tooth +drawn."</p> + +<p>The conversation was very local. Our host and his guest had +not met for some weeks, and they had a great deal to say of +their mutual friends. Perhaps in this way, however, I saw more +of the author, for his manner of speaking of them and the quaint +humor with which he complained of one, and spoke well of +another was so in the vein of his inimitable writings, that I could +have fancied myself listening to an audible composition of a new +Elia. Nothing could be more delightful than the kindness and +affection between the brother and the sister, though Lamb was +continually taking advantage of her deafness to mystify her with +the most singular gravity upon every topic that was started. +"Poor Mary!" said he, "she hears all of an epigram but the +point." "What are you saying of me, Charles?" she asked. +"Mr. Willis," said he, raising his voice, "admires <i>your Confessions +of a Drunkard</i> very much, and I was saying that it was no +merit of yours, that you understood the subject." We had been +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_489" id="Page_489">489</a></span> +speaking of this admirable essay (which is his own), half an hour +before.</p> + +<p>The conversation turned upon literature after a while, and our +host, the templar, could not express himself strongly enough in +admiration of Webster's speeches, which he said were exciting +the greatest attention among the politicians and lawyers of England. +Lamb said, "I don't know much of American authors. +Mary, there, devours Cooper's novels with a ravenous appetite, +with which I have no sympathy. The only American book I +ever read twice, was the 'Journal of Edward Woolman,' a +quaker preacher and tailor, whose character is one of the finest +I ever met with. He tells a story or two about negro slaves that +brought the tears into my eyes. I can read no prose now, though +Hazlitt sometimes, to be sure—but then Hazlitt is worth all +modern prose writers put together."</p> + +<p>Mr. R. spoke of buying a book of Lamb's, a few days before, +and I mentioned my having bought a copy of Elia the last day I +was in America, to send as a parting gift to one of the most +lovely and talented women in our country.</p> + +<p>"What did you give for it?" said Lamb.</p> + +<p>"About seven and sixpence."</p> + +<p>"Permit me to pay you that," said he, and with the utmost +earnestness he counted out the money upon the table.</p> + +<p>"I never yet wrote anything that would sell," he continued. +"I am the publisher's ruin. My last poem won't sell a copy. +Have you seen it, Mr. Willis?"</p> + +<p>I had not.</p> + +<p>"It's only eighteen pence, and I'll give you sixpence toward +it;" and he described to me where I should find it sticking up in +a shop-window in the Strand. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_490" id="Page_490">490</a></span></p> + +<p>Lamb ate nothing, and complained in a querulous tone of the +veal pie. There was a kind of potted fish (of which I forget the +name at this moment), which he had expected our friend would +procure for him. He inquired whether there was not a morsel +left perhaps in the bottom of the last pot. Mr. R. was not sure.</p> + +<p>"Send and see," said Lamb, "and if the pot has been +cleaned, bring me the cover. I think the sight of it would do +me good."</p> + +<p>The cover was brought, upon which there was a picture of the +fish. Lamb kissed it with a reproachful look at his friend, and +then left the table and began to wander round the room with a +broken, uncertain step, as if he almost forgot to put one leg +before the other. His sister rose after a while, and commenced +walking up and down, very much in the same manner, on the +opposite side of the table, and in the course of half an hour they +took their leave.</p> + +<p>To any one who loves the writings of Charles Lamb with but +half my own enthusiasm, even these little particulars of an hour +passed in his company, will have an interest. To him who does +not, they will seem dull and idle. Wreck as he certainly is, and +must be, however, of what he was, I would rather have seen him +for that single hour, than the hundred and one sights of London +put together.</p> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_491" id="Page_491"></a></span></p> + +<h3>LETTER LXXI.</h3> + +<p class="ch_sum"> +DINNER AT LADY BLESSINGTON'S—BULWER, D'ISRAELI, PROCTER, +FONBLANC, ETC.—ECCENTRICITIES OF BECKFORD, AUTHOR OF +VATHEK—D'ISRAELI'S EXTRAORDINARY TALENT AT DESCRIPTION.</p> + +<p>Dined at Lady Blessington's, in company with several authors, +three or four noblemen, and a clever exquisite or two. The +authors were Bulwer, the novelist, and his brother, the statist; +Procter (better known as Barry Cornwall), D'Israeli, the author +of Vivian Grey; and Fonblanc, of the Examiner. The principal +nobleman was Lord Durham, and the principal exquisite (though +the word scarce applies to the magnificent scale on which nature +has made him, and on which he makes himself), was Count +D'Orsay. There were plates for twelve.</p> + +<p>I had never seen Procter, and, with my passionate love for his +poetry, he was the person at table of the most interest to me. +He came late, and as twilight was just darkening the drawing-room, +I could only see that a small man followed the announcement, +with a remarkably timid manner, and a very white forehead.</p> + +<p>D'Israeli had arrived before me, and sat in the deep window, +looking out upon Hyde Park, with the last rays of daylight +reflected from the gorgeous gold flowers of a splendidly embroidered +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_492" id="Page_492">492</a></span> +waistcoat. Patent leather pumps, a white stick, with a +black cord and tassel, and a quantity of chains about his neck +and pockets, served to make him, even in the dim light, rather a +conspicuous object.</p> + +<p>Bulwer was very badly dressed, as usual, and wore a flashy +waistcoat of the same description as D'Israeli's. Count D'Orsay +was very splendid, but very undefinable. He seemed showily +dressed till you looked to particulars, and then it seemed only a +simple thing, well fitted to a very magnificent person. Lord +Albert Conyngham was a dandy of common materials; and my +Lord Durham, though he looked a young man, if he passed for a +lord at all in America, would pass for a very ill-dressed one.</p> + +<p>For Lady Blessington, she is one of the most handsome, and, +quite the best-dressed woman in London; and, without farther +description, I trust the readers of the Mirror will have little +difficulty in imagining a scene that, taking a wild American into +the account, was made up of rather various material.</p> + +<p>The blaze of lamps on the dinner table was very favorable to +my curiosity, and as Procter and D'Israeli sat directly opposite +me, I studied their faces to advantage. Barry Cornwall's forehead +and eye are all that would strike you in his features. His +brows are heavy; and his eye, deeply sunk, has a quick, restless +fire, that would have arrested my attention, I think, had I not +known he was a poet. His voice has the huskiness and elevation +of a man more accustomed to think than converse, and it was +never heard except to give a brief and very condensed opinion, +or an illustration, admirably to the point, of the subject under +discussion. He evidently felt that he was only an observer in the +party.</p> + +<p>D'Israeli has one of the most remarkable faces I ever saw. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_493" id="Page_493">493</a></span> +He is lividly pale, and but for the energy of his action and the +strength of his lungs, would seem a victim to consumption. His +eye is black as Erebus, and has the most mocking and lying-in-wait +sort of expression conceivable. His mouth is alive with +a kind of working and impatient nervousness, and when he has +burst forth, as he does constantly, with a particularly successful +cataract of expression, it assumes a curl of triumphant scorn that +would be worthy of a Mephistopheles. His hair is as extraordinary +as his taste in waistcoats. A thick heavy mass of jet black +ringlets falls over his left cheek almost to his collarless stock, +while on the right temple it is parted and put away with the +smooth carefulness of a girl's, and shines most unctiously,</p> + +<p class="blockquot"> +"With thy incomparable oil, Macassar!" +</p> + +<p>The anxieties of the first course, as usual, kept every mouth +occupied for a while, and then the dandies led off with a discussion +of Count D'Orsay's rifle match (he is the best rifle-shot in +England), and various matters as uninteresting to transatlantic +readers. The new poem, Philip Van Artevald's, came up after a +while, and was very much over-praised (<i>me judice</i>). Bulwer +said, that as the author was the principle writer for the Quarterly +Review, it was a pity it was first praised in that periodical, and +praised so unqualifiedly. Procter said nothing about it, and I +respected his silence; for, as a poet, he must have felt the +poverty of the poem, and was probably unwilling to attack a new +aspirant in his laurels.</p> + +<p>The next book discussed was Beckford's Italy, or rather the +next author, for the <i>writer</i> of Vathek is more original, and more +talked of than his books, and just now occupies much of the +attention of London. Mr. Beckford has been all his life enormously +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_494" id="Page_494">494</a></span> +rich, has luxuriated in every country with the fancy of a +poet, and the refined splendor of a Sybarite, was the admiration +of Lord Byron, who visited him at Cintra, was the owner of +Fonthill, and, <i>plus fort encore</i>, his is one of the oldest families in +England. What could such a man attempt that would not be +considered extraordinary!</p> + +<p>D'Israeli was the only one at table who knew him, and the +style in which he gave a sketch of his habits and manners, was +worthy of himself. I might as well attempt to gather up the +foam of the sea, as to convey an idea of the extraordinary language +in which he clothed his description. There were, at +least, five words in every sentence that must have been very +much astonished at the use they were put to, and yet no others +apparently, could so well have conveyed his idea. He talked +like a race-horse approaching the winning-post, every muscle in +action, and the utmost energy of expression flung out in every +burst. It is a great pity he is not in parliament.<a name="FNanchor_11" id="FNanchor_11" href="#Footnote_11" class="fnanchor">[11]</a></p> + +<p>The particulars he gave of Beckford, though stripped of his +gorgeous digressions and parentheses, may be interesting. He +lives now at Bath, where he has built a house on two sides of the +street, connected by a covered bridge <i>a la Ponte de Sospiri</i>, at +Venice. His servants live on one side, and he and his sole companion +on the other. This companion is a hideous dwarf, who +imagines himself, or is, a Spanish duke; and Mr. Beckford for +many years has supported him in a style befitting his rank, treats +him with all the deference due to his title, and has, in general, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_495" id="Page_495">495</a></span> +no other society (I should not wonder, myself, if it turned out to +be a woman); neither of them is often seen, and when in London, +Mr. Beckford is only to be approached through his man of business. +If you call, he is not at home. If you would leave a +card or address him a note, his servant has strict orders not to +take in anything of the kind. At Bath, he has built a high +tower, which is a great mystery to the inhabitants. Around the +interior, to the very top, it is lined with books, approachable +with a light spiral staircase; and in the pavement below, the +owner has constructed a double crypt for his own body, and that +of his dwarf companion, intending, with a desire for human +neighborhood which has not appeared in his life, to leave the +library to the city, that all who enjoy it shall pass over the bodies +below.</p> + +<p>Mr. Beckford thinks very highly of his own books, and talks +of his early production (Vathek), in terms of unbounded admiration. +He speaks slightingly of Byron, and of his praise, and +affects to despise utterly the popular taste. It appeared altogether, +from D'Israeli's account, that he is a splendid egotist, +determined to free life as much as possible from its usual fetters, +and to enjoy it to the highest degree of which his genius, backed +by an immense fortune, is capable. He is reputed, however, to +be excessively liberal, and to exercise his ingenuity to contrive +secret charities in his neighborhood.</p> + +<p>Victor Hugo and his extraordinary novels came next under +discussion; and D'Israeli, who was fired with his own eloquence, +started off, <i>apropos des bottes</i>, with a long story of an empalement +he had seen in Upper Egypt. It was as good, and perhaps +as authentic, as the description of the chow-chow-tow in Vivian +Grey. He had arrived at Cairo on the third day after the man +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_496" id="Page_496">496</a></span> +was transfixed by two stakes from hip to shoulder, and he was +still alive! The circumstantiality of the account was equally +horrible and amusing. Then followed the sufferer's history, with +a score of murders and barbarities, heaped together like Martin's +Feast of Belshazzer, with a mixture of horror and splendor, that +was unparalleled in my experience of improvisation. No mystic +priest of the Corybantes could have worked himself up into a +finer phrensy of language.</p> + +<p>Count D'Orsay kept up, through the whole of the conversation +and narration, a running fire of witty parentheses, half French +and half English; and with champaign in all the pauses, the +hours flew on very dashingly. Lady Blessington left us toward +midnight, and then the conversation took a rather political turn, +and something was said of O'Connell. D'Israeli's lips were +playing upon the edge of a champaign glass, which he had just +drained, and off he shot again with a description of an interview +he had had with the agitator the day before, ending in a story of +an Irish dragoon who was killed in the peninsula. His name was +Sarsfield. His arm was shot off, and he was bleeding to death. +When told that he could not live, he called for a large silver +goblet, out of which he usually drank his claret. He held it to +the gushing artery and filled it to the brim with blood, looked at +it a moment, turned it out slowly upon the ground, muttering to +himself, "If that had been shed for old Ireland!" and expired. +You can have no idea how thrillingly this little story was told. +Fonblanc, however, who is a cold political satirist, could see +nothing in a man's "decanting his claret," that was in the least +sublime, and so Vivian Grey got into a passion, and for a while +was silent.</p> + +<p>Bulwer asked me if there was any distinguished literary American +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_497" id="Page_497">497</a></span> +in town. I said, Mr. Slidell one of our best writers, was +here.</p> + +<p>"Because," said he, "I received, a week or more ago, a letter +of introduction by some one from Washington Irving. It lay on +the table, when a lady came in to call on my wife, who seized +upon it as an autograph, and immediately left town, leaving me +with neither name nor address."</p> + +<p>There was a general laugh and a cry of "Pelham! Pelham!" +as he finished his story. Nobody chose to believe it.</p> + +<p>"I think the name <i>was</i> Slidell," said Bulwer.</p> + +<p>"Slidell!" said D'Israeli, "I owe him two-pence, by Jove!" +and he went on in his dashing way to narrate that he had sat +next Mr. Slidell at a bull-fight in Seville, that he wanted to buy +a fan to keep off the flies, and having nothing but doubloons in +his pocket, Mr. S. had lent him a small Spanish coin to that +value, which he owed him to this day.</p> + +<p>There was another general laugh, and it was agreed that on +the whole the Americans were "<i>done</i>."</p> + +<p>Apropos to this, D'Israeli gave us a description in a gorgeous, +burlesque, galloping style, of a Spanish bull-fight; and when we +were nearly dead with laughing at it, some one made a move, and +we went up to Lady Blessington in the drawing-room. Lord +Durham requested her ladyship to introduce him, particularly, to +D'Israeli (the effect of his eloquence). I sat down in the corner +with Sir Martin Shee, the president of the Royal Academy, and +had a long talk about Allston and Harding and Cole, whose pictures +he knew; and "somewhere in the small hours," we took +our leave, and Procter left me at my door in Cavendish street +weary, but in a better humor with the world than usual. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_498" id="Page_498"></a></span></p> + +<h3>LETTER LXXII.</h3> + +<p class="ch_sum"> +THE ITALIAN OPERA—MADEMOISELLE GRISI—A GLANCE AT LORD +BROUGHAM—MRS. NORTON AND LORD SEFTON—RAND, THE AMERICAN +PORTRAIT PAINTER—AN EVENING PARTY AT BULWER'S—PALMY +STATE OF LITERATURE IN MODERN DAYS—FASHIONABLE +NEGLECT OF FEMALES—PERSONAGES PRESENT—SHIEL THE ORATOR, +THE PRINCE OF MOSCOWA, MRS. LEICESTER STANHOPE, THE +CELEBRATED BEAUTY, ETC., ETC.</p> + +<p>Went to the opera to hear Julia Grisi. I stood out the first +act in the pit, and saw instances of rudeness in "Fop's-alley," +which I had never seen approached in three years on the continent. +The high price of tickets, one would think, and the +necessity of appearing in full dress, would keep the opera clear +of low-bred people; but the conduct to which I refer seemed to +excite no surprise and passed off without notice, though, in +America, there would have been ample matter for at least, four +duels.</p> + +<p>Grisi is young, very pretty, and an admirable actress—three +great advantages to a singer. Her voice is under absolute command, +and she manages it beautifully, but it wants the infusion of +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_499" id="Page_499">499</a></span> +Malibran. You merely feel that Grisi is an accomplished artist, +while Malibran melts all your criticism into love and admiration. +I am easily moved by music, but I came away without much +enthusiasm for the present passion of London.</p> + +<p>The opera-house is very different from those on the continent. +The stage only is lighted abroad, the single lustre from the ceiling +just throwing that <i>clair obscure</i> over the boxes, so favorable to +Italian complexions and morals. Here, the dress circles are +lighted with bright chandeliers, and the whole house sits in such +a blaze of light as leaves no approach even, to a lady, unseen. +The consequence is that people here dress much more, and the +opera, if less interesting to the <i>habitué</i>, is a gayer thing to the +many.</p> + +<p>I went up to Lady Blessington's box for a moment, and found +Strangways, the traveller, and several other distinguished men +with her. Her ladyship pointed out to me Lord Brougham, flirting +desperately with a pretty woman on the opposite side of the +house, his mouth going with the convulsive twitch which so disfigures +him, and his most unsightly of pug-noses in the strongest +relief against the red lining behind. There never was a plainer +man. The Honorable Mrs. Norton, Sheridan's daughter, and +poetess, sat nearer to us, looking like a queen, certainly one of +the most beautiful women I ever looked upon; and the gastronomic +and humpbacked Lord Sefton, said to be the best judge of +cookery in the world, sat in the "dandy's omnibus," a large box +on a level with the stage, leaning forward with his chin on his +knuckles, and waiting with evident impatience for the appearance +of Fanny Elssler in the <i>ballet</i>. Beauty and all, the English +opera-house surpasses anything I have seen in the way of a +spectacle. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_500" id="Page_500">500</a></span></p> + +<p>An evening party at Bulwer's. Not yet perfectly initiated in +London hours, I arrived, not far from eleven, and found Mrs. +Bulwer alone in her illuminated rooms, whiling away an expectant +hour in playing with a King Charles spaniel, that seemed by his +fondness and delight to appreciate the excessive loveliness of his +mistress. As far off as America, I may express, even in print, +an admiration which is no heresy in London.</p> + +<p>The author of Pelham is a younger son and depends on his +writings for a livelihood, and truly, measuring works of fancy by +what they will bring, (not an unfair standard perhaps), a glance +around his luxurious and elegant rooms is worth reams of puff in +the quarterlies. He lives in the heart of the fashionable quarter +of London, where rents are ruinously extravagant, entertains a +great deal, and is expensive in all his habits, and for this pay +Messrs. Clifford, Pelham, and Aram—(it would seem), most +excellent good bankers. As I looked at the beautiful woman +seated on the costly ottoman before me, waiting to receive the +rank and fashion of London, I thought that old close-fisted +literature never had better reason for his partial largess. I half +forgave the miser for starving a wilderness of poets.</p> + +<p>One of the first persons who came was Lord Byron's sister, a +thin, plain, middle-aged woman, of a very serious countenance, and +with very cordial and pleasing manners. The rooms soon filled, +and two professed singers went industriously to work in their +vocation at the piano; but, except one pale man, with staring +hair, whom I took to be a poet, nobody pretended to listen.</p> + +<p>Every second woman has some strong claim to beauty in +England, and the proportion of those who just miss it, by a hair's +breadth as it were—who seem really to have been meant for +beauties by nature, but by a slip in the moulding or pencilling +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_501" id="Page_501">501</a></span> +are imperfect copies of the design—is really extraordinary. One +after another entered, as I stood near the door with my old +friend Dr. Bowring for a nomenclator, and the word "lovely" or +"charming," had not passed my lips before some change in the +attitude, or unguarded animation had exposed the flaw, and the +hasty homage (for homage it is, and an idolatrous one, that we +pay to the beauty of woman), was coldly and unsparingly retracted. +From a goddess upon earth to a slighted and unattractive +trap for matrimony is a long step, but taken on so slight a defect +sometimes, as, were they marble, a sculptor would etch away with +his nail.</p> + +<p>I was surprised (and I have been struck with the same thing +at several parties I have attended in London), at the neglect with +which the female part of the assemblage is treated. No young +man ever seems to dream of speaking to a lady, except to ask her +to dance. There they sit with their mamas, their hands hung over +each other before them in the received attitude; and if there +happens to be no dancing (as at Bulwer's), looking at a print, or +eating an ice, is for them the most enlivening circumstance of the +evening. As well as I recollect, it is better managed in America, +and certainly society is quite another thing in France and +Italy. Late in the evening a charming girl, who is the reigning +belle of Naples, came in with her mother from the opera, and I +made the remark to her. "I detest England for that very +reason," she said frankly. "It is the fashion in London for the +young men to prefer everything to the society of women. They +have their clubs, their horses, their rowing matches, their hunting +and betting, and everything else is a <i>bore</i>! How different are +the same men at Naples! They can never get enough of one +there! We are surrounded and run after, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_502" id="Page_502">502</a></span></p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="o2">"'Our poodle dog is quite adored,</p> +<p>Our sayings are extremely quoted,'</p> +</div> + +<p>"and really, one feels that one <i>is</i> a belle." She mentioned several +of the beaux of last winter who had returned to England. "Here +I have been in London a month, and these very men that were +dying for me, at my side every day on the <i>Strada Nuova</i>, and +all but fighting to dance three times with me of an evening, have +only left their cards! Not because they care less about me, but +because it is 'not the fashion'—it would be talked of at the club, +it is 'knowing' to let us alone."</p> + +<p>There were only three men in the party, which was a very +crowded one, who could come under the head of <i>beaux</i>. Of the +remaining part, there was much that was distinguished, both for +rank and talent. Sheil, the Irish orator, a small, dark, deceitful, +but talented-looking man, with a very disagreeable squeaking +voice, stood in a corner, very earnestly engaged in conversation +with the aristocratic old Earl of Clarendon. The contrast between +the styles of the two men, the courtly and mild elegance +of one, and the uneasy and half-bred, but shrewd earnestness of +the other, was quite a study. Fonblanc of the Examiner, with +his pale and dislocated-looking face, stood in the door-way +between the two rooms, making the amiable with a ghastly +smile to Lady Stepney. The 'bilious Lord Durham,' as the +papers call him, with his Brutus head, and grave, severe countenance, +high-bred in his appearance, despite the worst possible +coat and trowsers, stood at the pedestal of a beautiful statue, +talking politics with Bowring; and near them, leaned over a +chair the Prince Moscowa, the son of Marshal Ney, a plain, but +determined-looking young man, with his coat buttoned up to his +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_503" id="Page_503">503</a></span> +throat, unconscious of everything but the presence of the Honorable +Mrs. Leicester Stanhope, a very lovely woman, who was +enlightening him in the prettiest English French, upon some +point of national differences. Her husband, famous as Lord +Byron's companion in Greece, and a great liberal in England, +was introduced to me soon after by Bulwer; and we discussed +the Bank and the President, with a little assistance from Bowring, +who joined us with a paean for the old general and his +measures, till it was far into the morning. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_504" id="Page_504"></a></span></p> + +<h3>LETTER LXXIII.</h3> + +<p class="ch_sum"> +BREAKFAST WITH BARRY CORNWALL—LUXURY OF THE FOLLOWERS +OF THE MODERN MUSE—BEAUTY OF THE DRAMATIC +SKETCHES GAINS PROCTOR A WIFE—HAZLITT'S EXTRAORDINARY +TASTE FOR THE PICTURESQUE IN WOMEN—COLERIDGE'S +OPINION OF CORNWALL.</p> + +<p>Breakfasted with Mr. Procter (known better as Barry +Cornwall). I gave a partial description of this most delightful +of poets in a former letter. In the dazzling circle of rank and +talent with which he was surrounded at Lady Blessington's, however, +it was difficult to see so shrinkingly modest a man to +advantage, and with the exception of the keen gray eye, living +with thought and feeling, I should hardly have recognised him, at +home, for the same person.</p> + +<p>Mr. Procter is a barrister; and his "whereabout" is more +like that of a lord chancellor than a poet proper. With the +address he had given me at parting, I drove to a large house in +Bedford square; and, not accustomed to find the children of the +Muses waited on by servants in livery, I made up my mind as I +walked up the broad staircase, that I was blundering upon some +Mr. Procter of the exchange, whose respect for his poetical +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_505" id="Page_505">505</a></span> +namesake, I hoped would smooth my apology for the intrusion. +Buried in a deep morocco chair, in a large library, notwithstanding, +I found the poet himself—choice old pictures, filling every +nook between the book-shelves, tables covered with novels and +annuals, rolls of prints, busts and drawings in all corners; and, +more important for the nonce, a breakfast table at the poet's +elbow, spicily set forth, not with flowers or ambrosia, the canonical +food of rhymers, but with cold ham and ducks, hot rolls and +butter, coffee-pot and tea-urn—as sensible a breakfast, in short, +as the most unpoetical of men could desire.</p> + +<p>Procter is indebted to his poetry for a very charming wife, the +daughter of Basil Montague, well known as a collector of choice +literature, and the friend and patron of literary men. The +exquisite beauty of the Dramatic Sketches interested this lovely +woman in his favor before she knew him, and, far from worldly-wise +as an attachment so grounded would seem, I never saw two +people with a more habitual air of happiness. I thought of his +touching song,</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="o1">"How many summers, love,</p> +<p>Hast thou been mine?"</p> +</div> + +<p>and looked at them with an inexpressible feeling of envy. A +beautiful girl, of eight or nine years, the "golden-tressed Adelaide," +delicate, gentle and pensive, as if she was born on the lip +of Castaly, and knew she was a poet's child, completed the picture +of happiness.</p> + +<p>The conversation ran upon various authors, whom Procter had +known intimately—Hazlitt, Charles Lamb, Keats, Shelley, and +others, and of all he gave me interesting particulars, which I +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_506" id="Page_506">506</a></span> +could not well repeat in a public letter. The account of Hazlitt's +death-bed, which appeared in one of the magazines, he said was +wholly untrue. This extraordinary writer was the most reckless +of men in money matters, but he had a host of admiring friends +who knew his character, and were always ready to assist him. +He was a great admirer of the picturesque in women. He was +one evening at the theatre with Procter, and pointed out to him +an Amazonian female, strangely dressed in black velvet and lace, +but with no beauty that would please an ordinary eye. "Look +at her!" said Hazlitt, "isn't she fine!—isn't she magnificent? +Did you ever see anything more Titianesque?"<a name="FNanchor_12" id="FNanchor_12" href="#Footnote_12" class="fnanchor">[12]</a></p> + +<p>After breakfast, Procter took me into a small closet adjoining +his library, in which he usually writes. There was just room +enough in it for a desk and two chairs, and around were piled in +true poetical confusion, his favorite books, miniature likenesses +of authors, manuscripts, and all the interesting lumber of a true +poet's corner. From a drawer, very much thrust out of the way, +he drew a volume of his own, into which he proceeded to write +my name—a collection of songs, published since I have been in +Europe, which I had never seen. I seized upon a worn copy of +the Dramatic Sketches, which I found crossed and interlined in +every direction. "Don't look at them," said Procter, "they are +wretched things, which should never have been printed, or at least +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_507" id="Page_507">507</a></span> +with a world of correction. You see how I have mended them; +and, some day, perhaps, I will publish a corrected edition, since +I can not get them back." He took the book from my hand, and +opened to "The Broken Heart," certainly the most highly-finished +and exquisite piece of pathos in the language, and read +it to me with his alterations. It was to "gild refined gold, and +paint the lily." I would recommend to the lovers of Barry +Cornwall, to keep their original copy, beautifully as he has +polished his lines anew.</p> + +<p>On a blank leaf of the same copy of the Dramatic Sketches, I +found some indistinct writing in pencil, "Oh! don't read that," +said Procter, "the book was given me some years ago, by a friend +at whose house Coleridge had been staying, for the sake of the +criticisms that great man did me the honor to write at the end." +I insisted on reading them, however, and his wife calling him out +presently, I succeeded in copying them in his absence. He +seemed a little annoyed, but on my promising to make no use of +them in England, he allowed me to retain them. They are as +follows:</p> +<div class="blockquot"> +<p> +"Barry Cornwall is a poet, <i>me saltem judice</i>, and in that sense of the word, +in which I apply it to Charles Lamb and W. Wordsworth. There are +poems of great merit, the authors of which, I should not yet feel impelled +so to designate.</p> + +<p>"The faults of these poems are no less things of hope than the beauties. +Both are just what they ought to be: i. e. <i>now</i>.</p> + +<p>"If B. C. be faithful to his genius, it in due time will warn him that as +poetry is the identity of all other knowledge, so a poet can not be a great +poet, but as being likewise and inclusively an historian and a naturalist in +the light as well as the life of philosophy. All other men's worlds are his +chaos. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_508" id="Page_508">508</a></span></p> + +<p>"Hints—Not to permit delicacy and exquisiteness to seduce into effeminacy.</p> + +<p>"Not to permit beauties by repetition to become mannerism.</p> + +<p>"To be jealous of fragmentary composition as epicurism of genius—apple-pie +made all of quinces.</p> + +<p>"Item. That dramatic poetry must be poetry hid in thought and passion, +not thought or passion hid in the dregs of poetry.</p> + +<p>"Lastly, to be economic and withholding in similes, figures, etc. They +will all find their place sooner or later, each in the luminary of a sphere of +its own. There can be no galaxy in poetry, because it is language, <i>ergo</i>, successive, +<i>ergo</i> every the smallest star must be seen singly.</p> + +<p>"There are not five metrists in the kingdom whose works are known by +me, to whom I could have held myself allowed to speak so plainly; but B. +C. is a man of genius, and it depends on himself (<i>competence protecting him +from gnawing and distracting cares</i>), to become a rightful poet—i. e. a great +man.</p> + +<p>"Oh, for such a man; worldly prudence is transfigured into the high spiritual +duty. How generous is self-interest in him, whose true self is all that +is good and hopeful in all ages as far as the language of Spenser, Shakspeare, +and Milton, is the mother tongue.</p> + +<p>"A map of the road to Paradise, drawn in Purgatory on the confines of +Hell, by S. T. C. July 30, 1819."</p> +</div> + +<p>I took my leave of this true poet after half a day passed in +his company, with the impression that he makes upon every one—of +a man whose sincerity and kind-heartedness were the +most prominent traits in his character. Simple in his language +and feelings, a fond father, an affectionate husband, businessman +of the closest habits of industry—one reads his strange +imaginations, and passionate, high-wrought, and even sublimated +poetry, and is in doubt at which most to wonder—the man as he +is, or the poet as we know him in his books. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_509" id="Page_509"></a></span></p> + +<h3>LETTER LXXIV.</h3> + +<p class="ch_sum"> +AN EVENING AT LADY BLESSINGTON'S—ANECDOTES OF MOORE, +THE POET—TAYLOR, THE PLATONIST—POLITICS—ELECTION OF +SPEAKER—PRICES OF BOOKS.</p> + +<p>I am obliged to "gazette" Lady Blessington rather more than +I should wish, and more than may seem delicate to those, who do +not know the central position she occupies in the circle of talent +in London. Her soirées and dinner-parties, however, are literally +the single and only assemblages of men of genius, without reference +to party—the only attempt at a republic of letters in the +world of this great, envious, and gifted metropolis. The pictures +of literary life, in which my countrymen would be most interested, +therefore, are found within a very small compass, presuming +them to prefer the brighter side of an eminent character, +and presuming them (<i>is</i> it a presumption?), not to possess that +appetite for degrading the author to the man, by an anatomy of +his secret personal failings, which is lamentably common in England. +Having premised thus much, I go on with my letter.</p> + +<p>I drove to Lady Blessington's an evening or two since, with +the usual certainty of finding her at home, as there was no opera, +and the equal certainty of finding a circle of agreeable and eminent +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_510" id="Page_510">510</a></span> +men about her. She met me with the information that +Moore was in town, and an invitation to dine with her whenever +she should be able to prevail upon "the little Bacchus" to give +her a day. D'Israeli, the younger, was there, and Dr. Beattie, +the king's physician (and author, unacknowledged, of "The +Heliotrope"), and one or two fashionable young noblemen.</p> + +<p>Moore was naturally the first topic. He had appeared at the +opera the night before, after a year's ruralizing at "Sloperton +cottage," as fresh and young and witty as he ever was known in +his youth—(for Moore must be sixty at least). Lady B. said +the only difference she could see in his appearance, was the loss of +his curls, which once justified singularly his title of Bacchus, +flowing about his head in thin, glossy, elastic tendrils, unlike any +other hair she had ever seen, and comparable to nothing but the +rings of the vine. He is now quite bald, and the change is very +striking. D'Israeli regretted that he should have been met, +exactly on his return to London, with the savage but clever article +in Fraser's Magazine on his plagiarisms. "Give yourself no +trouble about that," said Lady B., "for you may be sure he will +never see it. Moore guards against the sight and knowledge of +criticism as people take precautions against the plague. He +reads few periodicals, and but one newspaper. If a letter comes +to him from a suspicious quarter, he burns it unopened. If a +friend mentions a criticism to him at the club, he never forgives +him; and, so well is this understood among his friends, that he +might live in London a year, and all the magazines might dissect +him, and he would probably never hear of it. In the country he +lives on the estate of Lord Lansdowne, his patron and best +friend, with half a dozen other noblemen within a dinner-drive, +and he passes his life in this exclusive circle, like a bee in amber, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_511" id="Page_511">511</a></span> +perfectly preserved from everything that could blow rudely upon +him. He takes the world <i>en philosophe</i>, and is determined to +descend to his grave perfectly ignorant, if such things as critics +exist." Somebody said this was weak, and D'Israeli thought it +was wise, and made a splendid defence of his opinion, as usual, +and I agreed with D'Israeli. Moore deserves a medal, as the +happiest author of his day, to possess the power.</p> + +<p>A remark was made, in rather a satirical tone, upon Moore's +worldliness and passion for rank. "He was sure," it was said, +"to have four or five invitations to dine on the same day, and he +tormented himself with the idea that he had not accepted +perhaps the most exclusive. He would get off from an engagement +with a Countess to dine with a Marchioness, and from a +Marchioness to accept the later invitation of a Duchess; and as +he cared little for the society of men, and would sing and be +delightful only for the applause of women, it mattered little +whether one circle was more talented than another. Beauty +was one of his passions, but rank and fashion were all the rest." +This rather left-handed portrait was confessed by all to be just, +Lady B. herself making no comment upon it. She gave, as an +offset, however, some particulars of Moore's difficulties from his +West Indian appointment, which left a balance to his credit.</p> + +<p>"Moore went to Jamaica with a profitable appointment. The +climate disagreed with him, and he returned home, leaving the +business in the hands of a confidential clerk, who embezzled +eight thousand pounds in the course of a few months and +absconded. Moore's politics had made him obnoxious to the +government, and he was called to account with unusual severity; +while Theodore Hook, who had been recalled at this very time +from some foreign appointment, for a deficit of twenty thousand +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_512" id="Page_512">512</a></span> +pounds in his accounts, was never molested, being of the ruling +party, Moore's misfortune awakened a great sympathy among +his friends. Lord Lansdowne was the first to offer his aid. He +wrote to Moore, that for many years he had been in the habit of +laying aside from his income eight thousand pounds, for the +encouragement of the arts and literature, and that he should feel +that it was well disposed of for that year, if Moore would accept +it, to free him from his difficulties. It was offered in the most +delicate and noble manner, but Moore declined it. The members +of "White's" (mostly noblemen) called a meeting, and (not +knowing the amount of the deficit) subscribed in one morning +twenty-five thousand pounds and wrote to the poet, that they +would cover the sum, whatever it might be. This was declined. +Longman and Murray then offered to pay it, and wait for their +remuneration from his works. He declined even this, and went +to Passy with his family, where he economized and worked hard +till it was cancelled."</p> + +<p>This was certainly a story most creditable to the poet, and it +was told with an eloquent enthusiasm, that did the heart of the +beautiful narrator infinite credit. I have given only the skeleton +of it. Lady Blessington went on to mention another circumstance, +very honorable to Moore, of which I had never before +heard. "At one time two different counties of Ireland had sent +committees to him, to offer him a seat in parliament; and as he +depended on his writings for a subsistence, offering him at the +same time twelve hundred pounds a year, while he continued to +represent them. Moore was deeply touched with it, and said no +circumstance of his life had ever gratified him so much. He +admitted, that the honor they proposed him had been his most +cherished ambition, but the necessity of receiving a pecuniary +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_513" id="Page_513">513</a></span> +support at the same time, was an insuperable obstacle. He could +never enter parliament with his hands tied, and his opinions and +speech fettered, as they would be irresistibly in such circumstances." +This does not sound like "jump-up-and-kiss-me Tom +Moore," as the Irish ladies call him; but her ladyship vouched +for the truth of it. It was worthy of an old Roman.</p> + +<p>By what transition I know not, the conversation turned on Platonism, +and D'Israeli, (who seemed to have remembered the shelf +on which Vivian Grey was to find "the latter Platonists" in his +father's library) "flared up," as a dandy would say, immediately. +His wild, black eyes glistened, and his nervous lips quivered and +poured out eloquence; and a German professor, who had entered +late, and the Russian Chargé d'affaires who had entered later, +and a whole ottoman-full of noble exquisites, listened with +wonder. He gave us an account of Taylor, almost the last of +the celebrated Platonists, who worshipped Jupiter, in a back +parlor in London a few years ago, with undoubted sincerity. He +had an altar and a brazen figure of the Thunderer, and performed +his devotions as regularly as the most pious <i>sacerdos</i> of the +ancients. In his old age he was turned out of the lodgings he +had occupied for a great number of years, and went to a friend +in much distress to complain of the injustice. He had "only +attempted to worship his gods, according to the dictates of his +conscience." "Did you pay your bills?" asked the friend. +"Certainly." "Then what is the reason?" "His landlady +had taken offence at his <i>sacrificing a bull to Jupiter in his back +parlor</i>!"</p> + +<p>The story sounded very Vivian-Greyish, and everybody laughed +at it as a very good invention; but D'Israeli quoted his father as +his authority, and it may appear in the Curiosities of Literature—where, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_514" id="Page_514">514</a></span> +however, it will never be so well told, as by the extraordinary +creature from whom we had heard it.</p> + +<hr class="l15" /> + +<p><i>February 22d, 1835.</i>—The excitement in London about the +choice of a Speaker is something startling. It took place yesterday, +and the party are thunderstruck at the non-election of Sir +Manners Sutton. This is a terrible blow upon them, for it was +a defeat at the outset; and if they failed in a question where +they had the immense personal popularity of the late Speaker to +assist them, what will they do on general questions? The House +of Commons was surrounded all day with an excited mob. +Lady —— told me last night that she drove down toward +evening, to ascertain the result (Sir C. M. Sutton is her brother-in-law), +and the crowd surrounded her carriage, recognizing her +as the sister of the tory Speaker, and threatened to tear the coronet +from the panels. "We'll soon put an end to your coronets," +said a rapscallion in the mob. The tories were so confident of +success that Sir Robert Peel gave out cards a week ago, for a +soirée to meet Speaker Sutton, on the night of the election. +There is a general report in town that the whigs will impeach the +Duke of Wellington! This looks like a revolution, does it not? +It is very certain that the Duke and Sir Robert Peel have +advised the King to dissolve parliament again, if there is any +difficulty in getting on with the government. The Duke was +dining with Lord Aberdeen the other day, when some one at table +ventured to wonder, at his accepting a subordinate office in the +cabinet he had himself formed. "If I could serve his majesty +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_515" id="Page_515">515</a></span> +better," said the patrician soldier, "I would ride as king's messenger +to-morrow!" He certainly is a remarkable old fellow.</p> + +<p>Perhaps, however, literary news would interest you more. +Bulwer is publishing in a volume, his papers from the New +Monthly. I met him an hour ago in Regent-street, looking +what is called in London, "<i>uncommon seedy</i>!" He is either +the worst or the best dressed man in London, according to the +time of day or night you see him. D'Israeli, the author of +Vivian Grey, drives about in an open carriage, with Lady S——, +looking more melancholy than usual. The absent baronet, +whose place he fills, is about bringing an action against him, +which will finish his career, unless he can coin the damages in +his brain. Mrs. Hemans is dying of consumption in Ireland. I +have been passing a week at a country house, where Miss Jane +Porter, Miss Pardoe, and Count Krazinsky (author of the Court +of Sigismund), are domiciliated for the present. Miss Porter is +one of her own heroines, grown old—a still handsome and noble +wreck of beauty. Miss Pardoe is nineteen, fair-haired, sentimental, +and has the smallest feet and is the best waltzer I ever +saw, but she is not otherwise pretty. The Polish Count is +writing the life of his grandmother, whom I should think he +strongly resembled in person. He is an excellent fellow, for all +that. I dined last week with Joanna Baillie, at Hampstead—the +most charming old lady I ever saw. To-day I dine with Longman +to meet Tom Moore, who is living <i>incog.</i> near this Nestor of +publishers at Hampstead. Moore is fagging hard on his history +of Ireland. I shall give you the particulars of all these things in +my letters hereafter.</p> + +<p>Poor Elia—my old favorite—is dead. I consider it one of the +most fortunate things that ever happened to me, to have seen him. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_516" id="Page_516">516</a></span> +I think I sent you in one of my letters an account of my breakfasting +in company with Charles Lamb and his sister ("Bridget +Elia") at the Temple. The exquisite papers on his life and +letters in the Athenæum, are by Barry Cornwall.</p> + +<p>Lady Blessington's new book makes a great noise. Living as +she does, twelve hours out of the twenty-four, in the midst of the +most brilliant and mind-exhausting circle in London, I only wonder +how she found the time. Yet it was written in six weeks. +Her novels sell for a hundred pounds more than any other author's +except Bulwer. Do you know the <i>real</i> prices of books? Bulwer +gets <i>fifteen</i> hundred pounds—Lady B. <i>four</i> hundred, Honorable +Mrs. Norton <i>two</i> hundred and fifty, Lady Charlotte Bury <i>two</i> +hundred, Grattan <i>three</i> hundred and most others below this. +D'Israeli can not sell a book <i>at all</i>, I hear. Is not that odd? +I would give more for one of his novels, than for forty of the +common <i>saleable</i> things about town.</p> + +<p>The authoress of the powerful book called Two Old Men's +Tales, is an old unitarian lady, a Mrs. Marsh. She declares she +will never write another book. The other was a glorious one, +though! +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_517" id="Page_517"></a></span></p> + +<h3>LETTER LXXV.</h3> + +<p class="ch_sum"> +LONDON—THE POET MOORE—LAST DAYS OF SIR WALTER SCOTT—MOORE'S +OPINION OF O'CONNELL—ANACREON AT THE PIANO—DEATH +OF BYRON—A SUPPRESSED ANECDOTE.</p> + +<p>I called on Moore with a letter of introduction, and met him +at the door of his lodgings. I knew him instantly from the pictures +I had seen of him, but was surprised at the diminutiveness +of his person. He is much below the middle size, and with his +white hat and long chocolate frock-coat, was far from prepossessing +in his appearance. With this material disadvantage, +however, his address is gentleman-like to a very marked degree, +and, I should think no one could see Moore without conceiving a +strong liking for him. As I was to meet him at dinner, I did not +detain him. In the moment's conversation that passed, he +inquired very particularly after Washington Irving, expressing +for him the warmest friendship, and asked what Cooper was +doing.</p> + +<p>I was at Lady Blessington's at eight. Moore had not arrived, +but the other persons of the party—a Russian count, who spoke +all the languages of Europe as well as his own; a Roman banker, +whose dynasty is more powerful than the pope's; a clever English +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_518" id="Page_518">518</a></span> +nobleman, and the "observed of all observers," Count D'Orsay, +stood in the window upon the park, killing, as they might, the +melancholy twilight half hour preceding dinner.</p> + +<p>"Mr. Moore!" cried the footman at the bottom of the staircase, +"Mr. Moore!" cried the footman at the top. And with his +glass at his eye, stumbling over an ottoman between his near-sightedness +and the darkness of the room, enter the poet. Half +a glance tells you that he is at home on a carpet. Sliding his +little feet up to Lady Blessington (of whom he was a lover when +she was sixteen, and to whom some of the sweetest of his songs +were written), he made his compliments, with a gayety and an +ease combined with a kind of worshipping deference, that was +worthy of a prime-minister at the court of love. With the gentlemen, +all of whom he knew, he had the frank merry manner of a +confident favorite, and he was greeted like one. He went from +one to the other, straining back his head to look up at them (for, +singularly enough, every gentleman in the room was six feet high +and upward), and to every one he said something which, from +any one else, would have seemed peculiarly felicitous, but which +fell from his lips, as if his breath was not more spontaneous.</p> + +<p>Dinner was announced, the Russian handed down "milady," +and I found myself seated opposite Moore, with a blaze of light +on his Bacchus head, and the mirrors, with which the superb +octagonal room is pannelled, reflecting every motion. To see +him only at table, you would think him not a small man. His +principal length is in his body, and his head and shoulders are +those of a much larger person. Consequently he <i>sits tall</i>, and +with the peculiar erectness of head and neck, his diminutiveness +disappears.</p> + +<p>The soup vanished in the busy silence that beseems it, and as +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_519" id="Page_519">519</a></span> +the courses commenced their procession, Lady Blessington led the +conversation with the brilliancy and ease, for which she is remarkable +over all the women of her time. She had received from Sir +William Gell, at Naples, the manuscript of a volume upon the +last days of Sir Walter Scott. It was a melancholy chronicle of +imbecility, and the book was suppressed, but there were two or +three circumstances narrated in its pages which were interesting. +Soon after his arrival at Naples, Sir Walter went with his +physician and one or two friends to the great museum. It +happened that on the same day a large collection of students and +Italian literati were assembled, in one of the rooms, to discuss +some newly-discovered manuscripts. It was soon known that the +"Wizard of the North" was there, and a deputation was sent +immediately, to request him to honor them by presiding at their +session. At this time Scott was a wreck, with a memory that +retained nothing for a moment, and limbs almost as helpless as +an infant's. He was dragging about among the relics of Pompeii, +taking no interest in anything he saw, when their request was +made known to him through his physician. "No, no," said he, +"I know nothing of their lingo. Tell them I am not well enough +to come." He loitered on, and in about half an hour after, he +turned to Dr. H. and said, "who was that you said wanted to see +me?" The doctor explained. "I'll go," said he, "they shall +see me if they wish it;" and, against the advice of his friends, +who feared it would be too much for his strength, he mounted +the staircase, and made his appearance at the door. A burst of +enthusiastic cheers welcomed him on the threshold, and forming +in two lines, many of them on their knees, they seized his hands +as he passed, kissed them, thanked him in their passionate +language for the delight with which he had filled the world, and +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_520" id="Page_520">520</a></span> +placed him in the chair with the most fervent expressions of +gratitude for his condescension. The discussion went on, but not +understanding a syllable of the language, Scott was soon wearied, +and his friends observed it, pleaded the state of his health as an +apology, and he rose to take his leave. These enthusiastic +children of the south crowded once more around him, and with +exclamations of affection and even tears, kissed his hands once +more, assisting his tottering steps, and sent after him a confused +murmur of blessings as the door closed on his retiring form. It +is described by the writer as the most affecting scene he had ever +witnessed.</p> + +<p>Some other remarks were made upon Scott, but the <i>parole</i> was +soon yielded to Moore, who gave us an account of a visit he made +to Abbotsford when its illustrious owner was in his pride and +prime. "Scott," he said, "was the most manly and natural +character in the world. You felt when with him, that he was +the soul of truth and heartiness. His hospitality was as simple +and open as the day, and he lived freely himself, and expected +his guests to do so. I remember him giving us whiskey at +dinner, and Lady Scott met my look of surprise with the +assurance that Sir Walter seldom dined without it. He never +ate or drank to excess, but he had no system, his constitution +was herculean, and he denied himself nothing. I went once from +a dinner party with Sir Thomas Lawrence to meet Scott at +Lockhart's. We had hardly entered the room when we were set +down to a hot supper of roast chickens, salmon, punch, etc., etc., +and Sir Walter ate immensely of everything. What a contrast +between this and the last time I saw him in London! He had +come down to embark for Italy—broken quite down in mind and +body. He gave Mrs. Moore a book, and I asked him if he would +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_521" id="Page_521">521</a></span> +make it more valuable by writing in it. He thought I meant +that he should write some verses, and said, 'Oh I never write +poetry now.' I asked him to write only his own name and hers, +and he attempted it, but it was quite illegible."</p> + +<p>Some one remarked that Scott's life of Napoleon was a failure.</p> + +<p>"I think little of it," said Moore; "but after all, it was an +embarrassing task, and Scott did what a wise man would do—made +as much of his subject as was politic and necessary, and no +more."</p> + +<p>"It will not live," said some one else; "as much because it is +a bad book, as because it is the life of an individual."</p> + +<p>"But <i>what</i> an individual!" Moore replied. "Voltaire's life +of Charles the Twelfth was the life of an individual, yet that will +live and be read as long as there is a book in the world, and +what was he to Napoleon?"</p> + +<p>O'Connell was mentioned.</p> + +<p>"He is a powerful creature," said Moore, "but his eloquence +has done great harm both to England and Ireland. There is +nothing so powerful as oratory. The faculty of '<i>thinking on his +legs</i>,' is a tremendous engine in the hands of any man. There is +an undue admiration for this faculty, and a sway permitted to it, +which was always more dangerous to a country than anything else. +Lord Althorp is a wonderful instance of what a man may do +<i>without</i> talking. There is a general confidence in him—a +universal belief in his honesty, which serves him instead. Peel +is a fine speaker, but, admirable as he had been as an oppositionist, +he failed, when he came to lead the house. O'Connell would +be irresistible were it not for the two blots on his character—the +contributions in Ireland for his support, and his refusal to give +satisfaction to the man he is still coward enough to attack. They +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_522" id="Page_522">522</a></span> +may say what they will of duelling, it is the great preserver of the +decencies of society. The old school, which made a man responsible +for his words, was the better. I must confess I think so. +Then, in O'Connell's case, he had not made his vow against +duelling when Peel challenged him. He accepted the challenge, +and Peel went to Dover on his way to France, where they were +to meet; and O'Connell pleaded his wife's illness, and delayed till +the law interfered. Some other Irish patriot, about the same +time, refused a challenge on account of the illness of his daughter, +and one of the Dublin wits made a good epigram on the two:—</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="o2">"'Some men, with a horror of slaughter,</p> +<p class="i1">Improve on the scripture command,</p> +<p>And 'honor their'——wife and daughter—</p> +<p class="i1">That their days may be long in the land.'</p> +</div> + +<p>"The great period of Ireland's glory was between '82 and '98, +and it was a time when a man almost lived with a pistol in his +hand. Grattan's dying advice to his son, was, 'Be always ready +with the pistol!' He, himself never hesitated a moment. At +one time, there was a kind of conspiracy to fight him out of the +world. On some famous question, Corrie was employed purposely +to bully him, and made a personal attack of the grossest +virulence. Grattan was so ill, at the time, as to be supported +into the house between two friends. He rose to reply; and first, +without alluding to Corrie at all, clearly and entirely overturned +every argument he had advanced, that bore upon the question. +He then paused a moment, and stretching out his arm, as if he +would reach across the house, said, 'For the assertions the +gentleman has been pleased to make with regard to myself, my +answer <i>here</i>, is <i>they are false</i>! elsewhere, it would be—<i>a blow!</i> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_523" id="Page_523">523</a></span> +They met, and Grattan shot him through the arm. Corrie +proposed another shot, but Grattan said, 'No! let the curs fight +it out!' and they were friends ever after. I like the old story of +the Irishman, who was challenged by some desperate blackguard. +'Fight <i>him</i>!' said he, 'I would sooner go to my grave without a +fight! Talking of Grattan, is it not wonderful that, with all the +agitation in Ireland, we have had no such men since his time? +Look at the Irish newspapers. The whole country in convulsions—people's +lives, fortunes, and religion, at stake, and not a gleam +of talent from one year's end to the other. It is natural for +sparks to be struck out in a time of violence, like this—but +Ireland, for all that is worth living for, <i>is dead</i>! You can +scarcely reckon Shiel of the calibre of her spirits of old, and +O'Connell, with all his faults, stands 'alone in his glory.'"</p> + +<p>The conversation I have thus run together is a mere skeleton, +of course. Nothing but a short-hand report could retain the +delicacy and elegance of Moore's language, and memory itself +cannot embody again the kind of frost-work of imagery, which +was formed and melted on his lips. His voice is soft or firm as +the subject requires, but perhaps the word <i>gentlemanly</i> describes +it better than any other. It is upon a natural key, but, if I may +so phrase it, it is <i>fused</i> with a high-bred affectation, expressing +deference and courtesy, at the same time, that its pauses are +constructed peculiarly to catch the ear. It would be difficult not +to attend to him while he is talking, though the subject were but +the shape of a wine-glass.</p> + +<p>Moore's head is distinctly before me while I write, but I shall +find it difficult to describe. His hair, which curled once all over +it in long tendrils, unlike anybody else's in the world, and which +probably suggested his <i>sobriquet</i> of "Bacchus," is diminished +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_524" id="Page_524">524</a></span> +now to a few curls sprinkled with gray, and scattered in a single +ring above his ears. His forehead is wrinkled, with the exception +of a most prominent development of the organ of gayety, which, +singularly enough, shines with the lustre and smooth polish of a +pearl, and is surrounded by a semicircle of lines drawn close +about it, like entrenchments against Time. His eyes still sparkle +like a champaign bubble, though the invader has drawn his +pencillings about the corners; and there is a kind of wintry red, +of the tinge of an October leaf, that seems enamelled on his +cheek, the eloquent record of the claret his wit has brightened. +His mouth is the most characteristic feature of all. The lips are +delicately cut, slight and changeable as an aspen; but there is a +set-up look about the lower lip, a determination of the muscle to +a particular expression, and you fancy that you can almost see +wit astride upon it. It is written legibly with the imprint of +habitual success. It is arch, confident, and half diffident, as if he +were disguising his pleasure at applause, while another bright +gleam of fancy was breaking on him. The slightly-tossed nose +confirms the fun of the expression, and altogether it is a face that +sparkles, beams, radiates,—everything but <i>feels</i>. Fascinating +beyond all men as he is, Moore looks like a worldling.</p> + +<p>This description may be supposed to have occupied the hour +after Lady Blessington retired from the table; for, with her, +vanished Moore's excitement, and everybody else seemed to feel, +that light had gone out of the room. Her excessive beauty is +less an inspiration than the wondrous talent with which she +draws from every person around her his peculiar excellence. +Talking better than anybody else, and narrating, particularly, +with a graphic power that I never saw excelled, this distinguished +woman seems striving only to make others unfold themselves; +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_525" id="Page_525">525</a></span> +and never had diffidence a more apprehensive and encouraging +listener. But this is a subject with which I should never be +done.</p> + +<p>We went up to coffee, and Moore brightened again over his +<i>chasse-café</i>, and went glittering on with criticisms on Grisi, the +delicious songstress now ravishing the world, whom he placed +above all but Pasta; and whom he thought, with the exception +that her legs were too short, an incomparable creature. This +introduced music very naturally, and with a great deal of difficulty +he was taken to the piano. My letter is getting long, and I +have no time to describe his singing. It is well known, however, +that its effect is only equalled by the beauty of his own words; +and, for one, I could have taken him into my heart with my +delight. He makes no attempt at music. It is a kind of admirable +recitative, in which every shade of thought is syllabled and +dwelt upon, and the sentiment of the song goes through your +blood, warming you to the very eyelids, and starting your tears, +if you have soul or sense in you. I have heard of women's +fainting at a song of Moore's; and if the burden of it answered +by chance, to a secret in the bosom of the listener, I should +think, from its comparative effect upon so old a stager as myself, +that the heart would break with it.</p> + +<p>We all sat around the piano, and after two or three songs of +Lady Blessington's choice, he rambled over the keys awhile, and +sang "When first I met thee," with a pathos that beggars +description. When the last word had faltered out, he rose and +took Lady Blessington's hand, said good-night, and was gone +before a word was uttered. For a full minute after he had closed +the door, no one spoke. I could have wished, for myself, to +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_526" id="Page_526">526</a></span> +drop silently asleep where I sat, with the tears in my eyes and the +softness upon my heart.</p> + +<p class="blockquot"> +"Here's a health to thee, Tom Moore!" +</p> + +<hr class="l15" /> + +<p>I was in company the other evening where Westmacott, the +sculptor, was telling a story of himself and Leigh Hunt. They +were together one day at Fiesole, when a butterfly, of an uncommon +sable color, alighted on Westmacott's forehead, and remained +there several minutes. Hunt immediately cried out, "The spirit +of some dear friend is departed," and as they entered the gate of +Florence on their return, some one met them and informed them +of the death of Byron, the news of which had at that moment +arrived.</p> + +<hr class="l15" /> + +<p>I have just time before the packet sails to send you an anecdote, +that is <i>bought out</i> of the London papers. A nobleman, +living near Belgrave square, received a visit a day or two ago +from a police officer, who stated to him, that he had a man-servant +in his house, who had escaped from Botany Bay. His +Lordship was somewhat surprised, but called up the male part of +his household, at the officer's request, and passed them in review. +The culprit was not among them. The officer then requested to +see the <i>female</i> part of the establishment; and, to the inexpressible +astonishment of the whole household, he laid his hand upon +the shoulder of the <i>lady's confidential maid</i>, and informed her she +was his prisoner. A change of dress was immediately sent for, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_527" id="Page_527">527</a></span> +and miladi's dressing-maid was re-metamorphosed into an effeminate-looking +fellow, and marched off to a new trial. It is a +most extraordinary thing, that he had lived unsuspected in the +family for nine months, performing all the functions of a confidential +Abigail, and very much in favor with his unsuspecting +mistress, who is rather a serious person, and would as soon have +thought of turning out to be a man herself. It is said, that the +husband once made a remark upon the huskiness of the maid's +voice, but no other comment was ever made, reflecting in the least +upon her qualities as a member of the <i>beau sexe</i>. The story is +quite authentic, but hushed up out of regard to the lady.</p> + +<h3>FOOTNOTES:</h3> +<div class="footnotes p6"> + +<p class="footnote"><a name="Footnote_1" id="Footnote_1" href="#FNanchor_1"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> I remember hearing a friend receive a severe reproof from one of the +most enlightened men in our country, for offering his daughter an annual, +upon the cover of which was an engraving of these same "Graces."</p> + +<p class="footnote"><a name="Footnote_2" id="Footnote_2" href="#FNanchor_2"><span class="label">[2]</span></a></p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="fn">——"A long swept wave about to break,</p> +<p class="fn">And on the curl hangs pausing."</p> +</div> + +<p class="footnote"><a name="Footnote_3" id="Footnote_3" href="#FNanchor_3"><span class="label">[3]</span></a> On my way to Rome (near Radicofani, I think), we passed an old man, +whose picturesque figure, enveloped in his brown cloak and slouched hat, +arrested the attention of all my companions. I had seen him before. From +a five minutes' sketch in passing, Mr. Cole had made one of the most spirited +heads I ever saw, admirably like, and worthy of Caravaggio for force and +expression.</p> + +<p class="footnote"><a name="Footnote_4" id="Footnote_4" href="#FNanchor_4"><span class="label">[4]</span></a> The name of a wooden frame by which a pot of coals is hung between +the sheets of a bed in Italy.</p> + +<p class="footnote"><a name="Footnote_5" id="Footnote_5" href="#FNanchor_5"><span class="label">[5]</span></a> As if everything should be poetical on the shores of the Clitumnus, the +beggars ran after us in quartettes, singing a chaunt, and sustaining the four +parts as they ran. Every child sings well in Italy; and I have heard worse +music in a church anthem, than was made by these half-clothed and homeless +wretches, running at full speed by the carriage-wheels. I have never +met the same thing elsewhere.</p> + +<p class="footnote"><a name="Footnote_6" id="Footnote_6" href="#FNanchor_6"><span class="label">[6]</span></a> The Tuscans, who are the best governed people in Italy, pay <i>twenty per +cent.</i> of their property in taxes—paying the whole value of their estates, of +course, in five years. The extortions of the priests, added to this, are +sufficiently burdensome.</p> + +<p class="footnote"><a name="Footnote_7" id="Footnote_7" href="#FNanchor_7"><span class="label">[7]</span></a> So called in the catalogue. The custode, however, told us it was a portrait +of the wife of Vandyck, painted as an old woman to mortify her excessive +vanity, when she was but twenty-three. He kept the picture until she +was older, and, at the time of his death, it had become a flattering likeness, +and was carefully treasured by the widow.</p> + +<p class="footnote"><a name="Footnote_8" id="Footnote_8" href="#FNanchor_8"><span class="label">[8]</span></a> The following description is given of this splendid palace, by Suetonius. +"To give an idea of the extent and beauty of this edifice, it is sufficient to +mention, that in its vestibule was placed his colossal statue, one hundred and +twenty feet in height. It had a triple portico, supported by a thousand +columns, with a lake like a little sea, surrounded by buildings which resembled +cities. It contained pasture-grounds and groves in which were all +descriptions of animals, wild and tame. Its interior shone with gold, gems, +and mother-of-pearl. In the vaulted roofs of the eating-rooms were +machines of ivory, which turned round and scattered perfumes upon the +guests. The principal banqueting room was a rotunda, so constructed that +it turned round night and day, in imitation of the motion of the earth." +When Nero took possession of this fairy palace, his only observation was—"Now +I shall begin to live like a man."</p> + +<p class="footnote"><a name="Footnote_9" id="Footnote_9" href="#FNanchor_9"><span class="label">[9]</span></a> Mr. John Hone, of New York.</p> + +<p class="footnote"><a name="Footnote_10" id="Footnote_10" href="#FNanchor_10"><span class="label">[10]</span></a> An interesting account of this ill-fated young lady, who was on the eve +of marriage, has appeared in the Mirror.</p> + +<p class="footnote"><a name="Footnote_11" id="Footnote_11" href="#FNanchor_11"><span class="label">[11]</span></a> I have been told that he stood once for a London borough. A coarse +fellow came up at the hustings, and said to him, "I should like to know on +what ground you stand here, sir?" "On my head, sir!" answered D'Israeli. +The populace had not read Vivian Grey, however, and he lost his election.</p> + +<p class="footnote"><a name="Footnote_12" id="Footnote_12" href="#FNanchor_12"><span class="label">[12]</span></a> The following story has been told me by another gentleman. Hazlitt +was married to an amiable woman, and divorced after a few years, at his +own request. He left London, and returned with another wife. The first +thing he did, was to send to his first wife to borrow five pounds! She had +not so much in the world, but she sent to a friend (the gentleman who told +me the story), borrowed it, and sent it to him! It seems to me there is a +whole drama in this single fact.</p> +</div> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's Pencillings by the Way, by N. 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