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THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


PENCILLIIGS  BY  THE  ¥AY : 


WRITTEN 


DURING  SOME  YEARS  OF  RESIDENCE  AND  TRAVEL 


IN 


EUROPE. 

BY 
.    PARKEK   WILLIS. 


NEW    YORK: 
CHARLES   SCRIBKER,   124  GRAND   STREET. 

M  DCCO  LX. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  In  tte  year  1ST2,  \>j 

CHARLES     IJEIBNEE, 

ID  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  o:  ,j.j  United  8tat»  for  the  Southr  £ 
of  New  York. 


Library 

:P 


PREFACE. 


A  WORD  or  two  of  necessary  explanation,  dear  reader. 

I  had  resided  on  the  Continent  for  several  years,  and  had  boon 
<s  year  in  England,  without  being  suspected,  I  believe,  in  the 
societies  in  which  I  lived,  of  any  habit  of  authorship.  No  pro- 
duction 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 


PREFACE. 

thixe  volumes,  at  about  $7  per  copy,  and  in  this  expensive  shape 
tnroe  oditioas  were  sold  by  the  original  publisher.  After  his 
deatn  a  duodecimo  edition  was  put  forth,  very  beautifully  illus- 
trated ;  and  this  has  been  followed  by  a  fifth  edition  lately  pub- 
lished, 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. 

In  the  present  complete  edition,  the  Letters  objected  to  by  the 
Quarterly,  are,  like  the  rest,  re-published  as  originally  written. 
The  offending  portions  must  be  at  any  rate,  harmless,  after  being 
circulated  extensively  in  this  country  in  the  Mirror,  and  promi- 
nently quoted  from  the  Mirror  in  the  Quarterly — and  this  being 
true,  I  have  felt  that  I  could  gratify  the  wish  to  be  put  fairly  on 
trial  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. 

I  wish  to  put  on  record  in  this  edition  (and  you  need  not  be  at 


PREFACE.  i 

the  trouble  of  perusing  them  unless  you  please,  dear  reader  !)  an 
extract  or  two  from  the  London  prefaces  to  "  Pencillings,"  and 
parts  rf  two  articles  written  apropos  of  the  book's  offences. 
The  following  is  from  the  Preface  to  the  first  London  edition  : — 
"  The  extracts  from  these  Letters  which  have  appeared  in  the 
public  prints,  have  drawn  upon  me  much  severe  censure.  Ad- 
mitting 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  attache  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  con- 
tinue 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 
o'  detail  ana  topic  which  is  usual  only  in  posthumous  memoirs 

— -eipcctjiijg  as  soon  that  tney  would  be  read  in  the  countries  and 

i 

by  *he  persons  described,  as  the  biographer  of  Byron  and  Sheri- 


x  PREFACE. 

dan,  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. 

"  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  scrib- 
bled, 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  are  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  wze,  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  Eng- 
land were  written  within  three  or  four  months  of  my  first  arrival 
in  this  country.  Fortunate  in  my  introductions,  almost  embar- 
rassed with  kindness,  and,  from  advantages  of  comparison,  gained 


PREFACE. 


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 — 1 
indulged  myself  in  stricture  upon  individual  character,  and  I 
repeat  it  in  this  work,  sure  that  there  will  be  but  one  person  in 
the  world  of  letters  who  will  not  read  it  with  approbation — the 
editor  of  the  Quarterly  himself.  It  was  expressed  at  the  time 
with  no  personal  feeling,  for  I  had  never  seen  the  individual  con- 
cerned, 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  Quarterly,  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  know  it  is  my  duty  as  an  American — to  lose  no  opportu- 
nity of  setting  my  heel  on  the  head  of  this  reptile  of  criticism." 

The  following  is  part  of  an  article,  written  by  myself,  on  the 
•abject  of  personalities,  for  a-  periodical  in  Xew  York : 

'•'  The^e  is  no  question,  I  believe,  that  pictures  of  living  society, 


xii  PREFACE. 

where  society  is  in  very  high  perfection,  and  of  living  persons, 
where  they  are  "  persons  of  mark,"  are  both  interesting  to  our- 
selves, 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  among  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  Shaks- 
peare ? 

"  The  harm,  if  harm  there  be  in  such  sketches,  ia  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  hav-3 
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  intideli' 
ties  of  friendship. 

"  But  (while  I  think  of  it),  perhaps  some  fault-finder  will  be 


PREFACE. 


Xiu 


pleased  to  tell  me,  why  this  is  so  much  deeper  a  sin  in  me  than  in 
all  other  travellers.  Has  Basil  Hall  any  hesitation  in  describing 
a  dinner  party  in  the  United  States,  and  recording  the  conversa- 
tion at  table  ?  Does  Miss  Martineau  stick  at  publishing  the 
portrait  of  a  distinguished  American,  and  faithfully  recording  all 
he  says  in,  a  confidential  tfoe-d-tdte  ?  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  tke 
line,  which  I  have  but  trod  close  upon. 

Surely  it  is  the  abuse,  and  not  the  use  of  information  thus 
acquired,  that  makes  the  offence. 

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  manufac- 
tured, 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 


xiv  PREFACE. 

manners,  their  private  histories,  etc.,  etc.  In  one  of  the  letters 
upon  the  '  Society  of  Edinburgh,'  is  the  following  delicate  pas- 
sage : — 

"  '  Even  you,  my  dear  Lady  Johncs,  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.'  *  *  *  * 

"  Two  pages  farther  on  he  says  : — 

"  '  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. ' 

"  I  quote  from  the  second  edition  of  these  letters,  by  which  it 
appears  that  even  these  are  moderated  passages.  A  note  to  the 
first  of  the  above  quotations  runs  as  follows  : 

"  '  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  in  statu  quo,  which  I  certain])' 


PREFACE.  xv 

not  have  doae,  had  he  expressed  his  resentment  in  a 
proper  manner-' 

"  So  well  are  these  unfortunate  persons'  names  known  by  those 
who  read  the  book  in  Sngland,  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  taste  and  quality  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. 

"  I  must  give  one  more  extract  from  Mr.  Lockhart's  book,  an 
account  of  a  dinner  with  a  private  merchant  of  Glasgow. 

"  '  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 


xvi  PREFACE. 

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 
raree  ares,  and  depend  upon  it,  you  shall  have  a  very  snug  day's 
work.''  So  saying  he  took  my  arm,  and  observing  that  five  was 
just  on  the  chap,  hurried  me  through  several  streets  and  lanes 

till  we  arrived  in  the ,  where  his  house  is  situated.     IJis 

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  disad- 
vantage 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  lick-spittle  or  toad-eater  to  a 
lady  of  quality,  to  whom  she  had  rendered  herself  amusing  by  a 
malicious  tohgue  ;  and  that  during  this  short  absence,  she  had 
embraced  the  opportunity  of  utterly  forgetting  everything  about 
the  West  country. 


PREFACE.  xvii 

"  *  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,  appar- 
ently quite  a  privileged  character,  thank  Heaven  !  sent  the  ladies 
out  of  the  room.  The  moment  after  which  blessed  consumma- 
tion, the  butler  and  footman  entered,  as  if  by  instinct,  the  one 
with  a  huge  punch  bowl,  the  other  with,  <SfC.'  " 

I  do  thank  Heaven  that  there  is  no  parallel  in  my  own  let- 
ters to  either  of  these  three  extracts.  It  is  a  thing  of  course 
that  there  is  not.  They  are  violations  of  hospitality,  social  con- 
fidence, and  delicacy,  of  which  even  my  abusers  will  allow  me 
incapable.  Yet  this  man  accuses  me  of  all  these  things,  and  so 
runs  criticism  ! 

And  to  this  I  add  (to  conclude  this  long  Preface)  some  extracts 
from  a  careful  review  of  the  work  in  the  North  American  : — 

" '  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  pub- 
lication. From  this  circumstance,  the  author  indulged  in  a  free- 
dom 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 


PREFACE. 


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,  espe- 
cially 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  grace- 
ful 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. 

"  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 


PREFACE.  xix 

regard  to  literary  truth.  Assuming  the  political  creed  of  an 
author,  it  would  be  a  very  easy  thing  to  predict  the  sort  of  criti- 
cism 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'  com- 
edies 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  l  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. 

"  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  per- 


XX  PREFACE. 

sonalities,  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  incon- 
sistency, 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  honora- 
ble 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  regret- 
ted 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 


PREFACE  xxi 

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. 

"  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  diffi- 
cult 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  descrip- 
tions of  the  cholera,  and  the  pictures  he  gives  us  of  the  cata- 
combs of  the  dead,  are  ghastly.  But  the  manners  of  society  he 
draws  with  admirable  tact ;  and  personal  peculiarities  of  distin- 
guished 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  ezample. 


PREFACE. 


"  It  would  be  impossible  to  point  out,  with  any  degree  of  par 
ticularity,  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. 

"  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,  consider- 
ing 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  Black- 
wood,  both  in  the  second  volume,  which  we  regret  our  inability 
to  quote." 

"  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 


PREFACE.  xxiii 

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  ten- 
dencies to  exaggeration,  and  to  an  unhealthy  tone  of  sentiment, 
which  mar  the  beauty  of  some  of  his  otherwise  most  agreeable 
books." 


CONTENTS, 


LETTER  I. 

MM 

•utr  "Way— The  Gulf  Stream— Aspect  of  the  Ocean — Formation  of  a  "Wave 
—Sea  Gems— The  Second  Mate,  ll 

LETTER  II. 

A  Dog  at  Sfta— Dining,  with  a  High  Sea— Sea  Birds — Tandem  of  Whales — Speaking  a 
Mwi-of-  War— Havre, 13 

LETTER  III. 

Havre — French  Bed-room — The  Cooking— Chance  Impressions,      ...  85 

LETTER  IV. 

Pleasant  Companion — Normandy— Rouen— Eden  of  Cultivation— St.  Denis — Entrance 
to  Paris— Lodgings— Walk  of  Discovery — Palais  Royal, M 

LETTER  V. 

6  Cilery  of  the  Louvre— Greeno-Jgh— Feeling  as  a  Foreigner — Solitude  In  the  Louvre 
-T.ouis  Philippe— The  Poles— Napoleon  II.         -  * 40 


CONTENTS. 


LETTER  VL 

Taglloni— French  Acting — French  Applause — Leon  One  Fay,  ....          -6 

LETTER  VII. 

Lelewell — Pere  La  Chaise -Panvre  Marie — Versailles — The  Trianons — Josephine's 
Boudoir— Time  and  Money  at  Paris— Wives  and  Fuel— One  Price  Shops,  .  .  51 

LETTER  Vili. 

Mr.  Cooper— Mr.  Greenough — Fighting  Animals — The  Dog  Pit— Fighting  Donkey- 
Sporting  Englishmen, 4| 

LETTER  IX. 

Malibran — Paris  at  a  Late  Hour — Glass  Gallery—  Clond  and  Sunshine — General  So- 
marine — Parisian  Students— Tumult  Ended, ft 

LETTER  X. 

French  Children— Eoyal  Equipages— French  Driving— City  Biding— Parisian  Pic- 
turesque—Beggar's  Deception— Genteel  Beggars,  II 

LETTER  XI. 

Madame  Mars — Franklin's  House — Ball  for  the  P->or — Theatrical  Splendor— Louis 
Philippe — Duke  of  Orleans — Young  Queen  of  Portugal— Don  Pedro — Close  of  the 
Bill, .  -4 

LETTER  XII. 

Champ  Elysees— Louis  Philippe— Literary  Dinner— Bowring  and  others— The  I'ota*- 
Dr.  Howe's  Mission, « 

LETTER  XIII. 

Club  Gambling  House— Frascati's—  Female  Gambler, ixJl 


CONTENTS. 


LETTER  XIV. 

Tuilerles— Men  of  Mark— Cooper  and  Morse— Contradictions— Dlnnw  Hour— Ho*r  to 
Dine  Well, ...  107 


LETTER  XV. 

The  Emperor — Turenne — Lady  Officer — Gambling  Quarrel — Curious  Antagonists — In- 
fluence of  Paris, .        114 


LETTER  XVI. 

Cholera  Gaieties— Cholera  Patient— Morning  in  Paris— Cholera  Hospital— New  Pa- 
tient—Physician's Indifference — Punch  Eemedy — Dead  Boom — Non-Contagion,        131 


LETTER  XVII. 

Unexpected  Challenge — Court  Presentation — Louis  Philippe — Eoyal  Family  at  Tea- 
Countess  Guiccioli — Madri  Gras— Bal  Costume — Public  Mask.*  -"x»dy  Cavalier- 
Ball  at  the  Palace — Duke  of  Orleans — Dr.  Bowring — Celebrated  Men — li'.aw  V> 
randah  .  181 


LETTER  XVIIL 

Cholera— Social  Tea  Party—  Recipe  for  Caution— Baths  and  Happiness,  146 

LETTER  XIX. 

Bois  d«  Boulogne — Guiccioli — Sismondi — Cooper, Vil 

LETTER  XX. 

Friend   of   Lady!  Morgan— Dr.    Spurzheim — Cast-Taking— De    Potter— David   tD» 
fecu;ptor, Hi 

LETTER  XXI. 

Attractions  of  Paris — Mr.  Cooper — Mr.  Hives.      .  16£ 


CONTENTS. 


LETTER  XXII. 

Chalons— Sens— Anxerre—St  Bris— Three  Views  in  One— Chalons,        ...       168 

LETTER  XXIII. 

Boat  on  the  Saone — Scenery  above  Lyons — Lyons — Churches  at  Lyons — Monastery,     17i» 

LETTER  XXI V. 

Travelling  Party — Breakfast  on  the  Eoad— Localities  of  Antiquity— Picturesque  Cha- 
teau—French Patois, 179 

LETTER  XXV. 

Aries — The  Cathedral — Marseilles — Parting  with  Companions— Pats  of  Ollioules — 
Toulon — Antibes — Coast  of  Mediterranean— Forced  to  Eeturn — Lazaretto—  «>>»"•»•> 
Hindrances— Fear  of  Contagion — Sleep  out  of  Doors— Lazaretto  Occupat'Aw— 
Delicious  Sunday — New  Arrivals — Companions -»-End  of  Quarantine,  .  185 

LETTER  XXVI. 

Nice — Funeral  of  an  Arch-Duchess — Nice  to  Genoa — Views— Entrance  to  Genoa — 
Genoa, 203 

LETTER  XXVH. 

The  Venus— The  Fornarina— A  Coquette  and  the  Arts — A  Festa — Ascension  Day — 
The  Cascine—  Madaino  Catalan!,  , 211 

LETTER  XXVIII. 

Titian's  Bella— The  Grand-Duchess — An  Improvisatrice — Living  in  Florence — Lodg- 
ings at  Florence — Expense  of  Living, .  ,  819 

LETTER  XXIX. 

i  %inir«n1c>ns — Scenery  of  Romagna—  Wives—  Bologna,  986 


CONTENTS. 


LETTER  XXX. 

Gallery   at   Bologna— A   Guido — Churches— Confession-Chapel  —  Fcsta—  Agreeable 
Manners,      .  281 

LETTER  XXXI. 

Regatta — Venetian  Sunset — Privileged  Admission — Guillotining — Bridge  of  Sighs — 
San  Marc — The  Nobleman  Beggar, 288 

LETTER  XXXIL 

An  Evening  in  Venice— The  Streets  of  Venice — The  Eialto — Sinset  from  San  Marc,  240 

LETTER  XXXIII. 

Titian's  Pictures — Last  Day  in  Veiiee, 251 

LETTER  XXXIV. 

Italian  Civility— Juliet's  Tomb— The  Palace  of  the  Capnletti— A  Dinner,    .  854 

LETTER  XXXV. 

Good  and  Ill-Breeding—Bridal  Party,        ..........       259 

LETTER  XXXVI. 

Manner  of  Living — Originals  of  Novels — HI,     ...  .....       262 

LETTER  XXXVII. 

The  Duke  of  Lucca— Modena— The  Palace— Bologna— Venice  Again— Its  Splendor    2«S 

LETTER  XXXVIII. 

Armenian  Island — Agreeable  Monk — Insane  Hospital— Insane  Patients— The  Lagiine 
— State  Galley — Instruments  if  Torture, 273 


XXX  CONTENTS. 


LETTER  XXXIX. 

Verne*  at  Evening— The  Patriotism  of  a  Noble — Church  of  St  Antony—  Petnreh  i 
Cottage  and  Tomb— Petrarch's  Boom, 881 


LETTER  XL. 

Cultivation  of  the  Fields— The  Vintage— Malibran  In  Gazza  Ladra— Gallery  of  the 
Lambaocari, 287 


LETTER   XLI. 

Sienna — Catholic  Devotion — Acquapendente — Lake  Bolsena— Vintage  Festa — Monto- 
Clmino—  First  Sight  of  Borne—  Baccano.         .       .  .       ....       292 


LETTER  XLII. 

Bt  Peter's— The  Apollo  Belvid ere- Raphael's  Transfiguration— The  Pantheon— The 
Forum, 801 

LETTER  XLIIL 

TLe   Falls   of  Tlvoll— Villa   of  Adrian -A   Ramble   by   Moonlight— The   Cloaca 
Maxima, 80T 


LETTER  XLIV. 

The  Last  Judgment— The  Music— Gregory  the  Sixteenth, 818 

LETTER  XLV. 

Byron's  Statue— The  Borghese  Palace— Society  of  Borne,  .        .  814 

LETTER  XLVI. 

The  CltrasU— Falls  of  Ternl— The  Clitumnns—  A  Lesson  not  Lost— Thrtsimene- 
Florcnce— Florentine  Women — Need  of  an  Ambassador, J2r 


CONTENTS. 


LETTER  XLVII. 

Chat  in  the  Ante-Chamber—Love  in  High  Life— Ball  at  the  Palazzo  Pitti— The  Grand 
Duke— An  Italian  Beauty— An  English  Beauty,      .......       829 


LETTER  XL VIII. 

Oxen   of  Italy— Vallombrosa— A  Convent  Dinner— Vespers  at   Vallombrosa— The 
Monk's  Estimate  of  Women — Milton's  Boom — Florence, 


LETTER  XLIX. 

The  House  of  Michael  Angelo — Fiesole — San  Miniato— Christmas  Eve — Ann&kig 
Scenes  in  Church,  844 


LETTER  L. 

Penitential  Processions— The  Carlist  Refugees — The  Miracle  of  Bain — The  Miraculous 
Picture — Giovanni  Di  Bologna — Andrea  Del  Sarto,        .  ....       850 


LETTER  LI. 

The  Entertainments  of  Florence— A  Peasant  Beauty— The  Morality  of  Society— The 
Italian  Cavalier— The  Features  of  Society, 851 


LETTER  LII. 

Artists  and  the  French  Academy— Beautiful  Scenery— Sacred  Woods  of  Bolsenn,   .       863 

LETTER  LIIL 

The  Virtuoso  of  Viterbo— Robberies— Rome  as  Fancied— Rome  as  Found,     .       .       SOT 

LETTER  LIV. 

The  Fountain  of  Egeria— The  Pontine  Marshes— Mola— The  Falernian  Hillfl— The 
Doctor  of  St  Agatha— The  Queen  of  Naples, .872 


CONTENTS. 


LETTER  LV. 

St.  Petert— The  Fountains— The  Obelisk— The  Fornm— Its  Memories— The  Cenci— 
Claude's  Pictures— Fancies  Realized— The  .ast  of  the  Dorias— A  Picture  by  Leonardo 
Da  Vinci— Palace  of  the  Cesars—  An  Hour  on  the  Palatine, 879 

LETTER  LVL 

Roman  Eyes  versus  Fe«t— Yaspors  at  Santa  Trinita— Boman  Baths— Baths  of  Titus— 
Shelley's  Haunt,  .  890 

LETTER  LVIL 

The  Tomb  of  the  Sclpios— The  Early  Christians— Tho  Tomb  of  Metella— Fountain  of 
Egeria— Changed  Aspect  of  Eojce,  896 

LETTER  LVUL 

Palm  Sunday— A.  Crowd— The  Miserere— A  Judas— The  Washing  of  Feet— The 
Dinner, 402 

LETTER  LIX. 

The  Protestant  Cemetery— Shelley's  Grave— Beauty  of  the  Place— Keats— Dr.  BeL,      409 

LETTER  LX. 

Audience  with  the  Pope— Humility  and  Pride  in  Contrast— Tho  Miserere  at  8t 
Peter's— Italian  Moonlight— Dancing  at  the  Coliseum, 415 

LETTER  LXL 

Enstor  Sunday— Tho  Pope's  Blessing— Illumination  of  Si-  Peter'p-  Vlorcntinp  «oci»- 
Wlity— A  Marriage  of  Convenience, 431 

LETTER  LXTL 

The  Correggio—  Austrians  in  Italy— Tho  Cathedral  at  MUan— Gueiclno's  Hagar— 
Milanese  Coffee, «t' 


CONTENTS. 


LETTER  LXin. 

8U11  In  Italy— Isola  Bella— Ascent  of  the  Simplon— Farewell  to  Italy— An  American 
— Descent  of  the  Simplon, 433 


LETTER  LXIV. 

The  Cretins — The  Goitre— First  Sight  of  Lake  Leman — Mont  Blanc — June  in  Geneva 
— The  Winkelreid, ''."'."".       440 


LETTER  LXV. 

American  and  Genevese  Steamers — Lilies  of  the  Valley — A  Frenchman's  Apology — 
Generese  "Women — Voltaire's  Boom, 446 


LETTER   LXVI. 

The  Jura— Arrival  at  Morez— Lost  my  Temper— National  Characteristics— Politeness 
versus  Comfort,          .  452 


LETTER  LXVH. 

Lafayette's  Funeral    Crossing  the  Channel — An  English    Inn — Mail  Coaches  and 
Horses— A  Gentleman  Driver — A  Subject  for  Madame  Trollope,          .       .       .       463 


LETTER   LXVIII. 

b'lrst  Dinner  in  London — The  King's  Birth-day — A  Handsome  Street — Introduction 
to  Lady  Blessington — A  Cliat  about  Bulwer— The  D'Israeli's — Contrast  «f  Criticism 
-Countess  Guiccioli— Lady  Blessington — An  Apology, 455 


LETTER  LXIX. 

An  Evening  at  Lady  Blessington's — Fonblanc — Tribute  to  American  Authors — A 
Sketch  of  Bulwer — Buhrer's  Cou  venation — An  Author  Uls  pwn  f  ritic.        .       .        476 


CONTENTS. 


LETTER  LXX. 

A«cot  Eaceo— Handsome  Men— The  Princess  Victoria— Charles  Lamb— Mary  Lamb 
—Lamb's  Conversation— The  Breakfast  at  Fault, tax 

LETTER  LXXL 

A  Dinner  at  Lady  Blessington's— D'Israeli,  the  Younger— The  Author  of  Vatcek— 
Mr.  Beckford's  Whims — Irish  Patriotism — The  Effect  of  Klo^ueuet,  .  .  .  •*•-••• 

LETTER  LXXU. 

The  Opara  House— "What  Books  will  pay  for— English  Beanty— A  Belle's  Criticism  on 
Boctoty— Celebrities, <v«3 

LETTER  LXXILL 

Breakfast  with  Proctor — A  Story  of  Hazlitt— Procter  as  a  Poet— Impressions  of  tlie 
Mac, 604 

LETTER  LXXIV. 

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,  509 

LETTER  LXXV. 

Dinner  at  Lady  Blessington's— Scott— The  Italians— Scott'*  Mode  of  L' vlng— O  Gonneil 
— Orettan— Mvwre's  Manner  of  Talking— Lady  Blesslngton's  Tact— Moore's  Sintfcg 
—A  Curious  Inc'dent — The  Maid  Metamorphosed Ml 


PENCILLINGS   BY  THE   WAY, 


LETTEE    I. 

AT  SEA. — I  have  emerged  from  my  berth  this  morning  for  the 
first  time  since  we  left  the  Capes.  We  have  been  running  six  or 
jeven  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  succes- 
sive days,  you  can  imagine  how  I  have  amused  myself. 

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 


12  GETTING    UNDER  WAY. 


without  hesitation.  The  next  day  she  fell  down  the  river,  and 
on  the  succeeding  morning  I  followed  her  with  the  captain  in  the 
steamboat. 

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  enjoy- 
ment), whom  a  thousand  possible  accidents  might  remove  or 
estrange  ;  and  I  scarce  knew  whether  I  was  more  happy  or  sad. 

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,  appa- 
rently 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 


THE  GULF  STREAM.  13 


last  look  at  Cape  Henlopen,  just  visible  in  the  far  edge  of  the 
horizon,  and  went  below. 

OCT.  18. — 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  New- 
foundland, is  always  blood  warm,  and  the  temperature  of  the  air 
miid  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. 

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,  th«  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 


14  ASPECT  OF  THE  OCEAN. 


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  alti- 
tude, 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. 

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  110 
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,  aod  the  long  majestic  swells  were  heaving  iuto  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. 

I  mounted  the  quarter-deck,  and,  pulling  off  ray  shoes,  like  a 


FORMATION  OF  A  WAVE.  15 


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. 

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  conies,  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  pre- 
pares 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 


16  SEA  GEMS. 


white,  as  if  it  had  been  a  mighty  casket  in  which  the  whole 
wealth  of  the  sea,  crysoprase,  and  emerald,  and  brilliant  spars, 
bad  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. 

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  gold- 
smith'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  foefluor  spars,  and  the  turquoises,  and  the 
clearer  specimens  of  crysoprase,  and  quartz,  and  diamond,  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. 

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 


THE    SECOND    MATE. 


"  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  loo . 


LETTER  II. 

AT  SEA,  OCTOBER  20. — We  have  had  fine  weather  for  pro- 
gress, 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,  keep- 
ing the  decks  constantly  wet,  and  putting  me  to  many  an  uncom- 
fortable 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. 

Poor  Turk  !  his  philosophy  is  more  severely  tried.  He  has 
been  bred  a  gentleman,  and  is  amusingly  exclusive.  No  assidui- 


A  DOG  AT  SEA.  19 


ties  can  win  him  to  take  the  least  notice  of  the  crew,  and  1  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  shoot- 
ing 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  "  sacre  /"  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. 

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, 


20  DINING,  WITH  A  HIGH  SEA. 


from  a  general  slide  in  the  direction  of  the  lurch,  requires  a 
sleight  and  coolness  reserved  only  for  a  sailor.  "  Prenez  garde  .'" 
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  exag- 
gerate. 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. 

OCT.  24. — 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  perfec- 
tion 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,  ai»d  they  do  it  so  quickly  that  your  eye  can 
scarce  follow  them,  just  disturbing  the  polish  of  the  smooth 


SEA  BIRDS.  21 


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  deso- 
late 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  creaturos.  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. 

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  with- 
out 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 


22  TANDEM  OF  WHALES. 


few  hours.  The  least  food,  in  their  exhaused  state,  swells  in  their 
throats  and  suffocates  them.  Poor  Curlew  !  there  was  a  tender- 
ness in  one  breast  for  him  at  least — a  feeling  I  have  the  melan- 
choly satisfaction  to  know,  fully  reciprocated  by  the  bird  him- 
self— that  seat  of  his  affections  having  been  allotted  to  me  for 
my  breakfast  the  morning  succeeding  his  demise. 

OCT.  29. — 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 
wonld  not  be  more  wonderful,  de  novo,  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  grown  upon  my  mind  dur- 
ing 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 ! 

OCT.  30. — The  day  has  passed  more  pleasantly  than  usual 
The  man  at  the  helm  cried  "  a  sail,"  while  we  were  at  breakfast, 


SPEAKING    A    MAN-OF-WAR.  23 


and  we  gradually  overtook  a  large  ship,  standing  on  the  same 
course,  with  every  sail  set.  We  were  passing  half  a  mile  to  lee- 
ward, 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,  heav- 
ing 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 
loat  to  one  on  board,  and  it  is  only  at  sea  and  under  circum- 
stances 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  spec- 
tacle, 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  delighful.  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, 


24  HAVRE. 

and  I  could  distinguish  very  well,  with  a  glass,  the  expression  of 
the  faces  watching  our  own  really  beautiful  vessel  as  she  skimmod 
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  hori- 
zon, and  felt  as  if  I  had  lost  friends  when  the  night  closed  in  and 
we  were  once  more 

"  Alone  on  the  wide,  wide  sea." 

Nov.  3. — 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 
«ar),  and  I  close  in  haste,  for  all  is  confusion  on  board. 


LETTER  III. 

HAVRE. — This  is  one  of  those  places  which  scrinblinjr  travel- 
lers 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  even- 
ing entirely  to  myself,  and  a  good  fire,  why  I  will  order  another 
pound  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  ! 

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  com- 
larable  degree  like  its  namesake  the  other  side  of  the  water. 

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 
2 


26  HAVRE. 

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  taf- 
ferel,  and  a  shot  from  his  arquebuss  would  have  been  the  conse- 
quence of  any  unlicensed  communication  with  the  shore.  It  wa. 
something,  however,  to  sleep  without  rocking ;  and,  after  a  fit  ot 
musing  anticipation,  which  kept  me  conscious  of  the  sentinel's 
pleasured  tread  till  midnight,  the  "  gentle  goddess"  sealed  up  my 
•«ires  etfectualiy,  and  I  awoke  at  sunrise — in  France  ! 

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  T  awoke  this  morning.  In  Vraivct . 
I  would  not  have  had  it  a  dream  for  the  price  of  an  empire 

Early  in  the  morning  a  woman  came  clattering  into  the  cabin 
with  wooden  shoes,  and  a  patois  of  mingled  French  and  Englisn — 
a  blanchisseuse — spattered  to  the  knees  with  mud,  but  with  a  cap 
and  'kerchief  that  would  have  made  the  fortune  of  a  New  \  ork 
milliner,  del !  what  politeness  !  and  what  white  teeth  and 
what  a  knowing  row  of  papillotes,  laid  in  precise  parallel,  on  her 
clear  brunette  temples. 

"  Quelle  nouvelle  /"  said  the  captain. 

"  Poland  est  a  bas  /"  was  the  answer,  with  a  look  of  heroic 
sorrow,  that  would  have  become  a  tragedy  queen,  mourning  lor 
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  clorioua 
people  trampled  to  the  dust  in  one  of  the  most  noble  and  dc  spe- 


FRENCH    BED-ROOM.  27 

rate  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  des- 
potism. The  washerwoman  broke  the  silence  with  "  Any  clothes 
to  wash*  Monsieur  ?"  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. 

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  pincush- 
ion, 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  Napoleon  mourant  over  the  walls ;  win- 
dows 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  thai 
refuse  to  meet,  and  a  carpet  as  large  as  a  table-cloth  in  the  ecu- 


28  THE   COOKING. 


tre  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  comfort  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. 

But,  for  eating  and  drinking  !  if  they  cook  better  in  Paris,  I 
shall  have  my  passport  altered.  The  next  prefet  that  signs  it 
shall  substitute  gourmand  for  proprietairc.  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. 

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. 

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 


CHANCE    IMPRESSIONS.  29 


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  sweep- 
ing, 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  involun- 
tarily 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  tne 
worst  for  speed  in  the  world — and  that,  for  extremes  ridiculously 
near,  dirt  and  neatness,  politeness  and  knavery,  chivalry  and 
petiiesse,  of  bearing  and  language,  the  people  I  have  seen  to-day 
must  be  pre-eminently  remarkable,  or  France,  for  a  laughing  phi- 
losopher, is  a  paradise  indeed  !  And  now  for  my  pillow,  till  the 
diligence  calls.  Good  night 


LETTER   IV, 

Vt  BIS. — It  seems  to  me  as  if  I  were  going  back  a  ra->nth  to 
recall  my  departure  from  Havre,  my  memory  is  so  clouded  with 
later  incidents.  I  was  awaked  on  the  morning  after  I  had  writ- 
ten 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  s;>  in  everything  in 


PLEASANT    COMPANION.  31 


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. 

At  daylight  I  found  myself  in  the  coupe  (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  con- 
jecture 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  diplomat^  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  increas- 
ing and  singular  beauty  of  the  country,  even  under  the  disadvan- 
tage 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. 


32  NORMANDY. 


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. 

The  province  of  Normandy  is  celebrated  for   its  picturesque 

beauty,  but  I  had  no  conception  before  of  the  cultivated  pictu- 
resque 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  struc- 
ture of  the  distant  and  half-hidden  chateaux,  the  perfect  cultiva- 
tion, and,  to  me,  singular  appearance  of  a  whole  landscape 
without  a  fence  or  a  stone,  the  absence  of  all  that  we  define  by 
comfort  and  neatness,  and  the  presence  of  all  that  we  have  seen 
in  pictures  and  read  of  in  books,  but  consider  as  the  representa- 
tions and  descriptions  of  ages  gone  by — all  seemed  to  me  irre- 
sistibly 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  life- 
time 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. 

By  a  fortunate  chance  the  postillion  left  the  usual  route  at 


ROUEN.  33 

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  appurte- 
nances fautlessly  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. 

As  we  approached  Rouen  the  road  ascended  gradually,  and  a 
sharp  turn  brought  us  suddenly  to  the  brow  of  a  steep  hill,  oppo- 
site 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 
o* 


EDEN   OF   CULTIVATION. 


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 
coup  d'ail  of  distance,  like  some  fantastic  model  of  a  town,  with 
gothic  houses  of  sand-paper,  and  meadows  of  silk  velvet. 

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  baro- 
meter promised  np  change  in  the  weather,  and  as  I  was  anxious 
to  be  in  Paris,  1  took  my  place  in  the  ni^bt  dil:gence  and  kept  on. 
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  ; 


ST.    DENIS.  35 

and  then,  sinking  down  into  the  comfortable  corner  of  the  coupe, 
I  slept  almost  without  interruption  till  the  next  morning — the 
best  comment  in  the  world  on  the  only  comfortable  thing  I  have 
yet  seen  in  France,  a  diligence. 

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  coupe  to  let  him  in,  as  I  would  open  the  door 
to  a  long-missed  friend.  He  soon  reached  a  heavy  cloud,  how- 
ever, 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  great- 
coat 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  gro- 
tesque figures  and  equipages  on  the  road,  I  made  myself  passably 
contented  till  I  entered  the  suburb  of  St.  Denis. 

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  run- 
ning 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. 


36  ENTRANCE  TO   PARIS 


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  ? 

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  Messa- 
gerie,  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  fiacre,  and  drive  to  a 
hotel.  As  one  is  a  specimen  of  all,  I  may  as  well  describe  the 
Hotel  & 'Strangers,  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 
diplomat. 

The  fiacre  stopped  before  an  arched  passage,  and  a  fellow  in 


LODGINGS.  37 


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  "  Concierge."  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  round  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  ano- 
ther, and  another,  and  another  ;  they  were  all  curtains  and  look- 
ing-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. 

There  are  few  things  bought  with  money  that  are  more  delight- 
ful 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, 
someting  quite  different  from  any  I  ever  tasted  before  ;  and  the 
petit-pain,  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, 


WALK    OF    DISCOVERY. 


and  at  the  same  time  that  you  are  waited  upon  with  a  civility 
that  is  worth  three  times  the  money. 

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  th« 
guidebooks  profane  the  spirit  of  a  place  ;  I  never  look  at  then  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. 

A  walk  of  this  kind,  by  the  way,  shows  one  a  great  deal  of 
novelty.  In  France  there  are  no  shop-men.  No  matter  what  is 
the  article  of  trade — hats,  boots,  pictures,  books,  jewellery,  any- 
thing 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. 

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  kjltur- 
de-lis,  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  pavis  by 


PALAIS    ROYAL.  39 


thousands  of  gay  promenaders.  It  was  the  far-famed  Palais 
Royal.  I  remembered  the  description  I  had  heard  of  its  gam- 
bling houses,  and  facilities  for  every  vice,  and  looked  with  a  new 
surprise  on  its  Aladdin-like  magnificence.  The  hundreds  of  beau- 
tiful 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  jewel- 
lery, 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  ? 


LETTER  V, 

THE   LOtTVRE— AMERICANS    IN    PARIS POLITICS,    ETC. 

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  suro  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  facades  of  which  were  restored  to  their 
original  simplicity  by  Napoleon),  is  a  specimen  of  high  architec- 
tural 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  Mus&e  Roynle  without  the  painful 
sense  of  a  magnificence  beyond  the  grasp  of  the  faculties. 

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  stair- 
case, 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 


GALLERY    OF    THE    LOUVRE.  41 


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  feel- 
ing one  has,  as  he  stops  half  way  up  to  look  about  him,  is  the  ludi- 
crous disproportion  between  it  and  the  size  of  the  inhabiting 
animals.  I  should  smile  to  see  any  man  ascend  such  a  staircase, 
except,  perhaps,  Napoleon. 

Passing  through  a  kind  of  entrance-hall,  I  came  to  a  spacious 
salle  ronde^  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  pieca 
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  impossi- 
ble that  color  and  drawing  upon  a  flat  surface  can  so  cheat  the 
eye. 

From  the  salle  ronde  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  visitors, 
gazing  at  the  pictures  in  varied  attitudes,  and  with  sizes  reduced 
in  proportion  to  their  distance,  the  farthest  off  looking,  in  the 


42  GREENOUGH. 


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. 

I  found  our  distinguished  countryman,  Morse,  copying  a  beau- 
tiful Murillo  at  the  end  of  the  gallery.  He  is  also  engaged  upon 
a  Rafiaelle  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  appear- 
ance. 

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  some- 
thing 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 


FEELING    AS    A    FOREIGNER.  43 


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 
-unerit  of  public  and  private  patronage.  For  the  love  of  true 
taste,  do  everything  in  your  power  to  second  such  an  appeal  when 
U  comes. 


It  is  a  queer  feeling  to  find  oneself  a  foreigner.  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  man- 
ner 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  country- 
men, 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 


44  SOLITUDE    IN    THE    LOUVRE. 

the  index  to  our  national  character.  The  first  is  seldom  pos- 
sessed 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. 


On  my  way  home  from  the  Boulevards  this  evening,  I  was  for- 
tunate 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  facades,  and  drawing  its  soft  line  across  the  rich  window? 
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  com- 


LOUIS    PHILIPPE.  45 


ing  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  suc- 
ceeding 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. 


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  pur- 
poses 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  imme- 
diate 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  tlio 
revolutionary  pitch. 


46  THE    POLES. 

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. 

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  govern- 
ment. 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  cau- 
tion. The  papers,  meantime,  are  raving  against  the  ministry  iu 
the  most  violent  terms,  and  the  king  Is  abused  without  qualifica- 
tion, everywhere. 

I  wont,  a  night  or  two  since,  to  one  of  the  minor  theatres  to 


NAPOLEON    II.  47 


see  the  representation  of  a  play,  which  has  been  performed  for 
the  hundred  and  second  time  .' — "  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  under  toned,  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  *'  Vive 
Napoleon  II.'" 

1  have  altered  my  arrangements  a  little,  in  consequence  or*  the 
state  of  feeling  here.  My  design  was  to  go  to  Italy  immediately, 
but  affairs  promise  such  an  interesting  and  early  change,  tnat  I 
shall  pass  the  winter  in  Paris. 


LETTER  VI, 

TAGLIONI FRENCH    STAGS,   ETC. 

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.     "  Have  you  seen  Taglioni  ?"  is  the  first  question 
addressed  to  a  stranger  in  Paris ;  and  you  hear  her  name  con- 
stantly over  all  the  hum  of  the  cafes  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  w  is  over, 
the  curtain  drew  up  for  "  Le  Dieuet  la  Bayadere."     Ti.is  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  win- 


TAGLIONI.  49 

ning  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  mar- 
ries her,  and  then  saves  her  from  the  flames  as  she  is  about  to  be 
burned  for  marrying  beneath  her  caste.  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  rivettcd  to  a  childish  crea- 
ture floating  about  among  the  rest,  and,  taking  her  for  some 
beautiful  young  eleve  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.  This  was  Taglioni !  She 
came  forward  directly,  in  a  pas  seul,  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  uncon- 
strained 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. 
3 


50  FRENCH   ACTING. 


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  admi- 
ration, such  a  total  absence  of  exertion  or  fatigue,  that  the 
delight  with  which  she  fills  you  is  unraingled  ;  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  suspi- 
cion, 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. 

I  have  attended  several  of  the  best  theatres  in  Paris,  and  find 
one  striking  trait  in  all  their  first  actors — nature.  They  do  not 
look  like  actors,  and  their  playing  is  not  like  acting.  They  are  men, 


FRENCH    APPLAUSE.  51 

generally,  of  the  most  earnest,  unstudied  simplicity  of  countenance  ; 
and  when  they  come  upon  the  stage,  it  is  singularly  without  affec- 
tation, and  as  the  character  they  represent  would  appear.  Un- 
like 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.  They 
applaud  judiciously .  When  Taglioni  danced  her  wonderful  pas 
M*d,  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 
Dot  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  accla- 
mation that  came  from  the  hearts  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. 


52  LEONTINE   FAY. 


Of  the  French  actresses,  I  have  been  most  pleased  with  Leon- 
tine  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. 


LETTER  VII. 

JOACHIM    LELEWEL PALAIS     ROYAL PERE    LA    CHAISE— 

VERSAILLES,  ETC. 

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  prin 
cipal  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 


54  LELEWEL. 


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  habit- 
ually 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. 


"  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  Palais  Royal.  You  may  meet 
in  its  thronged  galleries,  in  the  course  of  an  hour,  representatives 
of  every  creed,  rank,  nation,  and  system,  under  heaven.  Hus- 
sein Pacha  and  Don  Pedro  pace  daily  the  same  pav€—  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  s&me  jet  d'eau,  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. 


PERE  LA  CHAISE.  55 

The  extraordinary  persons  outnumber  the  ordinary.     Every  other 
man  you  meet  would  keep  a  small  town  in  a  ferment  for  a  month. 

I  spent  yesterday  at  Pere  la  Chaise,  and  to  day  at  Versailles. 
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  Perc  la  Chaise  for  its  elysium. 

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  kind  of  sorrow 
felt  by  the  mourner.  You  can  tell,  for  instance,  by  the  senti- 
ment simply,  without  looking  at  the  record  below,  whether  the 


56  PAUVRE  MARIE. 


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  "Pauvre  Marie  /" — nothing  more.  I 
have  thought  of  it,  and  speculated  upon  it,  a  great  deal  since. 
What  was  she  ?  and  who  wrote  her  epitaph  ?  why  was  she  pauvre 
Marie! 

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  tb« 
world. 


VERSAILLES.  57 


Versailles  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  particu- 
lar description  of  my  visit. 

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),  oc  the 
celebrated  women  who  had  lived  in  their  separate  palaces  within 


58  THE    TRIANONS. 


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  must  have  rode  through  its  gilded  gates  with 
the  thought  of  pride  that  he  was  its  imperial  master  by  the  royal- 
ty of  his  great  nature  alone — it  was  in  truth,  enough,  the  real  and 
the  ideal,  to  dazzle  the  eyes  of  a  simple  republican. 

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. 

The  little  marble  palace,  called  "  Petit  Trianon,"  built  for 
Madame  Pompadour  in  the  garden  grounds,  is  a  beautiful  affair, 
full  of  what  somebody  calls  "  affectionate-looking  rooms ;"  and 
"  Grand  Trianon,"  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, 
psrhaps)  are  exceedingly  pretty  models  in  miniature,  and  proba- 
bly 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  (''  les  rivieres  a  volonte,  "  the  guide 
called  them),  and  tr  -n*  pet  out  upon  the  crags  at  most  uncom 


JOSEPHINE'S  BOUDOIR.  59 


fortable  angles,  and  every  contrivance  to  make  a  lovely  lawn  as 
inconveniently  like  nature  as  possible.  The  Swiss  families,  how- 
ever, 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. 

It  was  in  the  little  palace  of  Trianon  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  boudoir,  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  ? 

After  having  been  thridded  through  the  palaces,  we  had  a  few 
moments  left  for  the  grounds.  They  are  magnificent  beyond  de- 
scription. 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 


60  TIME    AND    .MONEY    AT    PARIS. 


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  exten- 
sive ;  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  ungrace- 
fully from  the  climax)  which  only  the  exactions  of  an  unnatural 
royalty  could  pay  for. 


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 
can  command,  is  inevitable.  As  to  the  worth  of  time,  for  in- 
stance, there  are  some  twelve  or  fourteen  gratuitous  lectures 
every  day  at  the  Sorbonne,  the  School  of  Medicine  and  the  College 
of  France,  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  to.- 


WIVES    AND    FUEL.  til 


zarin  Library,  and  similar  public  institutions,  all  open  to  gratuit- 
ous 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  handi- 
work 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  mon- 
keys. 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 
"  Vingt-dnq-sous,"  where  every  article  is  fixed  at  that  price — 
twenty  Jive  cents  !  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  dearer 
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  pur- 
chase. 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, 


63  ONE    PRICE    SHOPS. 


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. 


LETTER  VIII. 

DR.    BOWRING AMERICAN    ARTISTS BRUTAL    AMUSEMENT,  ETC. 

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 
Place  Vendome.  I  was  every  way  pleased  with  him.  His  know- 
ledge of  our  country  and  its  literature  surprised  me,  and  I  could 
not  but  be  gratified  with  the  unprejudiced  and  well-informed  in- 
terest with  which  he  discoursed  on  our  government  and  institu- 
tions. 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  feel- 
ing, by  the  way,  among  the  men  of  talent  in  Paris  ;  and  I  am 
pleasingly  surprised,  everywhere,  with  the  enthusiastic  hopes  ex- 
pressed for  the  success  of  our  experiment  in  liberal  principles. 
Dr.  Bowling  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, 


64  MR.    COOPER. 


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  un- 
usual on  this  side  the  Atlantic. 


It  is  a  cold  but  common  rule  with  travellers  in  Europe  to 
;void  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  reunion  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  hear- 
ing 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  my- 
self). Mr.  C.  lives  with  great  hospitality,  and  in  all  thtf  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 


MR.    GREENOUGH.  65 


no  inconsiderable  portion  of  his  large  income,  to  the  encourage- 
ment 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  de- 
cidedly, 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.  Grreenough,  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. 


My  curiosity  led  me  into  a  strange  scene  to-day.  I  had  ob- 
served for  some  time  among  the  placards  upon  the  walls  an  adver- 
tisement of  an  exhibition  of  "  fighting  animals,"  at  the  Barriere 
du  Combat.  I  am  disposed  to  see  almost  any  sight  once,  particu- 
larly where  it  is,  like  this,  a  regular  establishment,  and,  of  course, 
an  exponent  of  the  popular  taste.  The  place  of  the  "  Combats 
des  Animaux^  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 


66  FIGHTING    ANIMALS. 


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 


THE    DOG    PIT.  67 


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. 

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  com- 
pelled 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,  how- 
ever, 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  wiih  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  al- 
ways gallantly  and  victoriously.  There  was  a  majesty  about  him, 
which  seemed  to  awe  his  antagonists.  He  was  carried  off  in  his 


68  FIGHTING   DONKEY. 


master's  arms,  bleeding  and  exhausted,  after  punishing  the  best 
dogs  of  the  establishment. 

The  baiting  of  the  wild  animals  succeeded  the  canine  combats. 
Several  dogs  (Irish,  I  was  told),  of  a  size  and  ferocity  such  as  1 
had  never  before  seen,  were  brought  in,  and  held  in  the  leash 
opposite  the  den  of  the  bear  whose  head  was  so  dreadfully 
mangled. 

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  amusement  I 

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  un- 
warlike  an  animal,  I  soon  found  was  quite  unnecessary.  She 
was  the  severest  opponent  the  dogs  had  yet  found.  >S'u  went 
round  the  arena  at  full  gallop,  with  a  dozen  savagu  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  un 


SPORTING    ENGLISHMEN.  09 


hurt.  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. 

I  had  remained  till  the  close  of  the  exhibition  with  some  vio- 
lence 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  weii  conceive. 


I,ETTEft   IX 

HALIBRAN PARIS    AT    MIDNIGHT A    MOB,    ETC. 

OUR  beautiful  and  favorite  MALIBRAN  is  playing  in  Paris  this 
winter.  I  saw  her  last  night  in  Desdeinona.  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,  bet- 
ter than  when  in  America.  Her  voice  is  firmer,  and  more  under 
control,  but  it  has  lost  that  gushing  wildness,  that  brilliant  daring- 
ness  of  execution,  that  made  her  singing  upon  our  boards  so  inde- 
scribably 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  ficti- 
tious wretchedness  in  the  expression  of  her  face.  Still,  her  fore- 
head 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 


MALIBRAN.  71 


I  had  conceived  of  the  capacity  of  the  human  voice  for  pathos 
and  melody.  The  house  was  crowded,  and  the  applause  was  fre- 
quent and  universal. 

Madame  Malihran,  as  you  probahly  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. 


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  cafe  on  the  Italian  Boule- 
vards 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  pass- 
ing me  in  the  night.  I  have  once  or  twice  met  the  King  return- 
ing from  the  theatre  with  a  guard,  and  I  saw  them  once  at  mid- 
night on  an  extraordinary  patrol  winding  through  the  arch  into 
the  Place  Carrousel.  Their  equipments  are  exceedingly  warlike 


72  PARIS    AT    A    LATE    HOUR. 


(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. 

"We  kept  along  the  Boulevards  to  the  Rue  Richelieu.  A  car- 
riage, 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  patisserie  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  facade  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  pave  was  still  thronged  with  flaunt- 
ing and  painted  women  of  the  lowest  description,  promenading 
without  cloaks  or  bonnets,  and  addressing  every  passer-by. 

The  Palais  Royal  lay  in  our  way,  just  below  the  Bourse,  and 
wo  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 


GLASS    GALLERY.  73 


created  by  the  bright  radiation  of  light  through  the  mist,  th;: 
Corinthian  pillars  and  arches  retreated  on  either  side  from  the 
eye  in  distinct  and  yet  mellow  perspective,  the  fountain  filled  tho 
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  gens  d'armes  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  imagina- 
tion. I  had  seen  it  hitherto  only  when  crowded  with  the  gay  and 
noisy  idlers  of  Paris,  and  the  contrast  of  this  with  the  utter  soli- 
tude 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. 

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 
4 


74  CLOUD    AND    SUNSHINE 


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  mid- 
night, 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  cafes  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  wag  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. 

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. 


GENERAL    ROMARINO.  75 


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. 


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  im- 
mense numbers  at  the  Port  St.  Denis,  and  on  the  Boulevard 
Montmartre.  It  was  very  exciting  altogether.  The  cavalary 
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  be- 
come 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  for- 
eigner 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 


76  PARISIAN    STUDENTS. 


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  amalgam 
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  distinguish- 
ed 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. 

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 


TUMULT    ENDED.  77 


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. 


LETTER  X, 

GARDEN     OF     THE     TUILERIES FASHIONABLE       DRIVES — FRENCH 

OMNIBUSES CHEAP     RIDING SIGHTS STREET-BEGGARS IM- 
POSTORS, ETC. 

THE  garden  of  the  Tuileries  is  an  idle  man's  paradise.  Mag- 
nificent 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  Lours  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  sea- 
son) under  the  shelter  of  the  sunny  wall,  and  gaze  at  the  childu'L 
chasing  about,  with  their  attending  Swiss  maids,  till  your  boa  it 
has  outwearied  your  eyes,  or  the  palace-clock  strikes  five.  1 
have  been  there  repeatedly  since  I  have  been  in  Paris,  and  have 
Been  nothing  like  the  children.  They  move  my  heart  always, 


FRENCH    CHILDREN. 


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  ugly  French  child) — broad  ave- 
nues stretching  away  as  far  as  you  can  see,  covered  with  little 
foreigners  (so  they  seem  to  me),  dressed  in  gay  colors,  and  laugh- 
ing 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  ? 

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 
Arc  de  V  Etoile,  the  Champs  Elysees  inclusive. 

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  fashionable  drive,  and,  by  a  saunter  on  horse- 
back to  the  Bois  de  Boulogne,  between  four  and  five,  on  a 
pleasant  day,  one  may  see  all  the  dashing  equipages  in  Paris. 


80  ROYAL    EQUIPAGES. 

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 
Champs  IHysees,  on  the  bank  of  the  river,  and  the  rapid 
glimpses  of  the  bright  show  through  the  breaks  in  the  wood,  are 
exceedingly  picturesque. 

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  St.  Sulpice  omnibus,  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 


FRENCH    DRIVING.  81 


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  conve- 
niences 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 
paves,  sometimes  at  a  jog-trot,  while  his  master  or  mistress  sits 
looking  unconcernedly  out  of  the  window. 

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.  *'  Gar-r-r-r-e  /" 
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, 
4* 


82  CITY    RIDING. 


makes  for  the  first  door  with  an  alacrity  that  shows  a  habit  of 
expecting  very  little  from  the  cocher^s  skill. 

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  Pert  la  Chaise,  or  from  St. 
Sulpice  to  the  Italian  Boulevards  (the  two  diagonals),  or  take 
the  "  Tous  les  Boulevards"  and  ride  quite  round  the  city  for  six 
sous  the  distance.  The  "  fiacrt1"1  is  like  our  own  hacks,  except 
that  you  pay  but  "  twenty  sous  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  sous  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. 

Everything  in  France  is  either  grotesque  or  picturesque.  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  pave  between  four  high  walls,  would  offer 
very  little  to  seduce  the  eye  from  its  occupation;  but  on  the  con- 
trary, 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  concierge,  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 


PARISIAN    PICTURESQUE. 


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  amuced  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. 

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  thesa  penny-a  day 
acquaintances,  and  find  them  very  agreeable  breaks  to  the  heart- 
less solitude  of  a  crowd.  There  is  a  little  fellow  who  stands  by 


84  BEGGAR'S    DECEPTION. 

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  Rue  de  la  Paix 
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  attract- 
ing 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  with- 
out legs  or  arms,  singing,  with  his  hat  set  appealingly  on  the 
ground  before  him ;  and  cripples,  exposing  their  abbreviated 


GENTEEL    BEGGARS.  85 


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. 

In  the  present  dreadful  distress  of  trade,  there  are  other  still 
more  painful  cases  of  misery.  It  is  not  uncommon  to  be  ad- 
dressed 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  starv- 
ing 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,  per- 
haps, 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 


LETTER  XI, 

FOYETIER THE    THRACIAN    GLADIATOR MADEMOISELLE    MARS 

— DOCTOR  FRANKLIN'S  RESIDENCE  IN  PARIS — ANNUAL  BALL 
FOR  THE  POOR. 

I  HAD  the  pleasure  to  day  of  being  introduced  to  the  young 
sculptor  Foyetier,  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  cele- 
brated Dr.  Gall  fell  in  with  him  accidentally,  and  felt  of  his  head, 
en  passant.  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 
jompetition,  in  France.  His  "  Spartacus,"  the  Thracian  gladi- 
ator, 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 


MADAME    MARS.  87 


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. 

Foyetier  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  ex- 
tremely. 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  every- 
thing he  attempts,  even  in  the  model ;  but  he  is,  certainly,  of  all 
geniuses,  one  of  the  most  modest. 


The  celebrated  Mars  has  come  out  from  her  retirement  once 
more,  and  commenced  an  engagement  at  the  Theatre  Fran$ais. 
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  Moliere'ls,  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. 

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 


88  FRANKLIN'S   HOUSE. 


which  gives  her  a  power  of  expression  I  never  had  conceived 
before  ;  her  mouth  had  the  definite,  firm  play  of  youth  ;  hei 
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  quiet  a  player.  Her  gestures  were  just  perceptible,  no 
more  ;  and  yet  they  were  done  so  exquisitely  at  the  right  mo- 
ment— 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  comedy. 
Leontine  Fay  is  inimitable  in  tragedy  ;  but,  if  there  be  any  com- 
parison between  them,  it  is  that  this  beautiful  young  creature 
overpowers  the  heart  with  her  nature,  while  Mademoiselle  Mars 
satisfies  the  uttermost  demand  of  the  judgment  with  her  art. 


I  yesterday  visited  the  house  occupied  by  Franklin  while  he 
was  in  France.  It  is  one  of  the  most  beautiful  country  resi- 
dences 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  inflic- 
tion of  the  gout — its  neighborhood  to  the  palace  probably  render- 
ing it  preferable  to  the  more  distant  Chateaux  of  St.  Cloud  01 


BALL    FOR    THE    POOR.  89 

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  gar- 
dens 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. 


The  great  annual  ball  for  the  poor  was  given  at  the  Academic 
RoyaJe,  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  ex- 
clusive, 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. 

I  went  with  a  large  party  at  the  early  hour  of  eight.  We  fell 
into  the  train  of  carriages,  advancing  slowly  between  files  of  dra- 
goons, 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- 
ing-room  ;  and  passing  on  through  the  spacious  lobbies,  which 
were  changed  into  groves  of  pines  and  exotics,  we  entered  upon 
the  grand  scene.  The  coup  deceit  would  have  astonished  Aladdin. 
The  theatre,  which  is  the  largest  in  Paris,  and  gorgeously  built 


THEATRICAL    SPLENDOR. 


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  paradis, 
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,  count- 
less 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,"  gentle- 
men of  the  king's  household,  and  foreign  ministers,  and  attaches, 
presented  a  variety  of  color  and  splendor  which  nothing  could 
exceed. 

The  theatre  itself  was  not  altered,  except  by  the  platform  oc- 
cupied 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  corona.  Chandeliers  were  hung 
close  together  from  one  end  of  the  hall  to  the  other.  I  com 
menced  counting  them  once  or  twice,  but  some  bright  face  flit 
ting  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 


LOUIS    PHILIPPE.  91 

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  splen- 
dor 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  suite,  combined  to  make  up  a  scene  more  than  suffi- 
ciently astonishing.  I  felt  the  whole  night  the  smothering  con- 
sciousness of  senses  too  narrow — eyes,  ears,  language,  all  too 
limited  for  the  demand  made  upon  them. 

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  "  Vive  le  Roi"  was  not  so  hearty  as  to  drown 
the  music,  but  his  majesty  bowed  some  twenty  times  very  gra- 
ciously, 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-look- 
ing boy,  standing  just  at  my  side,  muttered  a  "  sacri  /"  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, 


92  DUKE    OF    ORLEANS. 


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  Garde  Nationale,  which  does  not  be- 
come him.  In  ordinary  gentleuian's  dress,  he  is  a  very  authen- 
tical  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. 

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  sernblable  idea.  Language  is  a  mere  skeleton  of 
such  things.  The  Academic  Royale  should  be  borne  over  the 
water  like  the  chapel  of  Loretto,  and  set  down  in  Broadu-ny  with 
all  its  lights,  music,  and  people,  to  give  you  half  a  notion  of  the 
"  Hal  en  faveur  des  Pauvres."  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  ^hy  one  cannot  study  Europe  at 
home. 

After  getting  our  American  party  places,  I  abandoned  myself 


YOUNG  QUEEN  OF  PORTUGAL.         93 


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  per- 
sonal beauty. 

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  parti- 
cularly flashed  on  the  eye  in  every  part  of  the  house.     By  the 
unceasing  exclamations  of  the  women,  it  was  an  unusually  bril- 
liant 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. 

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 


94  DON    PEDRO. 


strongly  arrested  my  attention.  He  sat  by  her  on  a  sofa  in  a 
very  crowded  party,  and  seemed  to  be  saying  something  very  ear- 
nestly, 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 

J| 

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,  his  sister  !  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  oil 
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  affect- 
ation. 

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  tha 


CLOSE    OF   THE    BALL.  95 

paradis  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. 


LETTER  XII. 

PLACE    LOUIS    XV. PANORAMIC     VIEW     OF    PARIS A     LITERARY 

CLUB    DINNER THE    GUESTS THE    PRESIDENT — THE    EXILED 

POLES,  ETC. 

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  Arc 
de  V  Etoile  as  my  extreme  point  I  yielded  to  all  the  leisurely  hin- 
derances  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,  "HUSSEIN- 
PACHA,  Dry  d?  Algiers." 

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  Polig- 
nac,  facing  the  Tuileries,  on  the  opposite  bank.  By  the  side  of 
this  exquisite  little  model  of  a  palace  stands  the  superb  com- 


CHAMPS    ELYSEES.  97 


mencement  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, 

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  inocu- 
lates them  with  love  of  the  corps,  and  it  would  be  better  if  that 
were  synonymous  with  a  love  of  liberal  principals.  The  Garde 
Nationale  are  supposed  to  be  more  than  half  "Carlists"  at  this 
moment. 

We  passed  out  by  the  guarded  gate  of  the  Tuileries  to  the 
Place  Louis  XV.  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  Champs  Elysees, 
and  ranges  of  course,  in  the  long  broad  avenue  of  two  miles, 
stretching  between  the  king's  palace  and  the  Arc  de  V  Etoile. 
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  ad- 
vantageous 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  Rue  Royale^ 
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  Palais  Bourbon,  approached 
by  the  Pont  Louis  XVI.  with  its  gigantic  statues  and  simple 


LOUIS   PHILIPPE. 


majesty  of  structure  ;  and,  rising  over  all,  the  grand  dome  of  the 
"Invalides,"  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 ! 

And  yet,  of  what,  that  should  make  a  spot  of  earth  oink  to 
perdition,  has  it  not  been  the  theatre  ?  Here  were  beheaded  the 
unfortunate  Louis  XVI. — his  wife,  Marie  Antoinette — his  kins- 
man, 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  mar- 
riage 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  men- 
tioning in  such  a  connexion.  Were  I  a  Bourbon,  and  as  unpopu- 
lar 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  equivoque,  I  should  look 
with  a  very  ominous  dissatisfaction  on  the  "Elysian  fields"  that 
lie  beyond. 

We  loitered  slowly  on  to  the  Barrier  Neuilly,  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 


LITERARY    DINNER  99 

the  unfinished  roof,  a  hundred  and  thirty-five  feet  from  the 
ground,  and  saw  the  whole  of  the  mighty  capital  of  France  at  a 
coup  d^cdl — 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. 
I  dined,  a  short  time  since,  with  the  editors  of  the  Revue 
Encydopedique  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  presi- 
dent, Mons.  Julien,  a  venerable  man  with  snow-white  hair,  ad- 
dressed 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 


100  BOWRING    AND    OTHERS. 


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. 

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.  Cesar  Moreau,  the  great  scheinist,  and  founder  of 
the  Academic  d"1  Industrie,  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  ar- 
rested my  attention  in  the  drawing-room,  before  dinner.  His 
person  was  slender  and  graceful — his  eye  and  mouth  full  of  beau- 
ty 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 


THE    POLES.  101 

great  elegance.  He  then  went  on  to  speak  of  the  misfortunes  of 
Poland,  and  soon  warmed  into  eloquence  of  the  most  vivid  earn 
estness  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  extrava- 
gantly 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. 

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  under- 


102  DR.    HOWE'S    MISSION. 


taken  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  gal- 
lant fellow,  and  will  succeed  if  any  one  can ;  but  he  certainly  runs 
great  hazard.  God  prosper  him ! 


LETTER  XIII. 

THE  GAMBLING-HOUSES  OF  PARIS. 

I  ACCEPTED,  last  night,  from  a  French  gentleman  of  high  stand- 
ing, 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  announce- 
ment of  a  court.  Passing  through  several  ante-chambers,  a 
heavy  folding-door  was  thrown  open,  and  we  were  recieved  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 


104  CLUB    GAMBLING    HOUSE. 

and  furniture,  the  quiet  manners  and  subdued  tones  of  conversa- 
tion, 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.  Conversa- 
tion 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 — columns  and  mirrors.  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  per- 
fectly 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  re- 
minded me  of  the  arrival  of  my  own  appointed  hour  for  departure 


FRASCATI'S.  105 


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. 

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  cordon,  he  ordered  to  "  Frascattfs."  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  for- 
tunes. 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  dif- 
ferent 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  o    the 
5* 


106  FEMALE    GAMBLER. 


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  fire-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,  unvary- 
ing 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  disappointmeHt. 
My  companion  told  me  that  there  would  be  more  desperate  play- 
ing toward  morning,  but  I  had  become  disgusted  with  the  cold 
selfish  faces  of  the  scene,  and  felt  no  interest  sufficient  to  detaiu 
me. 


LETTER  XIV- 

THE    GARDEN    OF     THE    TUILERIES PRINCE     MOSCOWA SONS     OF 

NAPOLEON — COOPER  AND  MORSE SIR  SIDNEY  SMITH FASHION- 
ABLE WOMEN CLOSE  OF  THE  DAY THE  FAMOUS  EATING- 
HOUSES HOW  TO  DINE  WELL  IN  PARIS,  ETC. 

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  uncon- 
cernedly as  at  home.  It  strikes  a  stranger  oddly.  With  the 
privacy  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  gentle- 
man of  the  ancien  regime,  handing  his  wife  or  daughter  to  a 


108  TUILERIES. 

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  fete.  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  tho 
people  of  our  country  to  see  so  many  thousands  of  all  ages  and 
conditions  of  life  spending  day  after  day  in  such  absolute 
uselessness. 

Imagine  yourself  here,  on  the  fashionable  terrace,  the  prom- 
enade, 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  beau  monde  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  chapeaux  de  soie,  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  w:ilks  out 


MEN   OF   MARK.  109 


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  Prince  Moscowa,  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  looking  men,  his  reputa- 
tion 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 


HO  COOPER    AND   MORSE. 


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  ad- 
mitted. And  here  come  two  of  our  countrymen,  who  are  to  be 
seen  constantly  together — Cooper  and  Morse.  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  country- 
man 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  acccompany  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  Sir  Sidney  Smith — the  short,  fat, 
old  gentleman  yonder,  with  the  large  aquiline  nose  and  keen  eye. 


CONTRADICTIONS.  HI 

He  is  one  of  the  few  men  who  ever  opposed  Napoleon  success- 
fully, 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. 

And  now  for  ladies.  Whom  do  you  see  that  looks  distinguish- 
ed ?  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  au  contraire.  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  travestied  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. 


112  DINNER    HOUR. 


Life  in  Paris  is  as  pretty  a  series  of  astonishment,  as  an  ennuye 
could  desire. 

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  chasseurs^ 
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  "  chef"  stands  with  his 
gold  repeater  in  his  hand,  waiting  for  the  moment  to  decide  the 
fate  of  the  first  dish ;  the  gardens  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. 

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  com- 
pelled to  pioneer  his  own  stomach  through  the  endless  cartes  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  Pclham's 


HOW   TO    DINE    WELL.  113 


day,  that  gentleman's  reputation  has  gone  down.  He  is  a  subject 
for  history  at  present.  I  was  misled  also  by  an  elderly  gentle- 
man at  Havre,  who  advised  me  to  eat  at  Grignori's,  in  the  Pas- 
sage Vivienne.  Not  liking  my  first  coquilles  aux  huitres,  I  made 
some  private  inquiries,  and  found  that  his  chef  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  "  Rochers  de  Cancale,"  is  now 
the  first  eating-house  in  Paris,  yet  they  only  excel  in  fish.  The 
"  Trois  Freres  Provenfaux,"  have  a  high  reputation,  yet  their 
cotelettes  provenpales  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  gourmet  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  suspi- 
cion than  fact.  Follow  him  to  his  restaurant,  and  give  the  gar- 
fon  a  private  order  to  serve  you  with  the  same  dishes  as  the  bald 
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  1  never  lived,  comparatively,  before. 
Here  we  are,  however,  at  the  "  Trois  -Freres,"  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. 


LETTER  XV, 

HOPITAL      DBS      INVALIDES MONUMENT     OF     TURENNE MARSHAL 

NET 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. 

THE  weather  still  holds  warm  and  bright,  as  it  has  been  all  the 
month,  and  the  scarcely  "  premature  white  pantaloons"  ap- 
peared 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  ? 

I  took  an  indolent  stroll  with  a  friend  this  morning  to  the 
Hopital  des  Invalides,  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  dis- 
missed by  the  Bourbons.  It  is  of  course  one  of  the  most  inter- 
esting 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  Pons  Louit 


THE    EMPEROR.  H5 


Quinze,  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  halt- 
ing 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  Invalidcs 
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  recollec- 
tions 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  devo- 
tion to  his  memory,  to  speak  to  them,  to  hear  their  stories  of 
— " Z.' Empereur"  it  is  better  than  a  thousand  histories  to  make 
one  fed  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  his  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  in- 
signia of  the  different  nations,  the  organ  began  to  peal,  there  cer- 
tainly was  anything  but  a  jar  between  this  grand  music,  conse- 


116  TURENNE. 


crated  as  it  is  by  religious  associations,  and  the  thrilling  and 
uncontrolled  sense  in  my  bosom  of  Napoleon's  glory.  The 
anthem  seemed  to  him  ! 

The  majestic  sounds  were  still  rolling  through  the  dome  when 
we  came  to  the  monument  of  Turenne.  Here  is  another  com- 
ment 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  TURENNE.  You 
acknowledge  the  sublimity  of  this  as  you  stand  before  it.  Every- 
thing 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. 

We  passed  on  to  the  library.  It  is  ornamented  with  the  por- 
traits of  all  the  generals  of  Napoleon,  save  one.  Ney^s  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.  Gro;i.'.  efforts 
have  been  making  of  late  to  get  his  sentence  publicly  icversed, 
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  Invalids  without  commenting  feelingly  on  the 
omission  of  his  portrait ;  and  probably  no  one  of  the  scarred 


LADY    OFFICER.  H7 


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. 

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,  have  done),  as  long  as  human  nature  is 
what  it  is,  as  long  as  power  and  loftiness  of  heart  hold  their  pre- 
sent empire  over  the  imagination,  Napoleon  is  immortal. 


The  promenading  world  is  amused  just  now  with  the  daily  ap- 
pearance in  the  Tuileries  of  a  Polish  lady,  dressed  in  the  Polo- 
naise 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. 

By  the  by,  masquerading  in  men's  clothes  is  not  at  all  uncom- 


118  GAMBLING    QUARREL. 


mon  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  soirees  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  voca- 
tion, 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  Rue  Richelieu,  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  femme  deguisee.  I  saw  one  in  a  ca/ie,  not  long  ago, 
rap  the  gargon  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  "pardon,  madame!" 


There  has  been  a  great  deal  of  excitement  here  for  the  past 
two  days  on  the  result  of  a  gambling  quarrel.  An  English  gen- 
tleman, a  fine,  gay,  noble-lookiug  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 


CURIOUS    ANTAGONISTS. 


the  next  morning  his  friend,  who  had  bet  upon  the  game,  per- 
suaded 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  losers  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  Bona- 
parte ! 

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  com- 
mon 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  French- 
women, 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 


120  INFLUENCE    OF    PARIS- 


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. 


LETTER  XVI, 

fHE    CHOLERA A    MASQUE    BALL THE    GAY   WORLD — MOBS VISIT 

TO    THE    HOTEL    DIEU. 

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,  deli- 
ciously  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 
6 


122  CHOLERA    GAIETIES. 


even  to  treat  them  seriously.  I  was  at  a  masque  ball  at  the 
Theatre  des  Varietfo,  a  night  or  two  since,  at  the  celebration  of 
the  Mi-Car  erne,  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  cholera-waltz, 
and  a  cholera-galopade,  and  one  man,  immensely  tall,  dressed  as 
a  personification  of  the  Cholera  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  ! 

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  would  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  & 
party  the  night  before  last,  with  a  captain  in  the  English  army. 


CHOLERA    PATIENT  123 


The  gray  of  the  morning  was  just  stealing  into  the  sky ;  and 
after  a  stopping  a  moment  in  the  Place  Vendome,  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 
Rue  St.  Honore,  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  Hotel  Dieu,  left  her  with  the 
Sceurs  de  Charite.  She  has  since  died. 

As  if  one  plague  were  not  enough,  the  city  is  still  alive  in  the 
distant  faubourgs  with  revolts.  Last  night,  the  rappel  was  beat 
all  over  the  town,  the  national  guard  called  to  arms,  and  marched 
to  the  Porte  St.  Denis,  and  the  different  quarters  where  the 
rnobs  were  collected. 

Many  suppose  there  is  no  cholera  except  such  as  is  produced 
by  poison  ;  and  the  Hotel  Dieu,  and  the  other  hospitals,  are  be- 
sieged daily  by  the  infuriated  mob,  who  swear  vengeance  against 
the  government  for  all  the  mortality  they  witness. 


I  have  just  returned  from  a  visit  to  the  Hotel  Dieu — the  hos- 
pital for  the  cholera.  Impelled  by  a  powerful  motive,  which  it  is 
not  now  necessary  to  explain,  I  had  previously  made  several  at- 


124  MORNING    IN    PARIS. 


tempts  to  gaiu  admission  in  vain ;  but  yesterday  I  fell  in  fortu- 
nately 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  morn- 
ing, to  accompany  me  on  my  visit. 

It  was  like  one  of  our  loveliest  mornings  in  June — an  inspirit- 
ing, 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  facade  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  Notre  Dame  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. 

Half  an  hour's  walk  brought  us  to  the  Place  Notre  Dame,  on 
one  side  of  which,  next  this  celebrated  church,  stands  the  hos- 
pital. 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  mo- 
ment. A  few  mourners,  with  the  appearance  of  extreme  poverty, 


CHOLERA    HOSPITAL.  125 


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  hos- 
pital, 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. 

I  waited,  perhaps,  ten  minutes  more.  In  the  whole  time  that 
I  had  been  there,  twelve  litters,  bearing  the  sick,  had  entered  the 
Hotel  Dieu.  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  ex- 
ceedingly 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 


126  NEW    PATIENT. 


down  the  litter  by  the  side  of  a  narrow  cot,  with  coarse  but 
clean  sheets,  and  a  Sceur  de  Charite,  with  a  white  cap,  and  a 
cross  at  her  girdle,  came  and  took  off  the  canopy.  A  young  wo- 
man, of  apparently  twenty-five,  was  beneath,  absolutely  con- 
vulsed 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  pro- 
duced 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. 

I  passed  down  the  ward,  and  found  nineteen  or  twenty  in  the 
last  agonies  of  death.  They  lay  perfectly  still,  and  seemed  be- 
numbed. 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 
most  have  been  dead  half  an  hour,  undiscovered  by  the  attend- 
ants. 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 


PHYSICIAN'S    INDIFFERENCE.  127 


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  Sceur  de  Charite  had  been  there.  It  is  horrible  to  think 
how  these  poor  creatures  may  suffer  in  the  very  midst  of  the  pro- 
visions 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  de- 
lay. "  Because,"  said  my  companion,  "  the  chief  physicians 
must  do  everything  personally,  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. 

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  stu- 
dents on  the  progress  of  the  disease,  and  the  train  passed  on. 
If  discouragement  and  despair  are  not  medicines,  I^ghould  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  alto- 
gether. 


128  PUNCH    REMEDY. 


On  reaching  the  bottom  of  the  Salle  St.  Monique,  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  treat- 
ment has  been  found  to  be  punch,  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,  posi- 
tively. They  were  sitting  up,  and  reaching  from  one  bed  to  the 
other,  and  with  their  still  pallid  faces  and  blue  lips,  and  the  hos- 
pital dress  of  white,  they  looked  like  so  many  carousing  corpses. 
I  turned  away  from  them  in  horror. 

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  feel- 
ing. Was  it  not  enough  alone,  if  she  had  been  far  less  ill,  to  im- 
bitter  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. 

On  reaching  the  lower  staircase,  my  friend  proposed  to  me  to 


DEAD    ROOM.  129 


look  into  the  dead-room.  We  descended  to  a  large  dark  apart- 
ment below  the  street-level,  lighted  by  a  lamp  fixed  to  the  wall. 
Sixty  or  seventy  bodies  lay  on  the  floor,  some  of  them  quite  un- 
covered, 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. 

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 
ine.  Every  one  who  has  walked  through  an  hospital,  will  remem- 
ber 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  not  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  undis- 
sembled  gratitude. 


P.  S. — I  began  this  account  of  my  visit  to  the  Hotel  Dieu  yes- 
terday. 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  vita]  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; 
6* 


130  NON-CONTAGION. 


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. 


LETTER  XVII, 

LEGION    OF     HONOR PRESENTATION     TO    THE    KING THE    THRONE 

OF  FRANCE THE  QUEEN  AND  THE  PRINCESSES COUNTESS  GUIC 

CIOLI 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. 

As  I  was  getting  out  of  a  fiacre  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  ostenta- 
tion, which  showed  the  nurture  of  Napoleon.  It  is  astonishing 


132  UNEXPECTED  CHALLENGE. 

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  cocker  the  next  morn- 
ing 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. 

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  com- 
ing 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  pen- 
sioners upon  the  government. 


COURT  PRESENTATION.  133 

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  felt  much  more  like  a 
gentleman  in  my  costume  bourgeois.  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  our- 
selves in  lace  and  small-clothes,  I  became  more  reconciled  to 
myself,  and  began  to  feel  that  I  might  possibly  have  looked  out 
of  place  in  my  ordinary  dress.  The  atmosphere  of  a  court  is 
very  contagious  in  this  particular. 

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 
iutroduced  into  the  Salle  du  Tr6ne — 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  Grrenville,  and  the  Brazilian  minister,  both  of 
whom  I  had  met  before.  The  king  was  not  there.  The  Swe- 
dish 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 


134  LOUIS  PHILIPPE. 

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  G-renville,  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  cor- 
rectness and  fluency  of  a  vernacular  tongue.  We  were  all 
surprised  at  it.  It  is  American  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  cosmo- 
polite 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  us 


ROYAL  FAMILY  AT  TEA.  135 

that  his  majesty  was  very  fond  of  America,  the  royal  group  bowed 
out,  and  left  us  once  more  to  ourselves. 

We  remained  a  few  minutes,  and  I  occupied  myself  with  look- 
ing 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  i?,  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. 

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  ! 

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 


136  COUNTESS  GUJCCIOLI. 


honor  of  the  queen,"  that  we  are  invited  to  a  ball  at  the  palace 
on  Monday  night.  To  iny  distress  there  is  a  little  direction  at 
the  bottom,  "  Les  hommes  seront  en  uniforme,"  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. 


I  met  the  Countess  Guiccioli,  walking  yesterday  in  the  Tuil- 
eries.  She  looks  much  younger  than  I  anticipated,  and  is  a 
handsome  blonde,  apparently  about  thirty.  I  am  told  by  a  gen- 
tleman 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  acquaint- 
ance, were  she  much  less  pretty  than  she  really  is  ;  and  I  am  told 
her  drawing-room  is  thronged  with  lovers  of  all  nations,  contend- 
ing 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  ! 


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, 


MARDI   GRAS.  137 


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  be- 
loved 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. 


Carnival  is  over.  Yesterday  was  "  Mardi  Gras" — 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  devoir 
upon  the  experiment  of  French  manners. 

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. 


138  BAL  COSTUME. 


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  gal- 
lantry 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  sea- 
son. Most  of  the  distinguds  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  bal  costume  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  regi- 
ments, in  their  fine  showy  uniforms  ;  and  French  officers  who  had 
brought  dresses  from  their  far-off  campaigns  ;  Turks,  Egyptians, 
Mussulmans,  and  Algcrine  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 


PUBLIC    MASKS.  139 


dressed  as  an  eastern  dancing-girl,  and  floated  about  with  tho 
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  bril- 
liancy 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. 

The  private  masks  are  anmsing  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 
triste  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. 
The  public  masks  are  quite  another  affair.  They  arc  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 


140  LADY    CAVALIER. 


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  bien  composee, 
as  they  phrase  it,  the  undistinguishing  dress  gives  every  one  the 
opportunity  of  bewildering  you  ;  but  the  feet  and  manner  of  walk- 
ing, 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. 

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  remarkaU  indeed, 
for  effeminate-looking  men  and  masculine-looking  wonr  n,  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  "  Varietes"  one  night,  who  were  dressed  to 


BALL   AT   THE    PALACE.  141 


perfection,  and  must  have  studied  the  character  thoroughly. 
The  whole  theatre  was  'in  a  roar  when  they  entered.  Malcon- 
tents 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. 

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  pave.  People  in  the  most  grotesque  and  absurd  dress  pass 
on  foot,  and  in  loaded  carriages,  and  all  is  nonsense  and  ob- 
scenity It  is  difficult  to  conceive  the  motive  which  can  induce 
grown-up  people  to  go  to  the  expense  and  trouble  of  such  an  ex- 
hibition, merely  to  amuse  the  world.  A  description  of  these 
follies  would  be  waste  of  paper. 

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  Salle 
des  Marechah — 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  struc- 
ture 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  tho 
flags  and  armor  with  which  the  ceilings  were  thickly  hung.  The 
royal  train  entered  presently,  and  the  band  struck  up  a  superb 


142  DUKE  OF  ORLEANS. 


march.  Three  rows  of  velvet- covered  seats,  one  above  another, 
weut  round  the  hall,  leaving  a  passage  behind,  and,  in  front  of 
these,  the  queen  and  her  family  made  a  circuit  of  courtesy,  fol- 
lowed 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  ex- 
pression 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  be- 
lieve was  English,  and  forward  went  the  head  couples  to  the  ex- 
quisite music  of  the  new  opera — Robert  le  Diable. 

I  fell  into  the  little  cortege'  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  vis-a-vis,  and  the  second  one,  a  dark-haired,  slender,  inter- 
esting girl  of  nineteen,  had  a  polytechnic  scholar  for  her  partner. 
He  was  a  handsome,  gallant-looking  fellow,  who  must  have  dis- 
tinguished 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, 


DR.    BOWRING.  143 


and  confident,  could  come  within  the  sphere  of  a  sensitive-look- 
ing 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  dame  d'honneur, 
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  some- 
thing 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  im- 
probable. 

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 
Salle  des  Marechals  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  Salle 
du  Trout  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  with- 
out 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 


144  CELEBRATED    MEN. 


your  breath  to  have  heard  the  recapitulation  of  their  names.  At 
one  table  sat  Marshal  Grouchy  and  General  Excdmans  ;  in  a 
corner  stood  Marshal  Soult,  conversing  with  a  knot  of  peers  of 
France  ;  and  in  the  window  nearest  the  door,  General  Bernard, 
our  country's  friend  and  citizen,  was  earnestly  engaged  in  talking 
to  a  group  of  distinguished-looking  men,  two  of  whom,  my  com- 
panion 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  General  Fabvier  came  up 
among  others,  and  Cousin  the  poet.  Fabvier,  as  you  know, 
held  a  chief  command  in  Greece,  and  was  elected  governor  of 
Paris  pro  tern,  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.  Cousin  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  singu- 
larly simple  and  poet-like. 

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  attache  to  the  American  legation, 
I  inquired  about  one  or  two  faces  that  interested  me,  and  col- 
lecting information  enough  to  pass  through  the  courtesies  of  a 
dance,  I  found  a  partner  and  gave  myself  up,  like  the  rest,  to 
amusement. 

Supper  was  served  at  two,  and  a  more  splendid  affair  could  not 
be  conceived.  A  long  and  magnificent  hall  on  the  other  side  of 


GLASS  VERANDAH.  145 


tiie  Salle  du  Trotie  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. 

After  supper  the  dancing  was  resumed,  and  the  queen  remained 
till  three  o'clock.  At  her  departure  the  band  played  cotillons  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  Em- 
peress  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. 

7 


LETTER   XVIII. 

CHOLERA UNIVERSAL    TERROR FLIGHT     OF    THE     INHABITANTS 

CASES   WITHIN    THE    WALLS     OF    THE     PALACE DIFFICULTY     OF 

ESCAPE DESERTED    STREETS CASES    NOT     REPORTED DRTNESS 

OF     THE     ATMOSPHERE PREVENTIVES     RECOMMENDED PUBLIC 

BATHS,   ETC. 

Cholera  !  Cholera  !  It  is  now  the  only  topic.  There  is  no 
other  interest — no  other  dread — no  other  occupation,  for  Paris. 
The  invitations  for  parties  are  at  last  recalled — the  theatres  are 
at  last  shut  or  languishing — the  fearless  are  beginning  to  be 
afraid — people  walk  the  streets  with  camphor  bags  and  vinia- 
grettes  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- 


CHOLERA.  147 


looking  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  raiu  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  iiere  in 
the  midst  of  ease  and  pleasure,  reduced  to  a  shadow  with  so 
rulgar  and  un warlike  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  en- 
dured. He  assured  me,  that  if  he  recovered,  and  should  ever  bo 
attacked  with  it  again,  he  would  blow  out  his  brains  at  the  first 
symptom.  Nothing  but  his  iron  constitution  protracted  the  dis- 
order. Most  people  who  are  attacked  die  in  from  three  to 
twenty-four  hours. 

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 
air  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  tolera- 
bly 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  within  the  palace-watts,  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 


148  SOCIAL    TEA   PARTY. 

touched  both  above  and  below  him.  I  went  to-day  to  the  Mes 
sagerie  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  extras  in  France,  one 
must  wait  his  turn.  Having  done  my  duty  to  myself  by  the  in- 
quiry, I  shall  be  content  to  remain  quiet. 


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  hurry- 
ing to  and  fro,  and  always  till  midnight  the  trottoirs  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  ;  no- 
thing 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  Place  Vendome,  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. 

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, 


RECIPE   FOR   CAUTION  149 


nowever,  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  state- 
ments. The  physicians  are  wearied  out  with  their  private  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  Bourse,  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  dry  ness,  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. 

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,  par- 
ticularly the  eating  and  bathing.  The  baths  are  delightful. 
You  are  received  in  handsome  saloons,  opening  upon  a  garden  in 


150  BATHS  AND  HAPPINESS. 


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  spot- 
lessly 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  &  peignoir — 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. 


LETTER  XIX. 

MORNING  VIEW  FROM    THE   RUE  RIVOLI THE    BOIS    DE  BOULOGNE 

GUICCIOLI SISMONDI    THE    HISTORIAN,    ETC. 

It  is  now  the  middle  of  April,  and,  sitting  at  my  window  on 
the  Rue  Rivoli,  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  reflec- 
tion. 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 


152 


BOIS    DE    BOULOGNE. 


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 
BO  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  Seine  bounding  them  on  one  side,  the 
splendid  uniform  facade  of  the  Rue  Rivoli  on  the  other,  the 
palace  stretching  across  the  southern  terrace,  and  the  thick  woods 
of  the  Champs  Elysees  at  the  opposite  gate,  where  could  one  go 
in  the  world  to  give  his  taste  or  his  eye  a  more  costly  or  delight- 
ful satisfaction  ? 

The  Bois  de  Boulogne,  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. 


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 — "/««." 


GUICCIOLI.  153 


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,  mais  el  etaii  beaucoup  plus  beau — beaucoup ! 
beaucoup ."'  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  Eng- 
lish 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  frame  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  indiscribably  winning  manner  which  are  lost  in  a 
picture,  and  therefore,  it  is  perhaps  fair  that  she  should  be 


154  SISMONDI. 


otherwise  flattered.  Her  drawing-room  is  one  of  the  most 
agreeable  in  Paris  at  present,  and  is  one  of  the  chief  agremens 
which  console  me  for  a  detention  in  an  atmosphere  so  triste  as  well 
as  dangerous. 


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 
obervcd  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  Mon  Dieu  !  and  said  M.  Sismondi  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  English- 
woman. I  regretted  exceedingly  the  opportunity  I  had  lost  of 
knowing  him,  fur  there  are  few  writers  of  whom  one  retains  a 
more  friendly  and  agreeable  remembrance. 

In  a  conversation  with  Mr.  Cooper,  the  other  day  he  was  re- 
marking of  how  little  consequence  any  one  individual  found  him- 


COOPER.  155 

self  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  ex- 
quisite style,  and  how  peculiarly  Cooper's  excellence  lies  in  his 
accurate,  definite,  tangible  descriptions.  There  is  not  a  more  ad- 
mired 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. 


LETTER   XX, 

QEKERAL  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. 

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. 

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 


FRIEND    OF    LADY    MORGAN.  157 


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  cer- 
tainly 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  Chaussee  d'Antin,"  so  much  to  her  satisfaction. 

While  we  were  conversing,  the  lady's  husband  came  up,  and 
finding  that  I  was  an  American,  made  some  inquiries  about  the 
progress  of  phrenology  on  the  other  side  of  the  water.  Like  most 
enthusiasts  in  the  science,  his  own  head  was  a  remarkably  beauti- 
ful 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. 

My  new  acquaintance  called  on  me  the  next  morning,  accord- 
ing 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 


158  DR.    SPURZHEIM. 


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.  Chan- 
ning — 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  ideality  and  benevolence,  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  men- 
tioned at  once  a  quality,  which,  right  or  wrong,  has  given  a  ten- 
dency 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  ofier  which 
was  too  kind  and  particular  to  be  declined ;  and,  appointing  an 
hour  to  be  at  his  rooms  the  following  day,  we  left  him. 

I  was  there  again  at  twelve,  the  morning  after,  and   found 
De  Potter   (the  Belgian   patriot)   and   Dr.   Bowring,  with  the 


CAST-TAKING.  159 


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,  *f *P,  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  Madamoiselle  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  mj 
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. 

I  looked  on  at  Dr.  Bowring's  incarceration  with  no  great  feel- 


160  DE    POTTER. 

ing  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  quiver- 
ing 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. 

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.  Firmness  is  the  great  de- 
velopment 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  cir- 
cumstances 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  sulject. 

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,  33  an  illustration  of  phre- 


DAVID    THE    SCULPTOR.  161 


nology.  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. 

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  travel- 
ling 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. 


LETTER    XXI. 

DEPARTURE  FROM  PARIS DESULTORY  REMARKS. 

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  inti- 
macy, 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,  memen- 
toes, 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 


ATTRACTIONS    OF    PARIS.  163 


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  fau- 
bourgs to  its  obscurest  cul  de  sac.  I  have  hunted  with  antiqua- 
ries 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  natu- 
rally enough  to  a  Frenchman — "  the  world." 

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 


164  MR.    COOPER. 


the  limits  of  the  affections;  and  I  consider  the  little  of  his 
attention  that  has  fallen  to  iny  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  govern- 
ment, 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  ! 

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  philanthrophist  and  a  real  lover  of 
his  country.  I  say  this  particularly,  though  it  may  look  like 
like  too  personal  a  remark,  because  Americans  abroad  are  not 
always  national.  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  abr"-vd  were 
the  worst  enemies  we  had  in  Europe."  It  is  tii.a  ;ult  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 


MR.    RIVES.  165 


with  Morse  and  the  circle  of  artists  and  men  of  distinction  and 
worth  about  him,  he  is  an  acquaintance  sincerely  to  regret 
leaving. 

From  Mr.  Rives,  our  Minister,  I  haye  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  West- 
minster Review,  should  be  well  remembered  in  America,  and  of 
him  I  have  seen  much,  and  from  him  I  have  received  great  kind- 
ness Altogether,  as  I  said  before,  Paris  is  a  home  to  me,  and 
I  leave  it  with  a  heavy  heart. 

I  have  taken  a  place  on  the  top  of  the  diligence  for  a  week. 
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  conducteur  for  a  living  reference,  and  all  the  appliances 
for  comfort,  I  expect  to  live  very  pleasantly,  night  and  day,  till  I 
reach  Marseilles.  Vaucluse  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 ! 


LETTER   XXII. 

CHALONS,  ON  THE  SAONE. — T  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. 

I  chose,  by  advice,  the  part  of  the  diligence  called  the  ban- 
quette— a  covered  seat  over  the  front  of  the  carriage,  command- 
ing all  the  view,  and  free  from  the  dust  of  the  lower  apartments. 
The  conducteur  had  the  opposite  corner,  and  a  very  ordinary- 
looking  man  sat  between  us ;  the  seat  holding  three  very  com- 
fortably. A  lady  and  two  gentlemen  occupied  the  coupe ;  a 
dragoon  and  his  family,  going  to  join  his  regiment,  filled  the 
rotonde ;  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. 


CHALONS.  J67 


We  rolled  out  of  Paris  by  the  faubourg  St.  Antoine,  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. 

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." 

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 


168  SENS. 

magical  transportation,  from  the  fireside  to  some  place  of  which  I 
had  heard  or  read  the  history. 

I  awoke  as  we  drove  into  Sens  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. 

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  dejeuner — 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 


AUXERRE.  169 


various  as  any  of  the  American  breakfasts,  at  which  travellers 
laugh  so  universally. 

Auxerre  is  a  pretty  town,  on  a  swelling  bank  of  the  rivp* 
Yonne  ;  and  I  had  admired  it  as  one  of  the  most  improvea- 
looking  villages  of  France .  It  was  not  till  J,  had  breakfasted 
there,  and  travelled  a  league  or  two  towards  Chalons,  that  1 
discovered  by  the  guide  book  it  was  the  ancient  capital  of  Aux- 
errois,  a  famous  town  in  the  time  of  Julius  Cassar,  and  had  the 
honor  of  being  ravaged  "  at  different  times  by  Attila,  th/' 
Saracens,  the  Normans,  and  the  Calvinists,  vestiges  of  whose 
devastations  may  still  be  seen."  If  I  had  not  eaten  of  a  positively 
modern  pate  foie  gras^  and  an  omelette  souffle,  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. 

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  Trois  Freres,  in  the  Palais  Royal,  without  contract- 
ing 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  paysans,  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 
8 


170  ST-   BRIS- 

to  enter  the  vineyards  and  talk  to  the  people  at  their  work.     1 

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  1  told  hiui  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, 


THREE    VIEWS    IN    ONE.  171 


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. 

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  once  more  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. 

At  Saulieu  we  left  the  usual  route,  and  crossed  over  to  Chagny. 
Between  these  two  places  lay  a  spot,  which,  out  of  my  own  coun- 
try, 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  Rochepot.  It  is  a  little  nest  of  wild  scenery,  a 
mimic  valley  shut  in  by  high  overhanging  crags,  with  the  ruins 


172  CHALONS. 

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,  with- 
in 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  ! 
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  got  to 
bed,  and  redeem  some  portion  of  my  two  nights'  wakefulness. 


LETTER    XXIII, 

PASSAGE    DOWN    THE  SAONE AN  ODD  ACQUAINTANCE LYONS 

CHURCH    OF    NOTRE    DAME    DE    FOURVIERES VIEW    FROM    THE 

TOWER. 

I  LOOKED  out  of  my  window  the  last  thing  before  going  to  bed 
at  Chalons,  and  the  familiar  constellation  of  Ursa  Major  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  coun- 
try, 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  philo- 
sophy 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, 
in  Latin !  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 


174  BOAT    ON   THE    SAONE, 


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  talk- 
ing guide  to  the  history  of  all  the  places  on  the  river. 

Instead  of  eating  all  at  once,  as  we  do  on  board  the  steamboats 
in  America,  the  French  boats  have  a  restaurant,  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.  1  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  con- 
versation. They  have  stopped  at  Lyons,  where  I  write  at  pre- 
sent, and  I  shall  probably  join  their  party  to  Marseilles. 

The  clouds  broke  away  after  mid-day,  and  the  banks  of  the 
river  brightened  wonderfully  with  the  change.  The  Saone  is 


SCENERY    ABOVE    LYONS.  175 

about  the  size  of  the  Mohawk,  but  not  half  so  beautiful ;  at  least 
for  the  greater  part  of  its  course.  Indeed,  you  can  hardly  com- 
pare 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, 


176  LYONS. 

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  Ameri- 
cans of  my  acquaintance.  We  have  been  spending  the  evening 
at  the  rooms  of  a  townsman  of  mine,  very  pleasantly. 


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  ob- 
servatory that  overhangs  the  town.  From  the  base  of  this  eleva- 
tion 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  "  Man 
ban  Monsieur,"  and"  un  petit  sous."  I  confined  my  chanties  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, 


CHURCHES    AT    LYONS.  177 


and  each  of  them,  to  any  one  who  loved  children,  would  have 
been  a  treasure  of  beauty  and  interest. 

It  was  holy-week,  and  the  church  of  Notre  Dame  de  Four- 
vieres,  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. 

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.  1  have  seen  more  ex- 
tensive 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  bar- 
renness 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  ; 
8* 


178  MONASTERY. 


and  several  of  tho  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, 
BO  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  balus- 
trade, 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." 


LETTER    XXIV, 

DEPARTURE    FROM   LYONS BATTEAUX    DE    POSTE RIVER   SCENERY 

VILLAGE  OF  CONDRIEU VIENNE VALENCE POINT  ST.  ESPRIT 

DAUPHINY   AND    LANGUEDOC DEMI-FETE    DAY,    ETC. 

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  Maison  de  Tolosan,  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  metro- 
polis— 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  traves- 
ties, 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,  a»d  to 


180  TRAVELLING    PARTI. 

taste  and  send  away  everything  in  disgust,  is  a  trial  of  temper 

• 

which  is  reserved  for  the  traveller  at  Lyons. 

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  baiteaux  dc  paste,  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  arrhes,  or  earnest  money,  and  was  at 
the  river-stairs  punctually  at  four  the  next  morning. 

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  shalop  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 


BREAKFAST    ON    THE   ROAD.  181 


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,  b^oke  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  chateaux  and  their  picturesque  appurtenances  filled 
up  the  scene.  It  would  have  given  a  new  turn  to  his  pencil. 

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. 

We  ran  ashore  at  the  little  village  of  Condrieu  to  breakfast. 
We  were  assailed  on  stepping  out  of  the  boat  by  the  demoiselles 
of  two  or  three  rival  auberges — nice-looking,  black-eyed  girls,  in 
white  aprons,  who  seized  us  by  the  arm,  and  pulled  each  to  her 


182  LOCALITIES    OF    ANTIQUITY. 


own  door,  with  torrents  of  unintelligible  patois.  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.  Th« 
pretty  dress-maker  was  full  of  good-humor  and  politeness,  aud 
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  auberge  ;  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. 

The  wind  soon  rose  free  and  steady  from  the  north-west,  and 
with  a  spread  sail  we  ran  past  Vienne^  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 
oholera,  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  grisette  should 
engross  me  entirely,  at  the  moment  I  was  traversing  such  a  spot, 
is  a  possibility  the  man  may  realize  much  more  readily  than  tho 
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. 


PICTURESQUE    CHATEAU.  183 


We  floated  on  during  the  day,  passing  chateaux  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. 

We  passed  a  picturesque  chateau,  built  very  widely  on  a  rock 
washed  by  the  river,  called  "  La  Roche  de  Glunf  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  Valence  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. 

The  following  forenoon  we  ran  under  the  Pont  St.  Esprit,  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  mill- 
race  in  comparison.  We  breakfasted  just  below,  at  a  village 
where  we  could  scarce  understand  a  syllable,  the  patois  was  so 
decided,  and  at  sunset  we  were  far  down  between  the  provinces 
of  Dauphiny  and  Languedoc,  with  the  villages  growing  thicker 


184  FRENCH    PATOIS. 


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  Rochemeuse  to  pay  the  droit.  It  was  a  demi-fete 
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  patois  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. 


LETTER   XXV, 

INFLUENCE    OF   A   BOATMAN THE  TOWN    OF   ARLES ROMAN   KUIftS 

THE  CATHEDRAL MARSEILLES THE  PASS  OF  OLLIOULES THE 

VINEYARDS TOULON ANTIBES LAZARETTO VILLA  FRANCA, 

ETC. 

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  dared  not  give  a  judgment  in  his  favor  !  The 
man  had  demanded  twelve  francs  where  the  regulations  allowed 
him  but  oTze,  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  explana- 
tion of  the  mayor.  He  told  me  frankly,  that  the  fellow  belonged 


186  ARLES. 

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  mal- 
contents, 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. 

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  cafe,  in  the  village 
square,  and  at  noon  we  took  the  steamboat  upon  the  Rhone  for 
Aries.  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. 

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  retreat- 


THE    CATHEDRAL.  187 


ing  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,  exceed- 
ingly 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  tho  delightful  spirit 
and  gayety  of  French  children.  Probably  it  was  never  appro- 
priated to  a  better  use. 

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  Grothic  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  plac-i, 
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. 


188  MARSEILLES. 


Aries  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  shori 
in  front,  and  the  high  cap  bound  to  the  head  with  broad  velvet 
ribands,  suffering  nothing  but  the  jet  black  curls  to  escape  ovei 
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. 

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  pas- 
sengers were  all  strewn  on  the  deck  in  the  various  gradations  of 
sickness.  My  friend  the  captain,  and  myself,  had  the  only  con- 
stant stomachs  on  board.  I  was  very  happy  to  distinguish  Mar- 
seilles through  the  mist,  and  as  we  approached  nearer,  the  rocky 
harbor  and  the  islands  of  Chateau  d'lf  and  Pomegue,  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,  pass- 
ing an  American  ship,  the  "William  Penn,"  just  an-i  ••••!  from 
Philadelphia,  and  lying  in  quarantine.  My  blood  stu.i  • .  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 


PARTING    WITH    COMPANIONS.  189 


tongue  that  called  me  to  bid  adieu  to  newer  friends,  seemed  an 
unwelcome  interruption. 

I  parted  from  my  pleasant  Parisian  friend  and  his  family,  how- 
ever, 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. 

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  counte- 
nance would  not  have  been  thought  remarkable. 


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 


190  PASS    OF    OLLIOULES. 


sejour  here  has  been  far  from  an  amusing  or  a  willing  one.  Tho 
"  mistral"  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  prom- 
enade 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. 


I  sank  into  the  corner  of  the  coupe  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  Ollioules,  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  seem- 
ingly 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 


TOULON.  191 

the  olive  and  orange  trees  with  which  the  fields  are  laden,  and  the 
peasants  just  coming  out  to  their  early  labor.  You  see  no  hrute 
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. 

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. 

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  sows,  all  she 
demanded,  I  bought  six  of  the  most  superb  damask  buds  just 


192  ANTIBES. 

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. 

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. 

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  Dorches- 
ter. 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 


COAST    OF    MEDITERRANEAN.  193 


could  not  be  tempered  more  accurately  for  enjoyment.     I  regret 
to  go  in  doors.     I  regret  to  sleep  it  away. 


Antibes  was  fortified  by  the  celebrated  Vauban,  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  cuisine  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  Nice,  in  a  ricketty 
barouche,  with  post-horses,  the  courier,  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. 


194  FORCED    TO    RETURN. 


Antibes  again  I  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  Pont  de  Var  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  quar- 
antine 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  auberge,  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 


LAZARETTO.  195 


respective  nations,  requesting  information,  which  we  did  imme- 
diately. 

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  akrz.g  a  mile  or  more  through  the  vineyards, 
and  returned  in  time  to  receive  a  letter  from  the  American  con- 
sul, 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 
seven  days  quarantine  !  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. 


LAZARETTO,  VILLA  FRANCA. — 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  gentlema'nly  ;  a 
vulgar  Marseilles  trader,  and  myself. 


196  ABSURD   HINDRANCES. 


We  were  from  seven  in  the  morning  till  two,  getting  away  from 
Antibes.  Our  difficulties  during  the  whole  day  are  such  a  prac- 
tical comparison  of  the  freedom  of  European  states  and  ours,  that 
I  may  as  well  detail  them. 

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  marine  to  embark  ;  and 
this  occupied  another  hour.  Thence  we  were  taken  to  the 
health-office,  where  a  bill  of  health  was  made  out  for  eight  persons 
going  to  a  lazaretto  !  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  charrette,  at  last,  to  be  taken  to 
the  boat.  The  quay  is  outside  the  gate,  and  here  are  stationed 
the  douanes,  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  de- 
mand a  heavy  one  ;  and  all  this  trouble  and  expense  of  time  and 
money  to  make  a  voyage  of  fifteen  miles  in  a  fishing-boat ! 

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  wo 
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 


FEAR   OF   CONTAGION.  197 


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. 

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. 

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 


198  SLEEP    OUT    OF    DOORS. 


responsibility,  and  gave  the  boatmen  orders  to  row  back  to  a  long, 
low  stone  building,  which  we  had  observed  at  the  foot  of  a  preci- 
pice at  the  entrance  to  the  harbor. 

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  win- 
dow ;  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  alfresco  night  of  it. 

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. 

A  steep  precipice  hangs  immediately  over  the  lazaretto,  and 
'jhe  horn  of  the  half  moon  was  just  dipping  below  it,  as  I 
stretched  myself  to  sleep.  With  a  folded  coat  under  me,  and  u 
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 


LAZARETTO    OCCUPATIONS.  1Q9 


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. 


The  magistrate  arrived  at  twelve,  yesterday,  with  a  commissary 
from  Villa  Franca,  who  is  to  be  our  victualler  during  the  quaran- 
tine. He  has  enlarged  our  limits,  by  a  stone  staircase  and  an 
immense  chamber,  on  condition  that  we  pay  for  an  extra  guard, 
iu  the  shape  of  a  Sardinian  soldier,  who  is  to  sleep  in  our  room, 
and  eat  at  our  table.  By  the  way,  we  have  a  table,  and  four 
rough  benches,  and  these,  with  three  single  mattresses,  are  all 
the  furniture  we  can  procure.  We  are  compelled  to  sleep  across 
the  latter  of  course,  to  give  every  one  his  share. 

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  lingua  franca,  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  port- 
folio, and  taken  possession  of  the  broad  stair,  depending  on  the 
courtesy  of  my  companions  to  jump  over  me  and  my  papers  when 


200  DELICIOUS   SUNDAY. 


they  go  up  and  down.  1  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. 

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  Meditereanean  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 


NEW    ARRIVALS.  201 


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. 


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  quaran- 
tine, 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. 

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 
pi  ate  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 
9* 


202  COMPANIONS. 


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  en 
plein  air,  would  convince  the  spectator  that  we  were  a  very  merry 
and  sufficiently  happy  company. 

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  beau  monde,  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. 

Our  seven  days  expire  to-morrow,  and  we  are  preparing  to  cat 
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 
port :.->n  of  their  maiden  whiteness.  Our  knives  are  reduced  to 


END    OF    QUARANTINE.  203 


two,  one  having  disappeared  unaccountably  ;  but  the  defi- 
ciency 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." 

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. 


LETTER    XXVI, 

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. 

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 
cklorin  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. 

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 


NICE.  205 

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. 

As  we  rose  from  the  table,  a  note,  edged  with  black,  and 
scaled  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  com- 
menced pealing,  there  was  a  single  beat  on  the  drum,  and  a 


206  FUNERAL    OF    AN    ARCH-DUCHESS. 


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. 

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 
email  attraction. 

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 
pea,  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. 


NICE    TO    GENOA.  207 


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  Mentore,  a  town  of  the  little 
principality  of  Monaco.  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. 

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.  Yuu 
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  south  in 
exposure,  embosomed  in  everything  refreshing  to  the  eye,  tlio 
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, 


208  VIEWS. 

losing  and  regaining  sight  of  it  constantly,  till,  entering  a  gate  on 
the  sea-level,  you  find  yourself  in  a  filthy,  narrow,  half-white- 
washed 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. 

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. 

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  th>; 
sea;  and  a  long  view  burst  upon  us  at  once  'of  a  sweet  green 


ENTRANCE    TO    GENOA.  209 


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 
read  of  such  things  only. 

The  courier  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. 


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  oursc-lves  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. 


I   have  spent  two  days  in   merely  wandering   about  Genoa, 
looking  at  the  exterior  of  the  city.     It  is  a  group  of  hills,  piled 


210  GENOA. 

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,  "  respire  la  magni- 
ficence"— 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  alivo 
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. 

My  window  looks  out  upon  the  bay,  across  which  I  see  the 
palace  of  Andria  Doria,  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. 


LETTER   XXVII, 

FLORENCE THE    GALLERY — THE   VENUS    DE    MEDICIS THE    TRI- 
BUNE  THE    FORNARINA THE    CASCINE AN    ITALIAN    FESTA 

MADAME     CATALANI. 

FLORENCE. — 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  Medi- 
cis."  "  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  collec- 
tion of  pictures  in  the  world."  The  embarrassment  alone  was 
quite  a  sensation. 

The  Venus  carried  the  day.  We  crossed  the  Piazza  d- 
Granduca,  and  inquired  for  the  gallery.  A  fine  court  was  shown 
us,  opening  out  from  the  square,  around  the  three  sides  of  wliich 
stood  a  fine  uniform  structure,  with  a  colonnade,  the  lower  story 
occupied  by  shops  and  crowded  with  people.  We  mounted  a 


212  THE    VENUS. 


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  s:»!p  •  feeling 
with  them,  is  an  imaginative  pleasure,  it  is  true,  but  ;ij  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 


THE    FORNARINA.  213 


and  again,  before  I  c'an  look  at  the  marble  separately,  and  with  a 
merely  admiring  attention. 


Three  or  four  days  have  stolen  away,  I  scarce  know  how.  I 
have  seen  hut  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  For- 
narina  ?  What  can  I  tell  you  of  the  St.  John  in  the  de- 
sert, that  can  afford  you  a  glimpse,  even,  of  Raphael's  inspired 
creations  ? 

The  Tribune,  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 


214  A    COQUETTE    AND    THE    ARTS. 


at  it  till  my  limbs  were  numb  with  the  motionless  porture. 
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  man- 
liness and  beauty.  The  expression  of  the  face  is  all  human,  but 
wrought  to  the  very  limit  of  celestial  enthusiasm.  The  wonder- 
ful 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  pic- 
ture 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 
uever  witnessed. 

I  have  been  enjoying  all  day  an  Italian  Festa.  The  Floren- 
tines 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  tho  way, 
quite  the  loveliest  public  pleasure-ground  1  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,  an  1  "it 


A.    FESTA.  215 

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. 

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  Alba7iy, 
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 
kn*'\  the  bonnets  and  shawls  hung  upon  the  trees,  and  the 


216  ASCENSION    DAY. 


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." 

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 — they  looked 
happy.  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. 


THE    CASCINE.  217 


there  was  one  face  that  looked  on  me  contemptuously  or  conde- 
scendingly. 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. 

Near  the  centre  of  the  grounds  is  an  open  space,  where  it  is 
the  custom  for  people  to  stop  in  driving  to  exchange  courtesie.i 
with  their  friends.  It  is  a  kind  of  fashionable  open  air  soiree. 
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. 

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  camo 
back  and  mingled  in  the  gay  throng  of  carriages  at  the  centre. 
The  valet  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 
10 


218  MADAME    CATALANI. 


Madame  Catalan!,  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. 


LETTER    XXVIII, 

THE     PITTI     PALACE TITIAN'S     BELLA AN    IMPROVISATRICE 

VIEW   FROM   A   WINDOW ANNUAL    EXPENSE    OF    RESIDENCE   AT 

FLORENCE. 

I  HAVE  got  into  the  "  back-stairs  interest,"  as  the  politicians 
say,  and  to-day  I  wound  up  the  staircase  of  the  Pitti  Palace,  and 
spent  an  hour  or  two  in  its  glorious  halls  with  the  younger 
G-reenough,  without  the  insufferable  and  usually  inevitable  annoy- 
ance of  a  cicerone.  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  pave- 
ment 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 


220  TITIAN'S    BELLA. 


and  curious  workmanship,  without  nervousness  or  compunction, 
you  are  not  in  a  state  to  appreciate  the  pictures  upon  the  walls 
with  judgment  or  pleasure. 

I  saw  but  one  thing  well — Titian's  BELLA,  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  Bella  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  seven- 
teen ;  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  ir  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. 

In  a  fresco  on  the  ceiling  of  one  of  the  private  chambersj^  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 


THE    GRAND-DUCHESS.  221 


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  adhe- 
rence to  the  fasts  of  the  church,  and  self-inflicted  penance.  The 
Florentines  talk  of  her  still,  and  she  appears  to  have  been  un- 
usually loved  and  honored. 


I  have  just  returned  from  hearing  an  improvisatrice.  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  intro- 
duce me.  He  called  this  morning,  and  we  went  together. 

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  im- 
provisatrice, a  lady  of  some  forty  or  fifty  years,  of  a  fine  counte- 
nance, and  dressed  in  deep  mourning.  She  rose  to  receive  us  ; 
and  my  friend  introducing  me,  to  my  infinite  dismay,  as  an  im~ 
provisatore  Americano,  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. 

We  were  sitting  in  profound  silence,  the  head  of  the  improvi- 
eatrice  bent  down  upon  her  breast,  and  her  hands  clasped  over 


222  AN   IMPROVISATRICE. 

her  lap,  when  she  suddenly  raised  herself,  and  with  both  hands 
extended,  commenced  in  a  thrilling  voice,  "  Patria  /"  Soma 
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  im- 
provisatore  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  beau  ideal  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,  wag 
curled  by  her  excitement  into  a  firm,  animated  curve,  which 
restored  twenty  years  at  least  by  its  expression. 

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  mo- 
ment or  two,  repeated  the  sonnet  as  fluently  as  if"  it  had  been 

written  out  before  her.     Several  other  subjects  were  then  given 

i 

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 


LIVING    IN    FLORENCE.  223 


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  apos- 
trophe to  liberty.  My  acknowledgments  were  fortunately  lost 
in  the  general  murmur. 

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  ges- 
tures 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. 


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. 

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 


224  LODGINGS    AT    FLORENCE. 


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  tho 
world — the  ascending  amphitheatre  of  hills,  in  whose  lap  lies 
Florence,  with  the  tall  eminence  of  Fiesole  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  am- 
bassador lives  on  the  same  floor,  the  two  Grreenoughs  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  be- 
hind the  crimson  curtains — the  daughter  of  this  same  noble  bear- 
ing 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. 

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  \i  U 
to  the  floor. 


EXPENSE    OF    LIVING.  225 


For  all  this,  and  the  liberty  of  the  episcopal  garden,  I  pay 
three  dollars  a  month!  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  men- 
tioned 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.  Ex- 
clusive 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." 

10* 


CHAPTER  XXIX, 

EXCURSION    TO    VENICE AMERICAN     ARTISTS VALLEY    OF    FLO- 
RENCE  MOUNTAINS    OF    CARRARA TRAVELLING    COMPANIONS 

HIGHLAND  TAVERN MIST  AND  SUNSHINE ITALIAN  VAL- 
LEYS  VIEW  OF  THE  ADRIATIC BORDER  OF  ROMAGN.A SUB- 
JECTS FOR  THE  PENCIL HIGHLAND  ITALIANS- — ROMANTIC 

SCENERY A   PAINFUL  OCCURRENCE AN    ITALIAN    HUSBAND 

A      DUTCHMAN,     HIS     WIFE,     AND      CHILDREN BOLOONE THE 

PILGRIM MODEL  FOR  A  MAGDALEN. 

I  STARTED  for  Venice  yesterday,  in  company  with  Mr.  Alex- 
ander and  Mr.  Cranch,  two  American  artists.  We  bad  taken  the 
vetturino  for  Bologna,  and  at  daylight  we  were  winding  up  the 
side  of  the  amphitheatre  of  Appenines  that  bends  over  Florence, 
leaving  Fiesole  rising  sharply  on  our  right.  The  mist  was  creep- 
ing 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 


COMPANIONS.  227 


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. 

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  his  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. 

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. 


228  SCENERY    OF    ROMAGNA. 

The  mountain  behind  us  was  capp.-d  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 
Adriatic.  We  looked  at  it  with  the  singular  and  indefinable 
emotion  with  which  one  always  sees  a  celebrated  water  for  the 
first  time — a  sensation,  it  seems  to  me,  which  is  like  that  of  no 
other  addition  to  our  knowledge.  The  Mediterranean  at  Mar- 
seilles, the  Arno  at  Florence,  the  Seine  at  Paris,  affected  me  in 
the  same  way.  Explain  it  who  will,  or  can  ! 

An  hour  after,  we  reached  the  border  of  Romagna*,  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. 

The  scenery,  after  this,  grew  of  the  kind  "  which  savage  Rosa 
dashed" — the  only  landscape  I  ever  saw  exactly  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.  Th« 
Kaatskills  are  tame  to  it. 


WIVES.  229 

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  extraordi- 
nary 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  any- 
thing 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. 
"  Aspetta  ?"  was  her  only  answer,  as  she  sunk  back  and  fainted. 

The  Dutchman's  wife  was  a  plain,  honest,  affectionate  crea- 
ture, 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  Dutch- 
woman, quite  wearied  out,  burst  into  a  flood  of  tears,  and  hic- 
cupped her  complaints  in  her  own  language,  weeping  unrestrain- 
edly 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 


230  BOLOGNA. 


one  or  two  very  fresh  veins  of  human  character,  when  we  stopped 
at  the  gates. 

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. 


LETTER   XXX. 

EXCURSION     TO    VENICE     CONTINUED BRIEF    DESCRIPTION    OF    BO- 
LOGNA  GALLERY    OF    THE    FINE    ARTS RAPHAEL'S    ST.    CECILIA 

PICTURES    OF    CARRACCI DOMENICHINOS'    MADONNA    DEL  RO- 

SARIO 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-CON- 
FESSION CHAPEL THE  FESTA GRAND  PROCESSIONS ILLUMI- 
NATIONS— AUSTRIAN  BANDS  "OF  MUSIC DEPORTMENT  OF  THE 

PEOPLE    TO    A    STRANGER. 

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  multi- 
tude 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  Philadel- 
phia or  New  York,  so  as  to  cover  the  sidewalks  completely,  and, 


232  GALLERY    AT    BOLOGNA. 


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. 

We  inquired  out  the  gallery  after  breakfast,  and  spent  two  or 
three  hours  among  the  celebrated  master-pieces  of  the  Cfirracci, 
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  arc  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. 

It  is  tedious  to  read  descriptions  of  pictures.     I  liked  every- 
thing in  the  gallery.     The  Bolognese  style  of  color  suits  my  eye. 


A    GTJIDO.  233 

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  Madonna  del 
Rosario  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  quite 
so  bad — they  might  have  been  worse."  How  true  it  is,  that, 
"  the  root  of  a  great  name  is  in  the  dead  body." 

Guide'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  iu 
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 


234  CHURCHES. 


pictures.  You  go  away  exhausted,  and  with  feelings  harassed 
and  excited. 

As  we  returned,  we  passed  the  gates  of  the  university.  On 
the  walls  were  pasted  a  sonnet  printed  with  some  flourish,  in 
honor  of  Camilla  Rosalpina,  the  laureate  of  one  of  the  academical 
classes. 

We  visited  several  of  the  churches  in  the  afternoon.  The 
cathedral  and  the  Duorno  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 


CONFESSION-CHAPEL.  235 

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. 

Under  the  cathedral  of  Bologna  is  a  subterranean  confession- 
chapel — as  singular  and  impressive  a  device  as  I  ever  saw.  It  it- 
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  ! 


236  FESTA. 

We  have  happened,  by  a  fortunate  chance,  upon  an  extraordi- 
nary day  in  Bologna — a  festa,  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." 

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  cafe  ;  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 


AGREEABLE    MANNERS.  237 


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  expla- 
nation 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. 

We  go  to  Ferrara  to-morrow,  and  thence  by  the  Po  to  Venice. 
My  letter  must  close  for  the  present. 


LETTER  XXXI, 

VENICE THE      FE8TA GONDOLIERS WOMEN AN     ITALIAN     SUN- 
SET  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. 

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. 

The  Venetian  festa  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  fe* 


REGATTA.  239 

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  num- 
ber of  gondolas.  You  can  scarcely  fancy  the  novelty  and  agreea- 
bleness  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  quietness 
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. 

Two  boats  soon  appeared  with  wreaths  upon  their  prows,  and 
these  had  won  the  first  and  second  prizes  at  the  last  year's 
regatta.  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  descrip- 
tion 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  festa,  and  were  not  regularly  contested. 
The  gondoliers  were  exhibiting  themselves  merely,  and  the  peo- 
ple soon  ceased  to  be  interested  in  them. 

We  rowed  up  and  down  till  dark,  following  here  and  there  the 


240  VENETIAN    SUNSET. 


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  conse- 
quent 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,  pro- 
bably, the  far-famed  fascination  of  Venice  to  foreigners . 

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  sun- 
set without  a  cloud ;  but  at  the  horizon  the  sky  was  dyed  of  a 
deep  orange,  which  softened  away  toward  the  zenith  almost  im- 
perceptibly, 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. 

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 
Btairs  of  the  piazzetta ;  and  by  the  time  the  twilight  was  per- 
ceptible, the  cafes  were  crowded,  and  the  square  was  like  one 


PRIVILEGED    ADMISSION.  041 


great  fete.  We  passed  the  evening  in  wandering  up  and  down, 
never  for  an  instant  feeling  like  strangers,  and  excited  and 
amused  till  long  after  midnight. 

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  stair- 
case we  entered  a  close  gallery,  from  which  the  first  range  of 
cells  opened.  The  doors  were  broken  down,  .and  the  guide  hold- 
ing 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  possi- 
bility 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. 

In  a  range  of  cells  still  below  these,  and  almost  suffocating 
11 


242  GUILLOTINING. 


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  game  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  diffi- 
culty I  found  in  breathing,  and  the  frightful  reality  of  the  scenes 
before  me,  I  never  had  in  my  life  a  comparable  sensation  of 
horror. 

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  1  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  darimess  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 


BRIDGE    OF    SIGHS.  243 


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. 

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 

"  Stood  in  Venice  on  the  Bridge  of  Sighs." 

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 


244  SAN    MARC. 


been  sent  through  those  barred  windows.  Across  this  bridge  the 
condemned  were  brought  to  receive  their  sentence  in  the  Chamber 
of  the  Ten,  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  G-iudecca  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. 

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  th •>. 
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 


THE    NOBLEMAN    BEGGAR.  245 


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  con- 
demned Doge,  is  still  true  in  every  particular  : — 


"  When  the  Hebrew's  in  thy  palaces, 

The  Hun  in  thy  high  places,  and  the  Greek 
Walks  o'er  thy  mart,  and  smiles  on  it  for  his ; 
When  thy  patricians  beg  their  bitter  bread]'  &c. 


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. 


LETTERXXXII, 

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 MER- 
CHANTS   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. 

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.  Abroad  in  a  summer's  moonlight  in  Venice,  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 


AN    EVENING    IN    VENICE  247 


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  invis- 
ible 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. 

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 
and  affecting  "  Venite  per  me  1  Venite  per  me  ?" 

At  a  corner  of  the  harbor,  some  three  quarters  of  a  mile  from 
San  Marc,  lies  an  island  once  occupied  by  a  convent.  Napoleon 
raised  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  strol- 
ling through  shaded  walks,  filled  with  the  gay  Venetians,  who 


248  THE    STREETS    OF    VENICE. 


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. 

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  occur- 
rences of  this  enchanting  city. 

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  con- 
stantly, 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. 

We  spent  a  half  hour  on  the  Rialto.  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  pa&s  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 


THE   RIALTO.  249 


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. 

"  Shylock  and  the  Moor 
And  Pierre  cannot  be  swept  or  worn  away," 

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. 

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 
-11* 


250  SUNSET    FROM    SAN    MARC. 


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  cafes  swarmed  by 
the  sitters  outside,  and  its  long  arcades  thronged.  One  of  my 
pleasantest  hours  in  Venice  was  passed  here. 


LETTER    XXXIII. 

PALACES — PALAZZO    GRIMANI OLD    STATUARY MALE    AND     FE- 
MALE CHERUBS THE  BATH  OF  CLEOPATRA TITIAN'S    PALACE 

UNFINISHED  PICTURE  OF  THE    GREAT    MASTER HIS    MAGDA- 
LEN   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. 

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  Palazzo  Grimani,  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  female  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 


252  TITIAN'S   PICTURES. 


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,  the.  bath  of  Cleopatra.  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. 

We  stopped  next  at  the  stairs  of  the  noble  old  Barberigo 
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  para- 
dise 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  Magdalen,  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 — his  own 
daughter  in  the  arms  of  a  satyr.  There  is  an  engraving  from  it 
in  one  of  the  souvenirs ;  but  instead  of  a  satyr's  head,  she  holds  a 


LAST    DAY    IN    VENICE.  253 


casket  in  her  handsj  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. 


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  inte- 
resting, 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. 


LETTER    XXXIV, 

DEPARTURE  FROM  VENICE A  SUNSET  SCENE PADUA SPLEN- 
DID HOTEL MANNERS  OF  THE  COUNTRY VICENZA MID- 
NIGHT  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  CHRON- 
ICLE  PALACE    OF    THE    CAPULETS ONLY    COOL    PLACE    IN  AN 

ITALIAN  CITY BANQUETING  HALL  OF  THE    CAPULETS — FACTS 

AND  FICTION,  ETC. 

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  disap- 
pearing llialto,  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 ! 

An  hour  and  a  half  of  hard  rowing  brought  us  to  the  nearest 


ITALIAN    CIVILITY.  255 


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. 

With  a  drive  of  two  or  three  hours,  half  twilight,  half  moon- 
light, we  entered  Padua.  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  cafe.  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  accep- 
ted it,  and  made  the  acquaintance  of  eight  as  agreeable  and  polish- 

* 

ed  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. 

Three  hours  more,  through  spicy  fields  and  on  a  road  lined 
with  the  country-houses  of  the  Venetian  nobles,  brought  us  to 
Vicenza.  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 


256  JULIET'S    TOMB. 


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  ! 


I  breakfasted  at  Verona  at  seven.  A  humpbacked  cicerone 
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  sarco- 
phagus, raised  upon  a  rude  pile  of  stones.  "  Questa  r"  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  sarco- 
phagus, 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  kid  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. 

The  tombs  of  the  Scaligers  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  splondor. 


THE  PALACE  OF  THE  CAPULETTI.       257 


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.  Now,  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. 

I  inquired  for  the  old  palace  of  the  Capulets.  The  cicerone 
knew  nothing  about  it,  and  I  dismissed  her  and  went  into  a  cafe. 
"  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  casa  Capuletti,  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. 

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  wheel- 
wright occupied  fhe  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 


258  A    DINNER. 


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  hack  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. 


LETTER  XXXV, 

ANOTHER    SHOUT    LETTER DEPARTURE     FROM   VERONA MANTUA 

FLEAS — MODENA TASSONl's    BUCKET A    MAN    GOING    TO    EXE- 
CUTION  THE  DUKE  OF  MODENA BOLOGNA AUSTRIAN  OFFICERS 

THE    APPENINES MOONLIGHT    ON    THE    MOUNTAINS ENGLISH 

BRIDAL  PARTY PICTURESQUE  SUPPER,  ETC. 

I  LEFT  Verona  with  the  courier  at  sunset,  and  was  at  Mantua 
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  caleche,  and  travelled  all  night  to  Modena. 

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 
Bays  is  not  the  true  one),  and  the  picture  of  "  Ginevra."  The 
-first  thing  I  met  was  a  man  going  to  execution.  He  was  a  tall, 
exceedingly  handsome  man  ;  and,  I  thought,  a  marked  gentle- 
man, even  in  his  fetters.  He  wag  one  of  the  body-guard  of  the 
duke,  and  had  joined  a  conspiracy  against  him,  in  which  he  had 


260  GOOD    AND    ILL-BREEDING. 


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  eighteen  times  in  the  streets.  So  said  the  cicerone,  who 

added,  that  "  the  d 1  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. 

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  restaurant, 
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  bot'lo,  they 
drank  wine  with  me,  and  I  went  back  to  my  breul.  '.-tat.  In 
America,  such  an  incident  would  have  ended,  nine  times  out  of 
ten,  in  a  duel. 

The  two  mounted  gens  d'armes,  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 


BRIDAL    PARTY.  261 


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  bridal  party  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. 

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. 


.  LETTER   XXXVI, 

BATHS    OF    LUCCA SARATOGA     OF    ITALY HILL     SCENERY RIVER 

LIMA FASHIONABLE  LODGINGS THE  VILLA THE  DUKE's  PAL- 
ACE  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. 

I  SPENT  a  week  at  the  baths  of  Lucca,  which  is  about  sixty 
miles  north  of  Florence,  and  the  Saratoga  of  Italy.  Nona  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  fides  you 
look  directly  down  on  the  street.  Half-way  up  one  of  the  hills 
stands  a  cluster  of  houses,  overlooking  the  valley  to  fine  advan- 


MANNER    OF    LIVING.  263 


tage,  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  an- 
other 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  Luc- 
cese  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. 

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  fete  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  cava- 
lier, has  the  charge  of  a  casino,  or  public  hall,  which  is  open  day 


264  ORIGINALS    OF    NOVELS. 


and  night  for  conversation,  dancing  and  play.  The  Italians  fre- 
quent 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  promenad- 
ing. It  is  maintained  at  the  Duke's  expense,  lights,  music,  and 
all,  and  he  finds  his  equivalent  in  the  profits  of  the  gambling- 
bank. 

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  Diana  Vernon,  and  the  Miss  Pratt  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 
abbe  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,  in- 
telligent and  stupid,  elegant  and  awkward.  The  women  were 
perhaps  superior  in  style  and  manner  to  those  ordinarily  met  in 
such  places  in  America,  and  the  men  vastly  inferior.  It  is  so 
wherever  I  have  been  on  the  continent. 


ILL.  265 

I  remained  at  the  baths  a  few  weeks,  recruiting — for  the  hot 
weather  and  travel  had,  for  the  first  tune  in  my  life,  worn  upon 
me.     They  say  that  a  summer  in  Italy  is  equal  to  five  years  else 
where,  in  its  ravages  upon  the  constitution,  and  so  I  found  it. 

12 


LETTER  XXXV11. 

RETURN    TO  VENICE CITY    OF    LUCCA A  MAGNIFICENT  WALL 

A     CULTIVATED      AND      LOVELY      COUNTRY A      COMFORTABLE 

PALACE THE    DUKE     AND    DUCHESS    OF    LUCCA THE    APPE- 

NINES MOUNTAIN  SCENERY MODENA VIEW  OF  AN  IM- 
MENSE 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 MANU- 
SCRIPTS OF  TASSO  AND  ARIOSTO THE  PO AUSTRIAN  CUS- 
TOM-HOUSE  POLICE  OFFICERS DIFFICULTY  ON  BOARD  THE 

STEAMBOAT VENICE    ONCE   MORE,    ETC. 

AFTER  five  or  six  weeks  sejour  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  Mo- 
dena — a  place  I  might  as  well  not  have  seen  at  all  as  to  have 


THE    DUKE    OF    LUCCA.  267 


hurried  through,  as  I  was  compelled  to  do  a  month  or  two  since. 
To  go  hack  a  little,  however,  our  first  stopping-place  was  the 
city  of  Lucca,  ahout  fifteen  miles  from  the  haths  ;  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-look- 
ing, 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  sum- 
mits of  the  lovely  mountains  which  form  the  theatre  around.  It 
is  a  very  ancient  town,  but  the  ducby  is  so  rich  and  flourishing 
that  it  bears  none  of  the  marks  of  decay,  so  common  to  even 
more  modern  towns  in  Italy.  Here  Caesar  is  said  to  have 
stopped  to  deliberate  on  passing  the  Rubicon. 

The  palace  of  the  Duke  is  the  prettiest  I  ever  saw.  There  is 
not  a  room  in  it  you  could  not  live  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  tune  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  com- 
plain 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 


268  MODENA. 

Parma,  he  becomes  Duke  of  Parma,  and  the  duchy  goes  to 
Tuscany. 

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. 

Modena  lies  in  the  vast  campagna  lying  between  the  Appe- 
nines 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  de- 
scription. 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  ram- 
parts and  towers,  and  giving  up  our  passports  to  the  soldier  on 
guard,  rattled  into  the  hotel. 

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  Mo- 
denepe  nobility  are  now  serving  in  the  galleys  for  conspiracy.  He 


THE    PALACE.  269 


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. 

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  pic- 
ture, 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. 

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  Aus- 


270  BOLOGNA. 


trians,  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  else- 
where, and  the  result  is  that  the  Duke  has  scarce  a  noble  left  in 
his  realm. 

Modena  is  a  place  of  great  antiquity.  It  was  a  strong-hold  in 
the  time  of  Caesar,  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. 

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. 

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  boad  the  steamboat,  thank- 
ing 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 


VENICE    AGAIN.  271 


passed  by  Florence,  and  they  had  not  the  signature  of  the  Aus- 
trian 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  attache  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. 

It  was  with  unmingled  pleasure  that  I  saw  again  the  towers 
and  palaces  of  Venice  rising  from  the  sea.  The  splendid  ap- 
proach 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 


272  ITS    SPLENDOR. 


of  inland  gems,  and  balconies  and  towers  of  inimitable  workman- 
ship and  riches  ;  her  lovely  islands  and  mirror-like  canals — all 
distinguish  her,  and  will  till  the  sea  rolls  over  her,  as  one  of  tho 
wonders  of  time. 


LETTER  XXXVIII, 

VENICE CHURCH    OF   THE    JESUITS A   MARBLE     CURTAIN ORIGI- 
NAL   OF   TITIAN'S     MARTYRDOM     OF     ST.     LAWRENCE A     SUMMER 

MORNING ARMENIAN    ISLAND VISIT   TO    A    CLOISTER A    CELE- 
BRATED    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 AN- 
OTHER   GLANCE    AT    THE    PRISONS    UNDER   THE  DUCAL    PALACE 

THE  OFFICE  OF   EXECUTIONER THE    ARSENAL THE    STATE    GAL- 
LERY  THE     ARMOR    OF   HENRY    THE     FOURTH A    CURIOUS     KEY 

MACHINES    FOR    TORTURE,    ETC. 

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  Jesuits.  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  cf  curious  marbles  and  gold.  As 

we  entered,  we  were  first  struck  with  the  grace  and  magnificence 
12* 


274  ARMENIAN    ISLAND. 


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  sequin  gold — 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  Athenaeum  a  year  or  two  since. 


It  is  Sunday,  and  the  morning  has  been  of  a  heavenly,  sum- 
mer, 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  scat- 
tered 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  pf  whom  the  poet 
speaks  so  often  and  so  highly  in  his  letters.  The  monk  smiled 


AGREEABLE    MONK.  275 


and  bowed  modestly,  and  related  a  little  incident  that  had  hap- 
pened to  him  at  Padua,  where  he  had  met  two  American  travel- 
lers, 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. 

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  encyclopaedia,  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  arc 
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  lan- 
guages, 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 


276  INSANE    HOSPITAL. 


bought  small  histories  of  the  order,  written  by  an  English  gen- 
tleman, who  had  studied  at  the  island,  and  passed  on  to  the 
printing  office — the  first  clean  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. 

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  travers- 
ing 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  thn 
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 


INSANE    PATIENTS.  277 


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. 

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. 


278  THE    LAGUNE. 


The  beds  were  bags  of  straw,  without  sheets  or  pillows,  and  each 
had  a  coarse  piece  of  matting  for  a  covering.  1  expressed  some 
horror  at  the  miserable  provision  made  for  their  comfort,  but  was 
told  that  they  broke  and  injured  themselves  with  any  loose  furni- 
ture, 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  uncon- 
trolled anger  such  as  I  never  saw.  She  was  tall  and  very  fine- 
looking.  In  another  cell  lay  a  poor  creature,  with  her  face  dread- 
fully torn,  and  her  hands  tied  strongly  behind  her.  She  was  tossing 
about  restlessly  upon  her  straw,  and  muttering  to  herself  indis- 
tinctly. The  man  said  she  tore  her  face  and  bosom  whenever 
she  could  get  her  hands  free,  and  was  his  worst  patient.  In  tho 
last  cell  was  a  girl  of  eleven  or  twelve  years,  who  began  to  cry 
piteously  the  moment  the  bolt  was  drawn.  She  was  in  bod,  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. 


STATE    GALLEY.  279 


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. 


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 


280  INSTRUMENTS    OF   TORTURE. 


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. 


LETTER  XXXIX, 

VENiCE — SAN    MARc's    CHURCH RECCOLLECTIONS    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   PALACB BUST    OF    TITUS   LIVY BUST    OF   PE- 
TRARCH  CHURCH  OF  ST.  ANTONY  DURING  MASS THE  SAINT'S 

CHIN  AND  TONGUE MARTYRDOM  OF  ST.  AGATHA AUSTRIAN 

AND    GERMAN     SOLDIERS TRAVELLER'S     RECORD-BOOK PE- 

TRARCH'S  COTTAGE  AND  TOMB — ITALIAN  SUMMER  AFTERNOON 

THE    POET'S    HOUSE A    FINE    VIEW THE    ROOM    WHERE 

PETRARCH  DIED,  ETC. 

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 


282  VENICE    AT    EVENING. 


absence,  at  the  sight  of  familiar  faces.  I  could  realize  nothing 
about  me  after  it — the  glittering  mosiac  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  pain- 
ful 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. 


There  has  been  a  grand  festa  to-day  at  the  Lido.  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  festas.  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  jv^ed  an 
hour  or  two  wandering  among  this  gay  and  unconsciuu^  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 


THE    PATRIOTISM    OF    A    NOBLE.  283 


We  have  been  again  to  that  delightful  palace  of  Manfrini. 
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.  Pesaro, 
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. 

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  fourteen  years  of  age  ! 


PADUA. — 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. 

Around  one  of  the  squares  of  the  city,  stand  forty  or  fifty 
statues  ef  the  great  and  distinguished  foreigners  who  have 


284         CHURCH  OF  SAINT  ANTONY. 


received  their  education  here.     It  happened  to  be  the   month 
of  vacation,  and  we  could  not  see  the  interior. 

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. 

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  Teipoli,  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. 

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 


PETRARCH'S    COTTAGE    AND    TOM?'..  '285 


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 
J  ever  saw ;  and  they  have  little  to  soften  the  indignant  feeling 
with  which  one  sees  them  rioting  in  this  lovely  and  Depressed 
country. 

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  distin- 
guished names  besides.  I  was  pleased  to  find,  on  a  leaf  far 
back,  "Edward  Everett,"  written  in  hia  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. 

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. 

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  bo 
counted  from  the  door,  and  the  two  large  towns  of  Rovigo  and 


286  PETRARCH'S    ROOM. 


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  tne  scene  about  us. 


LETTER  XL, 

EXCURSION   FROM  VENICE   TO  VERONA TRUTH  OF  BYRON'fe  DE- 
SCRIPTION OF  ITALIAN  SCENERY THE  LOMBARDY  PEASAN TRY 

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  CAR- 

RACCI CHARLES  THE   SECOND'S   BEAUTIES VALLEY  OF  THE 

ARNO FLORENCE  ONCE  MORE. 

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  "Khcetian  hill,"  and  feel  the  truth  of  his  description  as 
well  as  its  beauty.  The  two  banks  of  the  Brenta  are  studded  with 


288  CULTIVATION    OF   THE    FIELDS. 


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  contadini ;  and  here  and  there  rolled  by  a  car- 
riage, with  servants  in  livery  ;  or  a  family  of  the  better  class  on 
their  evening  walk,  sauntered  along  at  the  Italian  pace  of  indo- 
lence, 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. 

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  hand- 
some 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  con- 
ceive nothing  more  beautiful  for  a  festival  of  Bacchus.  The 
ground  between  is  sown  with  grass  or  corn,  The  vines  arc  lux- 
uriant always,  and  often  send  their  tendrils  into  the  air  higher 


THE    VINTAGE.  g89 


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. 

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. 


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  prima  donna 
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. 

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 

rs 


290  MALIBRAN    IN    LA    GAZZA    LADRA 


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  custode  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  prov- 
inces, 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. 

"We  arrived  at  Bologna  just  in  time  to  get  to  the  opera.  Mali- 
bran  in  La  Gazza  Ladra  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  re- 
quired. 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  corres- 
ponding 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  tln»^  cents  a 
bottle,  his  dinner  and  his  place  at  the  opera  for  ten,  and  Las 
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 


GALLERY    Or    THi-:    LAMBACCARI.  291 

free.  It  is  vexatious  to  see  nature  lavishing  such  blessings  on 
slaves. 

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  Lamlaccari.  It  was  full  of  glorious  pictures,  most  of  them 
for  sale.  Among  others  we  were  captivated  with  a  Magdalen  of 
unrivalled  sweetness  by  Guido  Carracd.  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  mon- 
arch'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  splen- 
did 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. 

We  crossed  the  Appenines  in  two  of  the  finest  days  that  ever 
shone,  and  deeending  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  fron  the  delightful  party 
with  whom  I  have  travelled  for  two  months.  I  start  for  Rome 
to-morrow,  in  company  with  five  artists. 


LETTER  XU, 

JOURNEY  TO  THE  ETERNAL  CITY TWO   KOAD8  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  AQUAPEN- 

DENTE SAN    LORENZO PLINY*S    FLOATING     ISLANDS — MONTE- 

FIASCONE VITERBO PROCESSION   OF  FLOWER  AND  DANCING 

GIRLS  TO  THE  VINTAGE ASCENT  OF  THE   MONTECIMINO THE 

KOAD  OF  THIEVES LAKE  VICO BACCANO — MOUNT  SORACTE 

DOME  OF  ST.  PETER'S,  ETC. 

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  from  principle.  He  "hated  a  Frenchman  !" 

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, 


SIENNA.  293 

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. 

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  unaccus- 
tomed ear — the  cries  of  the  various  wandering  venders  of  mer- 
chandise. The  women,  who  were  all  from  the  country,  were 
coarse,  and  looked  well  only  at  a  distance. 

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  custom- 
ary, some  miracle  of  a  saint. 

A  massive  iron  door,  made  ingeniously  to  imitate  a  rope-netting, 
opens  from  the  side  of  the  church  into  the  library.  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. 


294  CATHOLIC    DEVOTION. 


The  little  sacristan  found  great  difficulty  in  only  opening  ono  to 
show  us  the  letter. 

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.*  One 
often  wonders,  however,  in  Italian  churches,  whether  his  devotion 
is  most  called  upon  by  the  arts  or  the  Deity. 

As  we  were  leaving  the  church,  four  young  officers  passed  us 
in  gay  uniform,  their  long  steel  scabbards  rattling  on  the  pave- 
ment, and  their  heavy  tread  disturbing  visibly  every  person 
present.  As  I  turned  to  look  after  them,  with  some  remark  ou 
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  seem  absorbed  in  their  religious  duties.  You  can  scarce 
withraw  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. 

The  public  promenade,  on  the  edge  of  the  hill  upon  which  the 
town  is  beautifully  situated,  commands  a  noble  view  of  the  coun 
try  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 

*  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." 


ACQUAPENDENTE.  £95 


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. 

Sienna  is  said  to  be  the  best  place  for  learning  the  language. 
Just  between  Florence  and  Rome,  it  combines  the  "  lingua 
Toscano,"  with  the  "  bocca  Romano" — 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. 

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  preci- 
pice 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  Acquapendente.  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  ; 


296  LAKE    BOLSENA. 


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,  con- 
sequently, graceful  motion  and  attitudes.  Johnson,  in  his  book 
on  the  climate  of  Italy,  says  their  sloth  is  induced  by  malaria. 
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. 

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  wilder- 
ness in  America.  We  stopped  two  hours  at  an  inn  on  its  banks, 
and  whether  it  was  the  air,  or  the  influence  of  the  perfect  still- 
ness about  us,  my  companions  went  to  sleep,  and  I  could  scarce 
resist  my  own  drowsiness. 

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. 


VINTAGE    FESTA.  397 


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. 

The  walls  of  Viterlo  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  cafe  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  to  the  vintage,.  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. 

We  left  Viterbo  on  a  clear,  mild  autumnal  morning  ;  and  I 

think  I  never  felt  the  excitement  of  a  delightful  climate  more 
13* 


298  MONTE-CIMINO. 


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  "  buon  giorno"  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  Lake  Vico.  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  com- 
pletely. 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  1  could 
have  believed  myself  back  again,  it  was  so  like  my  recollection. 
We  stopped  on  the  fourth  night  of  our  journey,  sevente**" 


FIRST    SIGHT    OF    ROME. 


299 


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,  deter- 
mining 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. 

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  T 
recognised  instantly  from  the  graphic  simile*  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  should  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. 


-"  A  long  swept  wave  about  to  break, 


And  on  the  curl  hangs  pausing." 


300  BACCANO. 

We  sat  an  hour  on  the  summit  of  the  hill,  gazing  into  thb 
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 


LETTER    XLII. 

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    ROS- 
TRUM— PALACE  OF   THE  CESARS THE   RUINS THE  COLISEUM, 

ETC. 

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  Roman  Forum,  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. 

The  fagade  of  the  church  appears  afene,  as  you  walk  up  the 
street  from  the  castle  of  St.  Angelo.  It  disappointed  me. 


302  ST.    PETER'S 


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  over- 
powering impression  uninterrupted.  You  feel  that  it  must  be  a 
glorious  creature  that  could  build  such  a  temple  to  his  Maker. 

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. 

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  moved  in 
looking  at. 

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 


THE    APOLLO    BELVIDERE.  303 


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 
llomans  of  history  and  poetry  were  men — 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. 

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  b<;  'ii, 
and  mortifies  him  for  what  he  is.  Most  women  whom  1  have  iu«t 
in  Europe,  adore  the  Apollo  as  far  the  finest  statue  in  the  world, 
and  most  men  say  as  much  of  the  Medicean  Venus.  But,  to  my 
eye,  the  Venus,  lovely  as  she  is,  compares  with  the  Apollo  as  a 


304  RAPHAEL'S    TRANSFIGURATION. 


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  limbg 
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  soul.  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. 

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 
custode  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. 

I  lost  myself  in  coming  home,  and  following  a  priest's 
direction  to  the  Corso,  came  unexpectedly  upon  the  "  Pantheon," 


THE    PANTHEON.  305 


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. 

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  mould- 
ered 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  sup- 
posed, in  the  Rostrum.  The  noble  arch,  still  almost  perfect, 
erected  by  the  senate  to  Septiinius  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  Jerusa- 


306  THE    FORUM. 


lem  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  im- 
mortal ruins.  If  the  heaps  of  fresh  excavation  were  but  over- 
grown with  grass,  no  poet  nor  painter  could  better  image  out  the 
Rome  of  his  dream.  It  surpasses  fancy. 

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  arch- 
way, a  capuchin  monk,  whose  duty  is  to  attend  the  small  chapels 
built  around  the  arena,  walked  up  and  down  in  liis  russet  cowl 
und  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. 


LETTER    XLIII, 

riVOLI RUINS  OF   THE  BATHS  OF   DIOCLETIAN FALLS  OF  TIVOLI • 

CASCATELLI SUBJECT    OF    ONE    OF    COLE'S    LANDSCAPES RUINS 

OF  THE  VILLAGE  OF   MEC^NAS RUINED  VILLA  OF   ADRIAN THE 

FORUM TEMPLE    OF    VESTA THE    CLOACA    MAXIMA THE  RIVER 

JUTURNA,  ETC. 

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  Diocle- 
tian, 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. 

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  antici- 
pation. 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  out- 
let, and  all  up  and  down  the  cleft  valley  vines  twisted  in  the 


308  THE    FALLS    OF    TIVOLI. 


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  subter- 
ranean 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. 

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  Cascatelli. 

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. 

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.*  The  little  town  of  Tivoli 

*  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. 


VILLA    OF    ADRIAN.  309 

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.  "  It  was  made  by 
Bernini,"  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 
Mecaenas,"  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  subter- 
ranean arches,  which  formed  its  court,  in  ascending  the  mountain 
again  to  the  town. 

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,  unrobbed — 
rather  an  unusual  good  fortune,  we  were  told,  for  travellers 
after  dark  on  that  lonely  waste.  Perhaps  our  number  deprived 
us  of  the  romance. 


310  A    RAMBLE    BY    MOONLIGHT. 


I  left  a  crowded  ball-room  at  midnight,  wearied  with  a  day  at 
Tivoli,  and  oppressed  with  an  atmosphere  breathed  by  two  hun- 
dred, 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  dis- 
position for  sleep.  A  'friend  was  with  me,  and  I  proposed  a 
ramble  among  the  ruins. 

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. 

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  tem- 
ple, 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 


THE    CLOACA    .MAXIMA.  311 


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. 

My  companion  proposed  a  visit  next  to  the  Cloaca  Maxima. 
A.  common  sewer,  after  the  Temple  of  Vesta,  sounds  like  an  ab- 
rupt 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  ex- 
pects to  find  it.  The  clear  little  river  Juturna  (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. 


LETTER    XLIV, 

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. 

ALL  the  world  goes  to  hear  '  mass  iu  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  bon- 
nets and  feathers  clustered  behind  the  gilded  bars,  and  we  could 
admire  them  for  once  without  the  qualifying  reflection"  tl- at  they 
were  between  us  and  the  show.  An  hour  more  was  occupied  in 
the  entrance,  one  by  one,  of  some  forty  cardinals  with  their  rust- 
ling 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  them- 


THE    LAST    JUDGMENT.  313 


selves  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. 

The  intervals  of  this  memory,  gave  as  time  to  study  the  fa- 
mous frescoes  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  fres- 
coes, also  by  Michael  Angelo,  on  the  ceiling,  among  them 
"  Adam  and  Eve,"  exquisitely  done. 

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 
14 


314  THE    MUSIC. 


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  G-od  alone,  for  it  was  like  music  from  heavan. 
The  choir  was  composed  of  priests,  who  sang  from  massive  vol- 
ames  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  earthli- 
ness,  and  gushing  through  its  organs  with  uncontrollable  feeling 
and  nature.  The  burden  of  the  various  parts  returned  continu- 
ally 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  de- 
scribing such  things,  but  there  is  no  other  way  of  conveying  an 
idea  of  them.  The  subject  is  beyond  the  wildest  superlatives. 


GREGORY    THE    SIXTEENTH.  315 


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  de- 
posited 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  every- 
thing else  does,  the  irresistible  impression  that  it  was  the  worship 
of  the  Pope,  not  of  God. 

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,  look- 
ing quite  asleep,  even  his  limbs  hanging  lifelessly.  The  gor- 
geous and  heavy  papal  costumes  only  render  him  more  insignifi- 
cant, 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  cardi- 
nals, 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  ser- 
vile homage  to  the  Pope,  seems  unnatural  and  disgusting. 


LETTER    XLV, 

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 DOSSl's  PSYCHE SACRED  AND  PROE.ANE  LOVE — • 

ROOM  DEVOTED  TO  VENUSES THE  SOCIETY  OF  ROME,  ETC. 

I  HAVE  spent  a  morning  in  the  studio  of  Thorwaldsen.  He 
Is  probably  the  greatest  sculptor  now  living.  A  colossal  statue 
of  Christ,  thought  by  many  to  be  his  masterpiece,  is  the  promi- 
nent 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  infe- 
rior 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,  panta- 
loons, and  shoes  ;  and,  unpromising  as  these  materials  would 
seem,  the  statue  is  classic  and  elegant  to  a  very  high  degree 


BYRON'S    STATUE.  317 


His  coat  is  held  by  the  two  centre  buttons  in  front  (a  more  ex- 
quisite 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  th.9  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. 

TVe  were  afterward  at  Gibson's  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  chef  d'ceuvre, 
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. 


318          THE  BORGHESE  PALACE. 

We  devoted  this  morning  to  palaces.  At  the  Palazzo  Spada 
we  saw  the  statue  of  Pompey,  at  the  base  6f  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. 

The  Borghe.se.  Palace,  is  rich  in  pictures.  The  portrait  of  Cesar 
Borgia,  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  Psyche,  by  Dossi,  of 
Ferrara.  She  is  coming  on  tiptoe,  with  the  lamp,  to  sec  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  •' 
la  mode,  but  looking  less  modest  to  my  eye  than  her  undrap  a 
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 


SOCIETY    OF    ROME.  319 


drawing  the  face  of  Virtue.  The  coloring  of  the  picture  is 
exquisite,  but  the  design  is  certainly  a  failure. 

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. 

The  society  of  Home  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. 


LETTER    XLVI. 

ITALIAN    AND  AMERICAN    SKIES FALLS  OF  TERNl THE  CLITUM- 

NUS THE  TEMPLE EFFECTS  OF  AN  EARTHQUAKE  AT  FOLIGNO 

LAKE  THRASIMENE JOURNEY  FROM  ROME FLORENCE- 
FLORENTINE  SCENERY PRINCE  PONIATOWSKI JEROME  BONA- 
PARTE AND  FAMILY WANT  OF  A  MINISTER  IN  ITALT. 

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  !  Clouds  make  the 
glory  of  an  American  sky.  The  "  Indian  summer"  sunsets 
excepted,  our  sun  goes  down  in  New  England,  with  the  extra- 
vagance 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 


THE    CLIMATE  321 


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. 

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  nave  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  could  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. 

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  Falls. 

We  drove  to  the  mountain  base,  three  miles,  in  an  old  post 
14* 


322  FALLS    uF    TKRNI. 

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. 

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. 

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  blazintr 
fire  at  the  post-house,  with  a  motley  group  of  Germans,  Swiss, 
French,  and  Italians — a  mixture  of  company  universal  in  the 
pulibc  room  of  an  Italian  albergo,  at  night.  The  coming  and 
going  vetturini  stop  at  the  eame  houses  throughout,  and  the 


THE    CLITUMNUS.  333 


concourse  is  always  amusing.  We  sat  till  the  fire  burned  low, 
and  then  wishing  our  chance  friends  a  happy  night,  had  the 
"  priests"*  taken  from  our  beds,  and  were  soon  lost  to  everything 
but  sleep. 

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. 

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. 

At  the  distance  of  one  post  from  Spoleto  we  came  to  the 
Clitumnus,  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. 

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  propor- 
tions. 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  facade,  just  as  it  did  when  Cicero  and  his 
contemporaries  passed  it  on  their  visits  to  a  country  called  after 

*  The  name  of  a  wooden  frame  by  which  a  pot  of  coals  is  hung  between 
the  sheets  of  a  bed  in  Italy. 


324  A    LESSON    NOT    LOST. 


the  loveliest  vale  of  Greece  for  its  beauty,  was  a  gratification  of 
the  highest  demand  of  taste.     Childe  Harold's  lesson, 

"  Pass  not  unblest  the  genius  of  the  place" 

was  scarce  necessary.  * 

We  slept  at  Foligno.  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  earthquake.  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. 

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  "  IQCUS  aptus  insidiis"  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 

*  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.  Ever}'  child  sings  well  in  Italy ;  and  I  have  heard  worse 
music  in  a  church  anthem,  than  was  made  by  these  half-clothed  and  home- 
less wretches,  running  at  full  speed  by  the  carriage-wheels.  I  have  never 
met  thn  same  thing  elsewhere. 


THRASIMENE.  325 


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. 

The  battle  ground,  the  scene  of  the  principal  slaughter,  was 
beyond  the  albergo,  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. 

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. 

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  Sanguinetto^  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. 

We  were  six  days  and  a  half  accomplishing  the  hundred  and 
eighty  miles  from  Rome  to  Florence — slow  travelling — bnt  not 


326  FLORENCE. 

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. 

The  society  of  Florence  is  of  a  very  fascinating  description. 
The  Florentine  nobles  have  a  casino,  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  aston- 
I 


FLORENTINE    WOMEN.  327 


ished  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  Medici.  The  two  daughters  of  Capponi,  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. 

One  of  the  most  hospitable  houses  here,  is  that  of  Prince  Pon- 
iatowski,  the  brother  of  the  hero  of  Poland.  He  has  a  large 
family,  and  his  soirees  are  thronged  with  all  that  is  fair  and 
distinguished.  He  is  a  venerable,  grayheaded  old  man,  of  per- 
haps seventy,  very  fond  of  speaking  English,  of  which  rare  acqui- 
sition abroad  he  seems  a  little  vain.  He  gave  me  the  heartiest 
welcome  as  an  American,  and  said  he  loved  the  nation. 

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 
kinf  of  Wurtemburg.  Americans  are  well  received  at  this  house 

o  o 

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  "  J^aime  beaucoup  les  Americains."  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, 


328  NEED    OF    AN    AMBASSADOR. 


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  theprima 
sera,  or  early  part  of  the  evening. 

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  minister.  There  is  no  accredited- agent  of  our  govern- 
ment 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  chargt  &  affaires  at  his  court.  We  have  officers 
in  many  parts  of  the  world  where  they  are  much  less  needed. 


LETTER    XLVII, 

FLORENCE GRAND    DUKE    OF    TUSCANY THE   GRAND    CHAMBER- 
LAIN  PRINCE      DE     LIGNE THE      AUSTRIAN      AMBASSADOR 

THE     MARQUIS      TORRIGIANI LEOPOLD      OF      TUSCANY VIEWS 

OF  THE  VAL  D5ARNO SPLENDID   BALL TREES    OF    CANDLES 

THE    DUKE    AND    DUCHESS HIGHBORN    ITALIAN  AND    ENGLISH 

BEAUTIES,    ETC.,    ETC. 

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  Amer- 
ica, in  the  course  of  a  half  hour's  conversation,  which  rather 
surprised  me,  inquiring  particularly  about  the  residences  and  con- 
dition of  the  United  States'  ministers  whom  he  had  met  at  the 


330  CHAT    IN    THE    ANTE-CHAMBER. 


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,  remark- 
ing 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. 

The  Prince  was  summoned  to  the  presence  of  the  Duke,  and  I 
remained  some  fifteeen  minutes  in  conversation  with  a  venerable 
and  noble-looking  man,  the  Marquis  Torrigiani,  one  of  the  cham- 
berlains. His  eldest  son  has  lately  gone  upon  his  travels  in  the 
United  States,  in  company  with  Mr.  Thorn,  an  American  gentle- 
man 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. 

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,1'  said  he,  "  a  voyage  of  three  thousand  miles  and  back — 
comment  faire  /"  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. 


LOVE    IN    HIGH    LIFE.  331 


Thorn.  He  said  young  Torrigiani  was  bien  instruit,  and  would 
travel  to  advantage,  without  doubt.  At  every  pause  of  his  in- 
quiries, he  looked  me  full  in  the  eyes,  and  seemed  anxious  to 
yield  me  the  parole  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  mon- 
arch in  Europe,  and  it  is  written  most  expressively  in  his  mild, 
amiable  features. 

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. 

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  impor- 
tant 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. 

Leopold  of  Tuscany  is  said  to  be  the  richest  individual  iu 
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 


332  BALL    AT    THE    PALAZZO    PITTI. 


front  of  roughly-hewn  stone,  with  its  two  slight,  out-curving 
wings,  bearing  a  look  of  more  strength  than  beauty.  The  inte- 
rior 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  tho 
Boboli,  which  cover  the  hill  behind,  rise  far  above  the  turrets  of 
the  palace,  and  command  glorious  views  of  the  Val  d'Ariio. 

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  de- 
lightfully 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  trees  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. 

The  Duke  and  the  Grand  Duchess  (the  widow  of  the  late 
Duke)  stood  in  the  centre  of  the  room,  and  in  the  pauses  of  con- 
versation, the  different  ambassadors  presented  their  countrymen. 


THE    GRAND    DUKE.  333 


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,  untrim- 
med  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-es- 
tablishment of  the  Jesuits  in  Florence. 

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  American  lady 
— the  daughter  of  Colonel  T ,  of  New  York. 

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  truffes,  and  accompanied  with  Rhine  wines,  which 
deserved  the  conspicuous  place  given  them  upon  the  royal  table 
— and  in  this  letter. 

I  hardly  dare  speak  of  the  degree  of  beauty  in  the  assembly  ; 
it  is  so  difficult  to  compare  a  new  impression  with  an  old  ons, 
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  tha 
comparison. 

The  Princess  S may  be  twenty-four  years  of  age.     She  is 


334  AN    ITALIAN    BEAUTY. 


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 
glowing  paleness — 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  curi- 
ously 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  pecu- 
liarity which  one  regrets  not  to  see  in  the  too  Parisian  dress  of 
her  person,  hi  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  other- 
wise. 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  ad- 
vantages, and  a  look  of  pride  that  nothing  could  insult,  t'tere  is 
an  expression  in  her  beautiful  face  that  reminds  you  n"  Her  sex 
and  its  temptations,  and  prepares  you  fully  for  the  hist  .  y  which 
you  may  hear  from  the  first  woman  that  stands  at  your  elbow. 

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  uncon- 
scious that  every  eye  is  fixed  upon  her  in  admiration.  She  has 


AN    ENGLISH    BEAUTY.  335 


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  com- 
plexion, 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  beau- 
tiful rival,  like  a  Madonna  by  a  Magdalen — both  seem  not  at 
home  in  the  world,  but  only  one  could  have  dropped  from 
heaven 


LETTER  XLVIII, 

VALLOMBROSA ITALIAN      OXEN CONVENT SERVICE      IN      THB 

CHAPEL HOUSE    OCCUPIED    BY    MILTON. 

I  LEFT  Florence  for  Vallombrosa  at  daylight  on  a  warm  sum- 
mer'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  con- 
vent is  nearly  three. 

We  alighted  in  the  centre  of  the  village,  in  the  midst  of  a  rag- 
ged 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. 

Our  conveyances  appeared  in  the  course  of  half  an  hour,  con- 
sisting of  two  largi!  baskets,  each  drawn  by  a  pair  of  oxen  and 


OXEN    OF    ITALY.  337 


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  Ion  viaggio  with  more  gratitude  than  three  Tus- 
can crazie  would  buy,  I  am  sure,  in  any  other  part  of  the  world. 

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  ani- 
mals 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. 

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,  mak- 
ing a  group  themselves  the  while,  which  added  all  the  picture 
wanted. 

The  path  wound  continually  about  in  the  deep  woods,  with 
15 


338  VALLOMBROSA. 

which  the  mountain  is  covered,  and  occasionally  from  au  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. 

An  old  cheerful-looking  monk  came  out  to  meet  us,  and  shak- 
ing 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  padre  degli  forestieri,  as  they  called  the  old 
monk,  who  received  us,  talking  most  volubly  all  the  while. 

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  Bul- 
gruddery. 

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 


A    CONVENT    DINNER.  339 


forest,  till  we  emerged  on  the  edge  of  a  shelf  of  greensward,  run- 
ning 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  distin- 
guishable as  a  mere  dell  in  the  prospect.  It  was  one  of  the  sul- 
triest 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. 

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  G-asparo,  who  sat  at  a  little  distance,  enter- 
taining 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  accom- 
paniments established  by  taste  and  usage  ;  and  better  wine,  white 
and  red,  never  was  pressed  from  the  Tuscan  grape.  The  des- 
sert 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  liqueurs  were  set  be- 
fore us,  both  of  the  finest  flavor. 

I  was  to  sleep  myself  in  the  convent.  Father  Gasparo  joined 
us  upon  the  wooden  bench  in  the  avenue,  where  we  were  enjoy - 
mv  a  brilliant  sunset,  and  informed  me  that  the  gates  shut  at 


340  VESPERS    AT    VALLOMBROSA. 


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. 

We  lifted  the  suspended  curtain,  and  entered  a  chapel  so 
dimly  lit,  that  I  could  only  judge  of  its  extent  from  the  rever- 
berations of  the  music.  The  lamps  were  all  in  the  choir,  be- 
hind the  altar,  and  the  shuffling  footsteps  of  the  gathering  monks 
approached  it  from  every  quarter.  Father  G-asparo  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. 

I  stood  till  I  was  chilled,  listening  to  the  service,  and  looking 
at  the  long  line  of  monks  rising  and  sitting,  with  their  monoto- 
nous changes  of  books  and  positions,  and  not  knowing  which  way 
to  go  for  warmth  or  retirement.  I  wandered  up  and  down  th •• 
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 


THE    MONK'S    ESTIMATE    OF    WOMEN.  34] 


their  figures  when  my  eye  became  accustomed  to  the  imperfect 
light,  and  I  never  saw  a  finer  spectacle  of  religious  devotion. 

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  appro- 
priated 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  be- 
neath 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  com- 
plete. We  had  a  merry  supper.  The  wine  was  of  a  choicer 
vintage  than  that  we  had  drank  at  dinner,  and  the  father  an- 
twered,  upon  my  discovery  of  its  merits,  that  he  never  wasted  it 
upon  women. 

In  the  course  of  the  conversation,  I  found  out  that  my  enter- 
tainer was  a  kind  of  butler,  or  head-servitor  of  the  convent,  and 
that  the  great  body  of  the  monks  were  of  noble  lineage.  The 


342  MILTON'S    ROOM. 


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  plea- 
sure it  gave  us" — relieving  my  mind,  by  the  remark,  of  what  I 
looked  forward  to  at  parting  as  a  delicate  point. 

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. 

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. 

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 


FLORENCE.  343 


more    regret  than   a   day's   acquaintance  often   produces.     We 
reach  ,d  our  carriage  in  an  hour,  and  were  in  Florence  at  eight — 
having  passed,  by  unanimous  opinion,  the  two  brightest  days  in 
r  rUendar  of  travel 


LETTER   XLIX, 

HOUSE    OF     MIoHAEL    ANGELO— THE    ANCIENT    CHURCH    OF    SAN 

MINIATO MADAME    CATALANI WALTER     SAVAGE     LANDOR 

MIDNIGHT  MASS,  ETC. 

I  WENT  with  a  party  this  morning  to  visit  the  house  of  Michael 
Angela.  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  1m 
presence.  The  Duke  is  standing  before  his  chair,  and  the  figure 
of  the  old  man  is  finely  expressive. 

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 ;  anu 
opposite,  another,  taken  from  a  cast  after  his  nose  was  broken  by 


THE    HOUSE    OF    MICHAEL    ANGELO.  345 


a,  fellow  painter  in  the  church  of  the  Carmine.  There  are  also 
one  or  two  portraits  of  him,  and  the  resemblance  through  them 
ill,  shows  that  the  likeness  we  have  of  him  in  the  engravings  are 
mcommonly  correct. 

In  the  inner  room,  which  was  his  studio,  they  show  his  pallet, 
crushes,  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. 

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. 


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 
15* 


346  FIESOLE. 

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  walk  in  Italy,  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. 

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. 

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  presbytery,  a  high  platform 
occupying  a  third  of  the  nave,  with  two  splendid  flights  of  stairs 


SAN    MINIATO.  347 


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  carne 
through  like  the  effect  of  deeply  stained  glass. 

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. 


The  midnight  mass  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 


348  CHRISTMAS    EVE. 

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. 

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  blond  wig,  in  entering,  the  young 
ambassador  of  a  foreign  court,  who  being  cavaliere  servente  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 


AMUSING    SCENES    IN    CHURCH.  349 


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. 


LETTER  L, 

FLORENCE VISIT  TO  THE  CHURCH  OF   SAN  GAETANO PENITENTIAL 

PROCESSIONS THE    REFUGEE    CARLISTS THE    MIRACLE   OF    RAIN 

CHURCH  OF  THE  AJfNUNCIATA TOMB  OF  GIOVANNI  DI  BOLOGNA 

MASTERPIECE  OF  ANDREA  DEL  SARTO,  ETC.,  ETC. 

I  HEARD  the  best  passage  of  the  opera  of  "  Romeo  and  Juliet" 
delightfully  played  in  the  church  of  San  Gaetano  this  morning. 
I  was  coming  from  the  cafe,  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,  all  female,  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. 

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 


PENITENTIAL    PROCESSIONS.  351 


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.* 

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. 

*The  Tuscans,  who  are  the  best  governed  people  in  Italy,  pay  twenty  per 
cent,  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. 


352  THE    CARLIST    REFUGEES. 


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  mal  di  petto,  as  it  is 
called,  or  disease  of  the  lungs.  Corsi  is  a  great  loss  to  Amer- 
icans. 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. 


The  refugee  Carlists  are  celebrating  to-day,  in  the  church  of 
Santa  Maria  Novella,  the  anniversary  of  the  death  of  Louis  X  VI. 
The  bishop  of  Strasbourg  is  here,  and  is  performing  high  mass 
for  the  soul  of  the  "  martyr,"  as  they  term  him.  Italy  is  full 
of  the  more  aristocratic  families  of  France,  and  it  has  become 
mauvais  ton  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 


THE    MIRACLE    OF    RAIN.  353 


the  day.  There  was  nothing  seen  of  the  French  exquisites  in 
Florence  for  a  week  after  she  was  taken.  They  were  in  mourn- 
ing for  the  misfortune  of  their  mistress. 


All  Florence  is  ringing  with  the  miracle.  The  city  fountains 
have  for  some  days  been  dry,  and  the  whole  country  was  suffering 
for  rain.  The  day  before  the  moon  changed,  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  rain,  and  the  priests  are  preaching  upon  it  from  every 
pulpit.  The  padrone  of  my  lodgings  came  in  this  morning,  an.d 
told  me  the  circumstances  with  the  most  serious  astonishment. 

I  joined  the  crowd  this  morning,  who  are  still  thronging  up  the 
via  de  Servi  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  fideh  Christiani  to  spend  a 
crazie  for  the  love  of  G-od. 

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 


354  THE    MIRACULOUS    PICTURE. 


Description  can  give  you  no  idea  of  the  waste  of  splendor  in  these 
places. 

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 
trade  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. 

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  bassi  relievi,  two  silver  candelabra, 
six  feet  in  height,  two  very  large  silver  statues  of  angels,  a  cilorio 


GIOVANM    DI    BOLOGNA.  355 


(enclosing  a  most  exquisite  head  of  our  Saviour,  by  Andrea  del 
Sarto),  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. 

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  annuncia- 
tion, 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. 

I  was  glad  to  get  away  from  the  crowd  and  their  mummery, 
and  pay  a  new  tribute  of  reverence  at  the  tomb  of  Giovanni  di 
Bologna.  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  au- 
thors of  the  Venus  and  the  Apollo  Belvidere,  John  of  Bologna  is, 


356  ANDREA    DEL    SARTO. 


in  my  judgment,  the  greatest  of  sculptors.  His  mounting  Mercury, 
in  the  Florence  gallery,  might  have  been  a  theft  from  heaven  for 
its  divine  beauty. 

In  passing  out  by  the  cloisters  of  the  adjoining  convent,  I 
stopped  a  moment  to  see  the  fresco  of  the  Madonna,  del  Sacco. 
said  to  have  been  the  masterpiece  of  Andrea  del  Sarto.  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  beau  reste  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. 


LETTER  LI, 

FLORENTINE     PECULIARITIES SOCIETY BALLS — DUCAL    ENTER- 
TAINMENTS— PRIVILEGE    OF     STRANGERS FAMILIES    OF     HIGH 

RANK THE  EXCLUSIVES SOIREES PARTIES  OF  A  RICH  BANK- 
ER  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. 

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. 

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 


358     THE  ENTERTAINMENTS  OF  FLORENCE. 


the  prima  sera  (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. 

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  his- 
tory, 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  nothin»  else ;  half  a  dozen 

/  O  * 

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. 

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 


A    PEASANT    BEAUTY.  359 


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  man- 
ners, 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. 

The  Saturday  evening  soirees,  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. 

Then  there  are  the  soirees  of  the  rich  banker,  Fenzi,  which,  as 
they  are  subservient  to  business,  assemble  all  ranks  on  the  com- 
mon pretensions  of  interest.  At  the  last,  I  saw,  among  other 
curiosities,  a  young  girl  of  eighteen  from  one  of  the  more  com- 
mon 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, 


360  THE    MORALITY    OF   SOCIETY. 


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  animal  dignity  so 
universal  in  the  lower  classes  of  this  country. 

A  German  baroness  of  high  rank  receives  on  the  Mondays,  and 
here  one  sees  foreign  society  in  its  highest  coloring.  The  pret- 
tiest woman  that  frequents  her  parties,  is  a  Genoese  marchioness, 
who  has  left  her  husband  to  live  with  a  Lucchese  count,  who  has 
left  his  wife.  .  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  pre- 
sented to  him,  one  by  one.  He  asked  them  all  the  same  ques- 
tion, 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. 

One  gains  little  by  his  opportunities  of  meeting  Italian  ladies 
in  society.  The  cavaliere  servente  flourishes  still  as  in  the  days  of 
Beppo,  and  it  is  to  him  only  that  the  lady  condescends  to  talk. 
There  is  a  delicate,  refined-looking,  little  marchioness  here,  whc 
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 


THE    ITALIAN    CAVALIER.  361 


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  tha  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  really  settled  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. 

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 
let  alone,  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. 

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  Eng- 
lish. 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 
16 


362  THE    FEATURES    OF    SOCIETY. 


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  attrac- 
tive. There  are  external  features  in  which  the  society  of  our 
own  country  is  far  less  scrupulous  and  proper. 


LETTER  LII. 

SIENNA POGGIOBONSI BONCONVENTO ENCOURAGEMENT      O» 

FRENCH     ARTISTS     BY    THEIR     GOVERNMENT ACQUAPENDENTE 

POOR    BEGGAR,  THE  ORIGINAL   OF    A  SKETCH    BY    COLE BOLSENA 

VOLSCENIUM SCENERY CURIOUS    STATE     OF    THE     CHESTNUT 

WOODS. 

SIENNA. — 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  baxsi  relievi 
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. 


364  ARTISTS    AND    THE    FRENCH    ACADEMY. 


BONCONVENTO. — 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. 

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. 


ACQUAPENDENTE. — While  the  dirty  customhouse  officer  is 
deciphering  our  passports,  in  a  bole  a  dog  would  live  in  unwill- 
ingly, 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. 

We  crossed  the  mountain  of  Radicofani  yesterday,  in  so  thick 


BEAUTIFUL    SCENERY.  365 


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. 

BOLSENA. — We  walked  in  advance  of  the  vetturino  along  the 
borders  ot  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  unpa- 
ralleled 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  float- 
ing 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. 

A  mile  behind  us  lies  the  town,  the  seat  of  ancient  Volscinium, 
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,  UTartana,  a  small  conical  isle,  was  the  scene 
of  the  murder  of  the  queen  of  the  Goths,  by  her  cousin  Theoda- 
tus.  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. 

The  whole  neighborhood  is  covered  with  rotten  trunks  of  trees 
— a  thing  which  at  first  surprised  me  in  a  country  where  wood  is 


366  SACRED    WOODS    OF    BOLSENA. 


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. 

The  vetturino  comes  lumbering  up,  and  I  must  pocket  my 
pencil  and  remount. 


LETTER   LIII, 

MONTEFIASCONE ANECDOTE     OF    THE    WINE VITERBO MOUNT 

CIMINO TRADITION VIEW     OF      ST.     PETER'S ENTRANCE     INTO 

ROME — A  STRANGER'S  IMPRESSIONS  OF  THE  CITY. 

MONTEFIASCONE. — 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  Jean  Defoucris,  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  est,  in 
large  letters  of  chalk.  On  arriving  at  this  hotel,  the  monk  saw 
the  signal  thrice  written  over  the  door  —  Est !  Est !  Est  ! 
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  :— 

"  Propter  minium  EST,  EST, 
Dominus  meus  mortuus  EST  !" 


368  THE    VIRTUOSO    OF    VITERBO. 


"  JSst,  Est,  Est !"  is  the  motto  upon  the  sign  of  the  hotel  to 
this  day. 


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  foi 
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  cafe  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,  ho 
said,  of  the  people,  utterly  ignorant  of  the  value  of  the  precious 
objects  he  had  for  sale  and  he  had  been  compelled  to  opeu  a 
cafe,  and  degrade  himself  by  waiting  on  them  for  a  contemptible 
crazie  worth  of  coffee,  while  his  lovely  antiquities  lay  unappre- 
ciated 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 
intaglio,  and  bade  him  farewell,  after  an  hour's  acquaintance, 
with  quite  the  feeling  of  a  friend. 


ROBBERIES.  369 


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 
^Eneid  :  "  Cimini  cum  monte  locum,"  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. 


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  oi 
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 
16* 


370  ROME    AS    FANCIED. 


had  seen,  in  full  blossom.  The  totpb  of  Nero  is  on  one  side  of 
the  road,  before  crossing  the  Tiber,  and  on  the  other  a  newly 
painted  and  staring  restaurant,  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  Pans  jEmilius,  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. 

Two  miles  over  the  Via  Flaminia,  between  garden  walls  that 
were  ornamented  with  sculpture  and  inscription  in  the  time  of 
Augustus,  brought  us  to  the  Porta  del  Popolo.  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  facades  of  two  handsome  churches  face  you  as 
you  enter,  and  on  the  right  and  left  are  gardens  and  palaces  of 
princely  splendor.  Gray  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  old  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  tho  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 
jpodern  coin  to  a  whiskered  officer  of  customs  ;  and  in  the  place 
of  a  venerable  Belisarius  begging  an  obolus  in  classic  Latin,  he  is 


ROME    AS    FOUND.  371 


beset  by  a  troop  of  lusty  and  filthy  lazzaroni  entreating  for 
a  laioch  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  pave  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. 


LETTER   LIV, 

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 TERRAOINA 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. 

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  "  Appiau 
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  tomb 
of  Cecilia  Metella,  so  exquisitely  mused  upon  by  Childe  Harold 
This,  says  Sismondi,  with  the  tombs  of  Andrian  and  Augustus, 
became  fortresses  of  banditti,  in  the  thirteenth  century,  and  were 
taken  by  Brancallone,  the  Bolognese  governor  of  Rome,  who 


THE    FOUNTAIN    OF    EGERIA.  373 


hanged  the  marauders  from  the  walls.  It  looks  little  like  "  a 
woman's  grave." 

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. 

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  Diana's  mirror  (speculum  Diance),  is  at  this  day,  per- 
haps, one  of  the  sweetest  gems  of  natural  scenery  in  the  world. 

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 
same  horses,  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. 

At  a  distance  of  fifteen  miles  from  Velletri,  we  passed  a  con- 
vent, 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 


374  THE    PONTINE    MARSHES. 


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  every- 
thing. 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. 

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  be- 
tween the  rocky  wall  and  the  sea.  We  dined  with  the  hollow 
murmur  of  the  surf  in  our  ears,  and  then,  presenting  our  pass- 
ports, entered  the  kingdom  of  Naples.  This  Terracina,  by  the 
way,  was  the  ancient  Anxur,  which  Horace  describes  in  his 
line — 

"  Impositum  late  saxis  candentibus  Anxur." 

For  twenty  or  thirty  miles  before  arriving  at  Terracina,  we 
had  seen  before  us  the  headland  of  Circoeum,  lying  like  a  moun- 
tain 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. 


MOLA.  375 

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  G-onzaga, 
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. 

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. 

We  slept  at  Mola,  and  here  Cicero  was  assassinated.  Tho 
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  odo- 
riferous 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,  an-i 
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 


376  THE    FALERNIAN    HILLS. 


hotels,  and  we  entered  our  iun  through  an  avenue  of  shrubs  thai 
must  have  been  planted  and  trimmed  for  a  century. 


We  left  Mola  before  dawn  and  crossed  the  small  river  Garig- 
liano  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. 

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  beauti- 
ful 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  over- 
taken 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  acquaint- 
ance, I  soon  found,  was  the  physician  of  the  two  or  three  small 
villages  nested  about  among  the  hills  and  a  man  of  some  preten- 
sions to  learning.  I  was  delighted  with  his  frank  good-humor, 


THE    DOCTOR    OF    ST.    AGATHA.  377 


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  inquisi- 
tiveness  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  sur- 
prise 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. 

We  dined  at  Capua,  the  city  whose  luxuries  enervated  Hanni- 
bal and  his  soldiers — the  "  dives,  amorosa,  felix"  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. 

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  sur- 
rounded with  beggars  of  every  conceivable  degree  of  misery 


378  THE    QUEEN    OF    NAPLES. 


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  mar- 
ried 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. 


LETTER   LV, 

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 JEWS5  QUARTER FORUM 

BARBERINI     PALACE PORTRAIT      OF      BEATRICE      CENCI HER 

MELANCHOLY    HISTORY PICTURE    OF    THE    FORNARINA LIKE- 
NESS   OF    GIORGIONE'S    MISTRESS — JOSEPH     AND     POTIPHAR'S 

WIFE THE    PALACES    DORIA     AND    SCIARRA^PORTRAIT    OF 

OLIVIA    WALDACHINI OF    UA    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  FOR- 
NARINA  DA    VINCl's    TWO    PICTURES. 

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 


380  ST.    PETER'S. 


up  and  dashing  away  from  the  end  of  the  long  colonnades,  pro- 
ducing 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. 

•  Lifting  the  curtain  I  stood  in  the  body  of  the  church.  There 
were  perhaps  twenty  persons,  at  different  distances,  on  its  im- 
mense floor,  the  farthest  off  (six  hundred  and  fourteen  feet  from 
me  !)  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  inte- 
rior. 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  four  hundred  and  forty  feet  be- 
tween you  and  the  roof  of  the  dome — the  height,  almost  of  a 
mountain. 

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 


THE    FOUNTAINS— THE    OBELISK.  38! 


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. 

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  mo- 
rality 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,  un- 
particularizing  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. 

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. 

I  crossed  the  Tiber,  at  the  fortress-tomb  of  Adrian,  and  thrid- 
ding  the  long  streets  at  the  western  end  of  Home,  passed  through 
the  Jews'  quarter,  and  entered  the  Forum.  The  sun  lay  warm 
among  the  ruins  of  the  great  temples  and  columns  of  ancient 


382  THE    FORUM— ITS    MEMORIES. 


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,  conspira- 
tors, 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  conspira- 
tors, 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  ! 


THE    CENCI.  383 


The  Barberini  palace  contains  three  or  four  masterpieces  of 
painting.  The  most  celebrated  is  the  portrait  of  Beatrice  Cerici, 
by  Gi-uido.  The  melancholy  and  strange  history  of  this  beautiful 
girl  has  been  told  in  a  variety  of  ways,  and  is  probably  familiar  to 
every  reader.  Gruido  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  sweet- 
ness 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  re- 
corded. 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  ? 

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. 

The  gallery  contains  also,  a  delicious  picture  of  the  Fornarina 


384  CLAUDE'S    PICTURES. 


by  Raphael  himself,  and  a  portrait  of  Giorgiono'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. 

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  particu- 
larly. 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  "cele- 
brated widow,"  by  Vandyck,*  a  bad-been  beautiful  woman,  in  a 
staid  cap  (the  hands  wonderfully  painted),  and  a  large  and  rich 
picture  of  Semiramis,  by  one  of  the  Carraccis. 

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.  .M-  some 
dream  over  a  description  from  Boccaccio.  It  is  what  i..  ;y  might 

*  So  called  in  the  catalogue.  The  custode,  however,  told  us  it  was  a  por- 
trait of  the  wife  of  Vandyck,  painted  as  an  old  woman  to  mortify  her  exces- 
sive 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, 
»nd  was  carefully  treasured  by  the  widow. 


FANCIES    REALIZED.  335 

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  ridicu- 
lous and  unreal,  till  he  has  seen  one  of  these  landscapes,  and  felt 
steeped,  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. 

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  Grherardodelle  Notti, 
ft  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 
17 


386  THE    LAST    OF    THE    DORIAS. 


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. 

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  apart- 
ment, 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  custode  took  off  his  hat  and  bowed  low,  and  the 
old  man  gave  us  a  half-bow  and  a  long  laugh  in  passing,  and  dis- 
appeared 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  ambi- 
tious 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. 

We  crossed  the  Corso  to  the  Palace  Sciarra.  The  collection 
here  is  small,  but  choice.  Half  a  dozen  small  but  exquisite  land- 
scapes, 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 


A    PICTURE    BY    LEONARDO    DA    VINCI  33? 


celebrated  Fornarina,  to  whose  lovely  face  one  becomes  so 
accustomed  in  Italy,  that  it  seems  like  that  of  an  acquaintance. 

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  con- 
versation— one  a  handsome,  gay,  volatile  looking  creature,  cover- 
ed 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. 

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  scull,  beneath 
which  is  written — "  J,  too,  was  of  Arcadia;"  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. 


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 


388  PALACE    OF    THE    CESARS. 


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  Siur- 
amdert  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  Domitiau.  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 
oftheCcelianHill."* 

The  ancient  walls,  which  made  the  whole  of  the  Mount  Palatine 

*  The  following  description  is  given  of  this  splendid  palace,  by  Suetonius. 
u  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 


AN    HOUR    ON    THE    PALATINE.  359 

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  Pala- 
tine. 

columns .-  with  a  lake  like  a  little  sea,  surrounded  by  buildings  which  resem- 
bled 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." 


LETTER  LVI. 

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 

MEC-iENAS TOWER  WHENCE  NERO  SAW  ROME    ON  FIRE HOUSES 

OF    HORACE    AND    VIRGIL BATHS    OF   TITUS    AND    CARACALLA. 

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  fwhich  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 


ROMAN    EYES    VERSUS    FEET.  391 


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. 

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. 

This  ceremony,  I   found   upon  inquiry,   is   performed   every 
year,  on  the  day  of  the  annunciation — just  nine  months  before 
Christmas,  and  is  intended  to  commemorate  the  incarnation  of 
our  Saviour. 


As  I  was  returning  from  a  twilight  stroll  upon  the  Pincian  hill 
this  evening,  the  bells  of  the  convent  of  Santa  Trinita  rung  to 


392  VESPERS    AT    SANTA    TRINTTA. 


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  melan- 
choly 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. 


The  most  considerable  ruins  of  ancient  Rome  are  those  of  the 
Bat/is.  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 


ROMAN    BATHS.  393 


found  in  the  world.  It  is  possible  that  iny  readers  have  as  im- 
perfect 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  mar- 
ble, 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  enor- 
mously high  and  painted  with  admirable  frescoes,  supported  on 
columns  of  the  rarest  marble,  and  the  basins  were  of  oriental  ala- 
baster, porphyry,  and  jasper.  There  were  in  the  centre  vast 
reservoirs,  for  the  swimmers,  and  crowds  of  slaves  to  attend  gra- 
tuitously upon  all  who  should  come." 

The  baths  of  Diocletian  (which  I  visited  to-day),  covered  an 
enormous  space.  They  occupied  seven  years  in  building,  and 
were  the  work  of  forty  thousand  Christian  slaves,  two  thirds  of 
whom  died  of  fatigue  and  misery  !  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  eiforts.  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. 

We  drove  thence  to  the  baths  of  Titus,  passing  the  site  of  the 
17* 


394  BATHS    OF    TITUS. 


ancient  gardens  of  Macasnas,  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  pic- 
turesque 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  belong- 
ing to  a  subterranean  palace  of  the  emperor,  communicating  with 
the  baths.  The  Belvedeve  Meleager  was  also  found  here.  The 
imagination  loses  itself  in  attempting  to  conceive  the  splendor  of 
these  under-ground  palaces,  blazing  with  artificial  light,  orna- 
mented 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  exist- 
ence, interrupting  or  taking  away  pleasures  so  varied  and  inex- 
haustible. 

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. 


SHELLEY'S    HAUNT.  395 


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. 

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  Shel- 
ley, 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  th  e 
idle  boy  who  tended  them  lay  asleep  in  the  sun,  and  every  foot- 
step 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. 


LETTER   LVI1, 

BUMMER  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 

FHE    APOSTLES   WORSHIPPED TOMB    OF    CECILIA    METELLA THE 

CAMPAGNA CIRCUS     OF      CARACALLA      OR      ROMULUS TEMPLE 

DEDICATED    TO    RIDICULE KEATs's    GRAVE FOUNTAIN    OF    EGE- 

RIA THE    WOOD    WHERE    NUMA    MET   THE    NYMPH HOLY    WEEK. 

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. 

This  is  the  beginning  of  the  ancient  A.ppian  Way,  and,  a  little 


THE    TOMB    OF    THE    SCIPIOS.  39  / 


farther  on,  sunk  in  the  side  of  a  hill  near  the  road,  is  the  beau. 
tiful  doric  tomb  of  the  Scipios.  We  alighted  at  the  antique  gate, 
a  kind  of  portico,  with  seats  of  stone  beneath,  and  reading  the 
inscription,  "  Sepulchro  degli  Scipioni,"  mounted  by  ruined 
steps  to  the  tomb.  A  boy  came  out  from  the  house,  in  the  vine- 
yard 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  dawn  upon  a  bank  of 
grass  opposite  the  chaste  fagade,  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  Afri- 
canus,  and  here  was  deposited  the  noble  dust  of  his  children. 
One  feels,  in  these  places,  as  if  the  improvisator'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  whicTi  the  mourners  of 
the  Scipios  have  leaned,  seem  to  have  had  life  and  thought,  like 
the  ashes  they  have  sheltered. 

We  drove  on  to  the  Catacombs.  Here,  the  legend  says,  St. 
Sebastian  was  martyred  and  the  modern  church  of  St.  Sebasti- 
ano  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  sac- 
risty, and  we  entered  a  side  door,  behind  the  tomb  of  the  saint, 


398  THE    EARLY    CHRISTIANS. 


and  commenced  a  descent  of  a  long  flight  of  stone  steps.  We 
reached  the  bottom  and  found  ourselves  upon  damp  ground,  fol- 
lowing 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  Chris- 
tian 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  im- 
mediate 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  mar- 
tyrs 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. 

We  crossed  through  several  cross-passages,  and  came  to  a 
s»mall  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  em- 
blem of  their  faith,  met  the  few  dismayed  followers  of  Christ, 
hidden  from  their  persecutors,  while  they  breathed  their  forbid 
den  prayers  to  their  lately  crucified  Master. 

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 


THE    TOMB    OF    METELLA.  399 


reasons,  have  passed  up  and  down  ;  and,  taking  leave  of  our 
capuchin  conductor,  drove  on  to  the  next  object  upon  the  road — 
the  tomb  of  Cecilia  Metella.  It  stands  upon  a  slight  elevation, 
in  the  Appian  Way,  a  "  stern  round  tower,"  with  the  ivy  drop- 
ping 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  thir- 
teenth 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  cir- 
cular 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. 

The  lofty  turrets  command  a  wide  view  of  the  Gampagna,  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. 

Just  below  the  tomb  of  Metella,  in  a  flat  valley,  lie  the  exten- 
sive ruins  of  what  is  called  the  "  circus  of  Caracalla"  by  some, 
and  the  "  circus  of  Romulus"  by  others — a  scarcely  distinguisha- 
ble 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  Ridicule.  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  ridicule  is  far  from  amiss.  In 


400  FOUNTAIN    OF    EGERIA. 

our  age  particularly,  one  would  think,  the  lamp  should  be  relit, 
and  the  reviewers  should  repair  the  temple.  Poor  Keats  sleepi 
in  his  grave  scarce  a  mile  from  the  spot,  a  human  victim  sacri- 
ficed, not  long  ago,  upon  its  highest  altar. 

In  the  same  valley  almost  hidden  with  the  luxuriant  ivy  wav- 
ing before  the  entrance,  flows  the  lovely  Fountain  of  JEgeria, 
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.  Wo 
wound  around  by  a  half-worn  path  in  descending  the  hill,  and, 
putting  aside  the  long  branches  of  ivy,  entered  an  antique  cham- 
ber, 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. 

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 


CHANGED    ASPECT    OF    ROME.  4Q1 


of  birds,  and  might  afford  a  fitting  retreat  for  meditation  to  an- 
other king  and  lawgiver.  The  fields  about  it  are  so  thickly  stud- 
ded 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. 

All  the  travelling  world  assembles  at  Rome  for  the  ceremonies 
of  the  holy  week.  Naples,  .Florence,  and  Pisa,  send  their  hun- 
dreds 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  citv  has 
become  within  a  few  days. 


LETTER   LVIII, 

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 

TENEBR^E 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. 

PALM  SUNDAY  opens  the  ceremonies.  We  drove  to  the  Vati- 
can 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. 

The  Pope  entered,  borne  in  his  gilded  chair  by  twelve  men, 
and,  at  the  same  moment,  the  chanting  from  the  Sistine  choir 


PALM    SUNDAY.  403 


commenced  with  one  long,  piercing  note,  by  a  single  voice,  pro- 
ducing 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  ser- 
vants, 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  mem- 
bers of  the  Catholic  embassies,  followed  and  took  palms.  A  pro- 
cession 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. 

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  tha 
Holy  week.  It  was  principally  an  apology  for  them.  He  con- 
fessed 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 


404  A    CROWD. 

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. 

With  all  the  vast  crowd  of  strangers  in  Rome,  I  went  to  the 
Sistine  chapel  on  Holy  Tuesday,  to  hear  the  far-famed  Miserere. 
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  tenebrce  (or  lamentations  of 
Jeremiah)  poured  in  full  volume  from  the  choir.  Thirteen  can- 
dles 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  tli3  sing- 
ing of  the  tenebrce.  The  last,  which  was  left  burniri  ',  repre- 
sented the  mother  of  Christ.'  As  the  last  before  this  V..LS  extin- 
guished, 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  miserere  commenced  with  one  high  prolonged  note, 
that  sounded  like  a  wail ;  another  joined  it,  a;i<'  another  and  an- 


THE    MISERERE.  4Q5 


other,  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,  hut  there  were 
voices  in  the  choir  that  seemed  of  a  really  supernatural  sweet- 
ness. 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. 

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  be- 
yond their  time,  went  home  to  cold  dinners. 


The  ceremonies  of  Holy  Thursday  commenced  with  the  mass 
in  the  Sistine  chapel.  Tired  of  seeing  genuflections,  and  listen- 
ing 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 


406  A    JUDAS. 

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  Delphic  Sybil — and  I 
think  this  bit  of  heathenism  is  almost  the  only  very  decent  part 
of  the  Pope's  most  consecrated  chapel. 

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  wash  the  feet  of  the  pilgrims. 

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,  occasion- 
ally 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  Judas,  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 


THE    WASHING    OF    THE    FEET.  407 


being  intended  to  represent  the  twelve  apostles  of  whom  Judas 
was  one — but  if  accidental,  it  was  the  most  remarkable  coinci- 
dence 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. 

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. 

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  handker- 
chief 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 


408  THE    DINNER. 


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. 

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  ezecution,  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  vora- 
ciously. We  left  them  at  their  dessert. 


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  KEATS7 

POEMS GRAVE      OF      DR.      BELL RESIDENCE      AND      LITERARY 

UNDERTAKINGS  OF  HIS  WIDOW. 

A  BEAUTIFUL  pyramid,  a  hundred  and  thirteen  feet  high,  built 
into  the  ancient  wall  of  Rome,  is  the  proud  Sepulchre  of  Cams 
Cestius.  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  Protestant  burying- ground.  It  looks  toward 
Rome,  which  appears  in  the  distance,  between  Mount  Aventine 
and  a  small  hill  called  Mont  Testaccio,  and  leaning  to  the  south- 
east, the  sun  lies  warm  and  soft  upon  its  banks,  and  the  grass 
and  wild  flowers  are  there  the  earliest  and  tallest  of  the  Cam- 
pagna.  I  have  been  here  to-day,  to  see  the  graves  of  Keats  and 
18 


410  THE    PROTESTANT    CEMETERY. 

Shelley.  With  a  cloudless  sky  and  the  mo^t  d-licious  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  ceme- 
tery the  grass  is  thickly  mingled  with  flowers  of  every  die.  In 
his  preface  to  his  lament  over  Keats,  Shelley  says,  "  he  wag 
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  moulderin^  and  desolate,  which  formed 

/  O  ' 

the  circuit  of  anci'ent  Rome.  It  is  an  open  space  among  the 
ruins,  covered  in  winter  with  violets  and  daisies.  "  It  might 
make  one  in  love  with  death,  to  think  that  one  should  be  buried  in 
so  sweet  a  place."  If  Shelley  had  chosen  his  own  grave  at  the 
time,  he  would  have  selected  the  very  spot  where  h3  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  : — 

"  The  spirit  of  the  spot  shall  lead 
Thy  footsteps  to  a  slope  of  green  access, 
Where,  like  an  infant's  smile,  over  the  dead, 
A  light  of  laughing  flowers  along  the  grass  is  spread. 

"  And  gray  walls  moulder  round,  on  which  dull  time 
Feeds  like  slow  fire  upon  a  hoary  brand: 


SHELLEY'S    GRAVE.  41 1 

And  one  keen  pyramid,  with  wedge  sublime, 
Pavilioning  the  dust  of  him  who  planned 
This  refuge  for  his  memory,  doth  stand 
Like  flame  transformed  to  marble ;  and  beneath 
Afield  is  spread,  on  which,  a  newer  band 
Have  pitched,  in  heaven's  smile,  their  camp  of  death, 
Welcoming  him  we  lose,  with  scarce  extinguished  breath." 

•'  Here  pause  :  these  graves  are  all  too  young  as  yet 
To  have  outgrown  the  sorrow  which  consigned 
Its  charge  to  each." 

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,  "cor  cordium" — the  heart  of  hearts.  Dread- 
fully 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  : 

"  Burning  through  the  inmost  veil  of  heaven, 
The  soul  of  Adonais,  like  a  star, 
Beacons  from  the  abode  where  the  Eternal  arc." 

On  the  second  terrace  of  the  declivity,  are  ten  or  twehe 
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.*  The  slightly  rising  mound  was  covered  with 
small  violets,  half  hidden  by  the  grass.  It  takes  away  from  tho 

*  Mr.  John  Hone,  of  New  York. 


412  BEAUTY  OF  THE  PLACE. 


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. 

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  com- 
mon accident  of  happiness. 

Farther  on,  upon  the  same  terrace,  are  two  monuments  that 
interested  me.  One  marks  the  grave  of  a  young  English  girl,* 
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. 

*  An  interesting  account  of  this  ill-fated  young  lady,  who  was  on  the  evo 
of  marriage,  has  appeared  in  the  Mirror. 


KEATS.  41 3 

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. 

We  descended  to  the  lower  enclosure  at  the  foot  of  the  slight 
declivity.  The  first  grave  here  is  that  of  Keats.  The  inscription 
on  his  monument  runs  thus  :  "  This  grave  contains  all  that  was 
mortal  of  a  young  English  poet,  who,  on  his  death-bed,  in  the,  bitter- 
ness of  his  heart  at  the  malicious  power  of  his  enemies,  desired  t/iess 
words  to  le  engraved  on  his  tomb  :  HERE  LIES  ONE  WHOSE  NAME 
WAS  WRITTEN  IN  WATER."  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 


414  DR.    BELL. 

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  tho  world.  Har] 
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  sur- 
pass 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  ! 

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.  Hav- 
ing known  her,  and  having  heard  from  her  own  lips  many  par- 
ticulars of  his  life,  I  felt  an  additional  interest  in  visiting  his 
grave.  Both  his  monument  and  Keats's  ar«  almost  buried  in 
the  tall  flowering  clover  of  this  beautiful  place. 


LETTER  LX- 

PRESENTATION     AT     THE      PAPAL     COURT PILGRIMS      GOING      TO 

VESPERS PERFORMANCE    OF    THE    MISERERE — TARPEIAN  ROCK 

THE    FORUM PALACE    OF    THE    CESARS COLISEUM. 

I  HAVE  been  presented  to  the  Pope  this  morning,  in  company 
with  several  Americans — Mr.  and  Mrs.  Gray,  of  Boston,  Mr. 
A.therton  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  onca  more, 
and,  in  the  course  of  a  few  minutes,  the  chamberlain  in  waiting 
announced  to  us  that  II  Padre,  Santo  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, 


416  AUDIENCE    WITH    THE    POPE. 


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. 

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 


HUMILITY    AND    PRIDE    IN    CONTRAST.  417 

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  proces- 
sions, 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. 

On  the  evening  of  holy  Thursday,  as  I  was  on  my  way  to  St. 
Peter's  to  hear  the  miserere  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 
18* 


418  THE    MISERERE    AT    ST.    PETER'S. 

penitents,  unlike  the  gentlemen,  walked  in  their  ordinary  dress. 
I  had  several  acquaintances  among  them  ;  and  it  was  inconceiv- 
able, 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  whoso 

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  ! 

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  miserere.  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. 

It  had  become  almost  dark,  when  the  last  candle  but  one  was 
extinguished  in  the  symbolical  pyramid,  and  the  first  almost  pain- 
ful note  of  the  miserere  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 


ITALIAN    MOONLIGHT.  419 

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  im- 
passioned fulness,  at  one  moment,  and  the  lost,  shrieking  wild- 
ness  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  miserere. 

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,  inunda- 
ting 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. 

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  tb.3  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  ram  3m- 


420  DANCING    AT    THE    COLISEUM. 


her  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. 

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  the  mode  "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  acquaint- 
ances 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. 


LETTER    LXI, 

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    MAR- 
RIAGE   OF    THE    GRAND    DUKE. 

ROME,  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. 

The  ceremonies  of  Easter  Sunday  were  performed  where  all 
others  should  have  been — in  the  body  of  St.  Peter's.  Two  lines 


422  EASTER    SUNDAY. 


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. 

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,  bis  tiara  was  again 


THE    POPE'S    BLESSING.  423 

set  on  his  head,  and  the  music  rang  out  anew,  while  the  procession 
swept  on  to  the  sepulchre. 

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. 

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  candle- 
sticks, the  two  immense  lines  of  soldiers  dropped  upon  their 
knees,  and  all  the  people  prostrated  themselves  at  the  same 
instant. 

This  fine  scene  over,  we  hurried  to  the  square  in  front  of  the 
jhurch,  to  secure  places  for  a  still  finer  one — that  of  the  Pope 
blessing  the  people.  Several  thousand  troops,  cavalry  and  foot- 
inen,  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  on-3  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  con- 
tained, formed  the  grandest  scene  conceivable. 

In  a  few  minutes  the  Pope  appeared  in  the  balcony,  over  the 


424  ILLUMINATION    OF    ST.    PETER'S. 


great  door  of  St.  Peter's.  Every  hat  in  the  vast  multitude  was 
lifted  and  every  knee  bowed  in  an  instant.  Half  a  nation 
prostrate  together ,  and  one  gray  old  man  lifting  up  his  hands  to 
heaven  and  blessing  them  ! 

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 
blessed. 

In  the  evening  all  the  world  assembled  to  see  the  illumination, 
which  it  is  useless  to  attempt  to  describe. 

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. 

I  am  not  sure  that  I  have  not  been  a  little  tedious  in  describ- 
ing 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  particu- 
larity as  possible.  I  trust  that  some  of  the  readers  of  the  Mirror 
may  find  them  entertaining  and  novel. 


FLORENTINE    SOCIABILITY.  435 

FLORENCE,  1833. — I  found  myself  at  six  this  morning,  whers 
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. 

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  "  buon  giorno^  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  prato.  I  am  sure  I  should 
not  find  so  many  acquaintances  in  the  town  in  which  I  have 
passed  my  life. 

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  chasseurs  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. 

In  the  evening,  there  was  an  illumination  of  the  green  alleys 


426  A    MARRIAGE    OF    CONVENIENCE. 


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. 

The  Grand  Duke  is  about  to  be  married  to  one  of  the  prin- 
cesses 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. 


LETTER   LXII, 

BOLOGNA MALIBRAN PARMA NIGHTINGALES      OF     LOMBARDY— 

PLACENZA AUSTRIAN       SOLDIERS THE      SIMPLON MILAN RE- 
SEMBLANCE TO    PARIS THE   CATHEDRAL GUERCINO's    HAGAR 

MILANESE  COFFEE. 

MILAN. — 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 
La  Nor  ma  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  handa 
together,  bowed  till  her  long  hair,  falling  over  her  shoulders, 


428  THE    CORREGGIO. 


nearly  touched  her  feet,  and  retired  in  tears.  She  is  the  siren 
of  Europe  for  me  ! 

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. 

At  Parma  we  ate  parmesan  and  saw  the.  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  con -:*vy,  and 
supplied  their  place  with  these  yellow  and  black  C.  >a;s  and 
Ulyrians.  Italy  is  Austria  now  to  the  foot  of  the  Apennines — if 
not  to  the  top  of  Radicofani. 

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 


AUSTRIANS    IN    ITALY.  429 


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  tho 
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  ! 

At  Placenza,  one  of  those  admirable  German  bands  was 
playing  in  the  public  square,  while  a  small  corps  of  picked  men 
were  manoeuvred.  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. 
We  crossed  the  Po,  and  entered  Austria's  nominal  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  (wo 
long  hours,  they  had  the  uodesty  to  ask  to  be  paid  for  letting  u* 


430  THE    CATHEDRAL    AT    MILAN. 


off  lightly.  When  we  declined  it,  the  chef  threatened  us  a 
precious  searching  "  the  next  time.'1''  How  willingly  I  would 
submit  to  the  annoyance  to  have  that  next  time  assured  to  me ! 
Every  step  I  take  toward  the  bounds  of  Italy,  pulls  so  upon  my 
heart  ! 

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  cafes,  the  elegant  shops,  the  variety  of  strange 
people  and  costumes,  and  a  new  gallery  lately  opened  in  imitation 
of  the  glass-roofed  passages  of  the  French  capital,  make  one 
almost  feel  that  the  next  turn  will  bring  him  upon  the 
Boulevards. 

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  thai 
must  stand  high  on  the  list  of  new  sensations.  It  is  a  vast 
structure  withal,  but  a  middling  easterly  breeze,  one  would  think 


GUERCINO'S    HAGAR.  431 


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  pave- 
ment 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. 

The  JBrera  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  mysalf  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  deseriba  the  werld  of  meaning  in  her  face  : 


432  MILANESE    COFFEE. 


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. 

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. 


LETTER    LXIII, 

A    MELANCHOLY    PROCESSION LAGO    MAGGIORE ISOLA    BELLA 

THE    SIMPLON MEETING    A    FELLOW-COUNTRYMAN THE  VAL- 
LEY OF  THE  RHONE. 

IN  going  out  of  the  gates  of  Milan,  we  met  a  cart  full 
of  peasants,  tied  together  and  guarded  by  gens  d'armcs,  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  mel- 
ancholy contrast  to  their  sad  faces. 

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 
19 


434  STILL    IN    ITALY. 


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. 

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  "  buon  giorno."  Those 
dark-lined  mountains  before  us  were  to  separate  me  too  soon 
from  the  mellow  accents  in  which  it  was  spoken.  As  yet,  how- 
ever, 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. 

We  were  at  Baveno  at  an  early  hour,  and  took  a  boat  for  Isola 
Bella.  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  stono 


ISOLA    BELLA.  435 


staircase,  where  a  cicerone,  with  a  look  of  suppressed  wisdom, 
common  to  his  vocation,  met  us  with  the  offer  of  his  services. 

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  cus- 
tode  to  a  pretty  contadina,  who  announced  herself  as  the  gar- 
dener'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  con- 
structed a  la  grotte — 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. 

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  cit- 
ron, 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 


436  ASCENT    OF    THE    SIMPLON 


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. 

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. 

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. 

We  were  a  little  in  start  of  the  sun  this  morning,  and  com- 
menced the  ascent  of  the  Simplon  by  a  gray  summer's  dawn,  be- 
fore 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  routo 
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  dis- 
tance with  pretty  waterfalls,  messengers  from  the  melting  snows 
on  the  summits.  There  was  one,  a  water-slide  rather  than  a  fall, 
which  I  stopped  long  to  admire.  It  came  from  near  the  peak  of 


FAREWELL    TO    ITALY.  437 


the  mountain,  leaping  at  first  from  a  green  clump  of  firs,  and  de- 
scending 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  ellipti- 
cal 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. 

After  seven  hours'  driving,  which  scarce  seemed  ascending  but 
for  the  snow  and  ice  and  the  clear  air  it  brought  us  into,  we  stop- 
ped 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  Lom- 
bardy,  and  if  I  did  not  say  the  poetical  thing,  it  was  because 

"  It  is  the  silent  grief  that  cuts  the  heart-strings." 

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  live  in  Italy  ! 


438  AN    AMERICAN. 


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  askeil 
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  i-i\i\it. 
Hia  name  and  country  were  on  the  brass  plate  of  his  portmanteau 
in  most  legible  letters,  and  I  recognized  it  directly  as  the  address 


DESCENT    OF    THE    SIMPLON.  439 


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 
over-fine  clothes,  over  fine-words,  and  over-fine,  or  over-free 


manners  ! 


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  Khone, 
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. 


LETTER   LXIV, 

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. 

We  have  been  two  days  and  a  half  loitering  down  through  the 
Swiss  canton  of  Valais,  and  admiring  every  hour  the  magnifi- 
cence 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. 

The  two  dreadful  curses  of  these  valleys  meet  one  at  every 
step — the  cretins,  or  natural  fools,  of  which  there  is  at  least  one 
in  every  family  ;  and  the  goitre  or  swelled  throat,  to  which  then 
is  hardly  an  exception  among  the  women.  It  really  makes  travel 


THE    CRETINS— THE    GOITRE.  441 


/ing  in  Switzerland  a  melancholy  business,  with  all  its  beauty  ;  at 
every  turn  in  the  road,  a  gibbering  and  moaning  idiot,  and  m 
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 
goitre,  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  cretins  1  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. 

The  dress  of  the  women  of  La  Valais  is  excessively  unbe- 
coming, and  a  pretty  face  is  rare.  Their  manners  are  kind  and 
polite,  and  at  the  little  auberges,  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. 

At  Turttman,  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  Turttmann  ! 
19* 


442  FIRST    SIGHT    OF    LAKE    LEMAN. 

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  castle  of  Chilian.  A  bold  green  moun 
tain,  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  ne  plus  ultra  of  a 
scenery  Paradise. 

We  are  stopping  for  the  night  at  St.  Gingoulf,  on  a  swelling 
bank  of  the  lake,  and  we  have  been  lying  under  the  trees  m 
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  arc  deaf- 
ening the  house  with  their  chattering.  A  cup  of  coffee,  and  then 
good  night ! 

My  companion,  who  has  travelled  all  over  Europe  on  foot, 
confirms  my  opinion  that  there  is  no  drive  on  the  continent,  e  jual 


MONT    BLANC.  443 


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  mountain? 
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. 

We  passed  a  bridge  and  drew  in  a  long  breath  to  try  the 
difference  in  the  air — we  were  in  the  republic  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  (republi' 
cans  by  nature  as  well  as  birds)  were  less  fragrant  under  a 
monarchy. 

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  very  superior  to  his  fellows.  After  a  look  or  two  at 
him  as  we  approached  Geneva,  I  ceased  straining  my  bead  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. — 


444  JUNE    IN    GENEVA. 

sweet  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,  one  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. 

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. 

I  was  pleased  to  find  the  boat  (a  new  one)  called  the  ''  Wink- 
elreid,"  in  compliment  to  the  vessel  which  makes  the  same 


THE    WINKELREID.  445 


voyage  in  Cooper's  "  Headsman  of  Berne."  The  day  altogether 
had  begun  like  a  chapter  in  a  romance. 

"  Lake  Leman  wooed  us  with  its  crystal  face," 

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." 

The  "  Winkelreid"  has  (for  a  republican  steamer),  rather  tha 
aristocratical  arrangement  of  making  those  who  walk  aft  the 
funnel  pay  twice  as  much  as  those  who  choose  to  promenade 
forward — 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  particu- 
larly 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. 


LETTER    LXV, 

LAKE    LEMAN AMERICAN    APPEARANCE     OF    THE    GENEVE8S — 

STEAMBOAT  OF  THE  RHONE GIBBON  AND  ROUSSEAU ADVEN- 
TURE   OF   THE  LILIES GENEVESE    JEWELLERS RESIDENCE    OF 

VOLTAIRE  —  BYRON'S    NIGHT-CAP  —  VOLTAIRE'S   WALKING-STICK 
AND   STOCKINGS. 

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  are  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  G-eneva  might  make  an  American  Genevese 
fancy  himself  at  home  on  the  Lcman.  There  is  that  subdued 


AMERICAN    AND    GENEVESE    STEAMERS.  447 


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. 

I  lost  sight  of  the  town  of  Morges,  eating  a  tete-a-tete 
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. 

We  were  at  Lausanne  at  eleven,  having  steamed  forty  miles  in 
five  hours.  This  is  not  quite  up  to  the  thirty-nailers  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. 

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,  "  faite  pour  une  Julie,  pour  une  Claire,  et  pour 


448  LILLIES    OF    THE    VALLEY. 


un  Saint  Preux,"  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. 

There  were  some  other  circumstances  at  Lausanne  which 
interested  us — but  which  criticism  has  decided  can  not  be 
obtruded  upon  the  public.  We  looked  about  for  "  Julie"  and 
"  Clare,"  spite  of  Rousseau's  "  ne  les  y  cherchez  pas,"  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. 

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  scejiery  in  a  different  light.  Trees,  houses,  and  mountains, 
are  so  much  finer  seen  against  the  sun,  with  the  deep  shadows 
toward  you ! 

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 


A    FRENCHMAN'S    APOLOGY.  449 


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  la  biere  et  les  cotteleltes,  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. 
Sequiter,  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  ! 

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. 

The  far-famed  jewellers  of  G-eneva  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  Brmnmel. 
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. 

We  were  sitting  at  the  table  d'hote,  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,  wo 


450  GENEVESE    WOMEN. 


presumed,  to  a  ball,  at  least.  Mr.  So-and-so  (1  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." 

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  country- 
woman 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. 

I  hope  "  Maria  Wilhelmina  Amelia  Skeggs"  will  forgive  me 
for  having  gone  to  Ferney  in  an  omnibus  !  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 


VOLTAIRE'S    ROOM.  451 


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  ot  the 
arbors,  the  wife  of  a  French  nobleman  to  whom  the  house 
belongs,  and  were  bowed  into  the  hail  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  ridicu- 
lous 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  philos- 
ophers', including  Franklin.  A  little  monument  stands  opposite 
the  fireplace,  with  the  inscription,  "  mon  esprit  est  par  tout,  et  man 
coKur  est  id."  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. 


LETTER    LXVI. 

PRACTICAL    BATHOS  OF    CELEBRATED  PLACES TRAVELLING  COM- 
PANIONS AT  THE  SIMPLON CUSTOM-HOUSE  COMFORTS — TRIALS 

OF    TEMPER CONQUERED    AT    LAST  ! DIFFERENT    ASPECTS  OF 

FRANCE,  ITALY,  AND  SWITZERLAND FORCE  OF  POLITENESS. 

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  hav- 
ing 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"  should  be 
very  interesting  places  to  the  traveller,  and  yet  when  he  is  shown 
Gibbon's  bower  by  a  fellow  scratching  his  head  and  hitting  up 
his  trousers  the  while,  and  the  nightcap  that  enclosed  r'n  busy 
brain  from  which  sprang  the  fifty  brilliant  tomes  on  his  shelves,  by 
a  country-girl,  who  hurries  through  her  drilled  description,  with 
her  eye  on  the  silver  douceur  in  his  fingers,  he  is  very  likely  to 
rub  his  hand  over  his  eyes,  and  disclaim,  quite  honestly,  all  pre- 
tensions to  enthusiasm.  And  yet,  I  dare  say,  I  shall  have  a 


THE    JURA.  453 

great  deal  of  pleasure  in  remembering  that  I  have  been  at  Ferney , 
As  an  English  traveller  would  say,  "  I  have  done  Voltaire  !" 

Quite  of  the  opinion  that  it  was  not  doing  justice  to  Greneva  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  leaux  jours  of  love,  money,  and  leisure, 
shall  have  arrived,  I  crossed  the  Rhone  at  sunrise,  and  turned 
my  face  toward  Paris. 

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, 

"their  leaf 
By  some  o'er-hasty  angel  was  misplaced." 

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. 

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 


454  ARRIVAL    AT   MOREZ. 


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. 

Our  trunks,  carpet-bags,  hat-boxes,  dressing-cases,  and  port- 
feuilles,  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. 

We  were  then  requested  to  walk  into  a  private  room,  while  the 
ladies,  for  the  same  purpose,  were  taken,  by  a  woman,  into  an- 
other. Here  we  were  requested  to  unbutton  our  coats,  and,  beg- 
ging 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  Greneva 
jewelry.  Still,  I  kept  my  temper. 

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  ! 

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 


LOS1    MY    TEMPER.  455 


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,  ton  gre,  mal  gre,  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,  mak- 
ing out  a  description  of  the  person  of  each,  demanded  half  a  dol- 
lar 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  ! 

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  arretez  vous  brought  up  the 
carriage  to  the  door  of  another  custom-house  !  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 
.^x<ch  for  contraband  articles.  When  it  was  all  through,  and  the 
officers  and  men  paid  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 ! 

I  confess  I  expected  better  things  of  France.  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  ;  a»d 
where  in  the  world,  except  in  France,  is  a  party,  travelling  evi- 


456  NATIONAL    CHARACTERISTICS. 


dently  for  pleasure,  subjected  twice,  at  the  same  border  to  the  de- 
grading 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  suc- 
cessive parties  of  scoundrels,  whom  you  are  to  pay  "  by  order  of 
the  government,"  for  their  trouble  ! 


The  Simplon,  which  you  pass  in  a  day,  divides  two  nations, 
each  other's  physical  and  moral  antipodes.  The  handsome,  pic- 
turesque, lazy,  unprincipled  Italian,  is  left  in  the  morning  in  his 
.*&.  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,  an- 
other 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  cretins  and.  goitres,  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. 

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 


POLITENESS    VERSUS    COMFORT.  457 

in  its  Mi-attention,  and  after  a  bad  supper,  worse  beds,  and  every 
kind  of  annoyance,  down  comes  my  lady-hostess  in  the  momma- 
to  receive  her  coin,  and  if  you  can  fly  into  a  passion  with  such  a 
cap,  and  such  a  smile,  and  such  a  "  ton  jour,"  you  are  of  less 
penetrable  stuff  than  man  is  commonly  made  of. 

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. 

We  are  dawdling  along  thirty  miles  a  day  through  Burgundy, 
sick  to  death  of  the  bare  vine-stakes,  and  longing  to  see  a  fes- 
tooned 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 
^  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  politeness.  And  it 
is  odd  how  it  reconciles  you  to  it  all. 

20 


LETTER   LXVI1, 

PARIS   AND    LONDON REASONS  FOR   LIKING    PARIS JOYOUSNES8 

OF  ITS  CITIZENS LAFAYETTE'S  FUNERAL — ROYAL  RESPECT  AND 

VRATITUDE — ENGLAND — DOVER — ENGLISH  NEATNESS  AND  COM- 
FORT, 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.    TROLLOPS. 

IT  is  pleasant  to  get  back  to  Paris.  One  meets  everybody 
there  one  ever  saw  ;  and  operas  and  coffee,  Taglioni  and  Leon- 
tine  Fay,  tbe  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. 

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  frotteur  who 
takes  the  dust  from  your  boots,  sings  his  lovesong  as  he  brushes 
away,  the  old  man  has  his  bouquet  iu  his  bosom,  and  the  beggar 


LAFAYETTE'S    FUNERAL.  459 


looks  up  at  the  new  statue  of  Napoleon  in  the  Place  Yendome — 
everybody  has  some  touch  of  fancy,  some  trace  of  a  heart  on  the 
look-out,  at  least,  for  pleasure. 

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,  ex- 
pressed on  every  side  among  the  people,  and  the  ill-smothered 
cries  of  disgust  as  the  two  empty  royal  carriages  went  by,  in  the 
funeral  train,  seemed  to  me  strong  enough  to  indicate  a  settled 
and  universal  hostility  to  the  government. 

I  met  Dr.  Bowring  on  the  Boulevard  after  the  funeral  was 
over.  '  I  had  not  seen  him  for  two  years,  but  he  could  tals  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  ha.ve 
buried  Liberty  and  Lafayette  together — our  last  hope  in  Europe 
is  quite  dead  with  him  !" 


After  three  delightful  days  in  Paris  we  took  the  northern  dili- 
gence ;  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  cafe,  we  were  likely  to 
see  for  a  long  time,  and  some  unsatisfactory  inquiries  about  Beau 


460  CROSSING    THE    CHANNEL. 

Brummelt  who  is  said  to  live  here  still,  filled  up  till  bedtime  our 
Jast  day  on  the  continent. 

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  have  seen  "  the  Euxine,"  "  the  roughest 
sea  the  traveller  e'er s,"  etc.,  according  to  Don  Juan. 

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  ! 

My  companion  led  the  way  to  a  hotel,  and  we  were  introduced 
by  English  waiters  (I  had  not  seen  such  a  thing  in  three  years, 
and  it  was  quite  like  being  waited  on  by  gentlemen),  to  two  blaz- 
ing 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  would  ring  the  bell,  doors  that  would 
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. 

Malgre  all  my  observations  on  the  English,  whom  I  have 
found  elsewhere  the  most  open-hearted  and  social  people  in  the 


AN    ENGLISH    INN.  451 


world,  they  are  said  by  themselves  and  others  to  be  just  the  con- 
trary ;  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  ! 

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  la  belle 
France. 

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  beau- 
tiful 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  coach- 
man's box,  and  the  whole  affair,  though  it  would  carry  twelve  or 


462  MAIL    COACHES    AND    HORSES. 


fourteen  people,  covered  less  ground  than  a  French  one-horse 
cabriolet.  It  was  altogether  quite  a  study. 

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  ! 
1  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. 

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  way- 
side beggars  of  the  continent  was  very  striking. 

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-passen- 
gers 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 


A    GENTLEMAN    DRIVER.  463 


the  smooth  road  without  noise,  and  with  scarce  a  sense  of  motion 
— it  was  the  perfection  of  travel. 

The  new  driver  from  Canterbury  rather  astonished  me.  He 
drove  into  London  every  day,  and  was  more  of  a  "swell."  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  "  II  Pirati,"  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  unex- 
ceptionable. 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. 

At  Chatham  \ve  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  ques- 
tions, 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 


464  A    SUBJECT    FOR    MADAME    TROLLOPE. 


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  hav>,  heMen  that  on  a  stage-coach 
acquaintance. 


LETTER   LXVIII. 

FIRST  VIEW  CF  LONDON THE  KING'S  BIRTHDAY PROCESSION  OP 

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  LITE- 
RATURE. 

LONDON. — 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  ! 

From  Blackheath  (seven  or  eight  miles  from  the  centre  of 
London),  the  beautiful  hedges  disappeared,  and  it  was  one  con- 
tinued mass  of  buildings.  The  houses  were  amazingly  small,  a 
kind  of  thing  that  would  do  for  an  object  in  an  imitation  perspec- 
tive 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 
20* 


466  FIRST    DINNER    IN    LONDON 


grass-plot,  and  very,  oh,  very  sweet  faces  bent  over  lapfuls  of 
work  beneath  the  snowy  and  looped-up  curtains.  It  was  all 
home-like  and  amiable.  There  was  an  ajfectionateness  in  the 
mere  outside  of  every  one  of  them. 

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-oflice,  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  mechan- 
ical operations  of  life,"  however,  and  I  dressed  and  dined, 
though  it  was  my  first  hour  in  London. 

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  exces- 
sively out  of  breath  with  mounting  one  flight  of  stairs.  Beef- 
steak and  potatoes,  a  pot  of  porter,  and  a  bottle  of  sherry 
followed  close  on  his  heels.  With  a  single  apology  for  the  intru- 
sion, the  reverend  gentleman  fell  to,  and  we  ate  and  drauk  for  a 
while  in  true  English  silence. 

"  From  Oxford,  sir,  I  presume,"  he  said  at  last,  pushing  back 
his  plate,  with  an  air  of  satisfaction. 

"  No,  I  had  never  the  pleasure  of  seeing  Oxford." 

"  R — e — ally  !  may  I  take  a  glass  of  wine  with  you,  sir  ?" 


THE    KING'S    BIRTH-DAY.  467 


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  levee.  The  show  was  less  splendid  than  the  same 
thing  in  Rome  or  Vienna,  but  it  excited  far  more  of  my  admira- 
tion. G-audiness  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. 

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  con  amore,  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. 

We    walked    down   Piccadilly,  and    turned    into,    beyond   all 


468  A    HANDSOME    STREET. 


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. 

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  ;  aad,  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  mys- 
terious change  in  my  own  ears — a  sudden  power   of  comprehen- 
sion, 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, 


INTRODUCTION    TO    LADY    BLESSIXGTON.  469 


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. 

A  friend  in  Italy  had  kindly  given  me  a  letter  to  Lady  Bless- 
ington,  and  with  a  strong  curiosity  to  see  this  celebrated  lady,  T 
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. 

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  remarkarkable  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  conversa- 
tion went  swimmingly  on. 


470  A    CHAT    ABOUT    BULWER. 


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,  Gait, 
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  Franca.  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  hofo  is  a  Roman  dandy,  who 
wastes  himself  in  luxury,  till  this  great  catastrophe  rouses  him 
and  develops  a  character  of  the  noblest  capabilities.  Is  Gait 
much  liked  ?" 

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. 

"  I  am  sorry  for  it,"  said  Lady  B.,  "for  he  is  the  dearest  and 


THE    D'ISRAELPS.  471 


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." 

"  Nil  mortuis  nisi  bonum,"  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. 

"  Perhaps — perhaps.  But  Gait  has  been  all  his  life  miserably 
poor,  and  lived  by  his  books.  That  must  be  his  apology.  Bw 
you  know  the  D'Israeli's  in  America  ?" 

I  assured  her  ladyship  that  the  "  Curiosities  of  Literature,"  by 
the  father,  and  "  Vivian  Grey  and  Contarini  Fleming,"  by  the 
so'n,  were  universally  known. 

"  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 
cVowded  with  talent,  but  very  soigne  of  his  curls,  and  a  bit  of  a 
coxcomb.  There  is  no  reserve  about  him,  however,  and  he  is  the 
only  joyous  dandy  I  ever  saw." 

1  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. 


472  CONTRAST    OF    CRITICISM. 


"  Ob,  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  conversa- 
tions 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." 

I  accounted  for  it  by  the  perfect  seclusion  in  which  great  num- 
bers 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  voca- 
tions. I,  for  one,  would  never  write  another  line. 

"  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,  pri- 
vate 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. 
\Ve  think  already  a  great  deal  of  your  praise  or  censure." 

I  asked  if  her  ladyship  had  known  many  Americans. 

"  Not  in  London,  but  a  great  many  abroad.     I  was  with  Lord 


COUNTESS    GUICC1OLI.  473 


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  re- 
member vgry  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." 

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  tho 
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  Gruiccioli  on  the  Continent,  and  I  asked  Lady  Blessing 
ton  if  she  knew  her. 

"  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. 

She  had  told  me  the  same  thing  herself  in  Italy. 

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 


474  LADY    BLESSINGTON. 


finishing  for  memory,  a  portrait  of  the*  celebrated  and  beautiful 
woman  before  me. 

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  th« 
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  tbp  rjainter's  most  inspired  hour. 
The  original  is  now  (she  confessed  it  very  frankly)  forty.     Sho 
looks  something  on  the  sunny  sid^  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  miliner,  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  shoul- 
ders, while  her  hair  dressed  close  to  her  head,  and  parted  simply 
on  her  forehead  with  a  rich  ferroniere  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  fascina- 


AN    APOLOGY.  475 


ting  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." 

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  every- 
thing 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 


LETTER  LXIX, 

THE     LITERATI     OF     LONDON. 

SJ?ENT  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,"  u  Grosvenor  Square,"  "Hyde  Park," 
look  new  to  my  eye,  but  they  sound  very  familiar  to  my  i'.»r. 

The  equipages  of  London  are  much  talked  of,  but  tl:  y  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  hamraercloth  and  liveries  of  the  neatest  and 


AN    EVENING    AT    LADY    BLESSINGTON'S.  477 


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  prevail- 
ing 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  impor- 
tant features  of  London  for  maturer  observation. 

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. 

Nearest  me  sat  Smith,  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  baud, 
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  aside  in  the  conversation,  whipping  in  with  a  quiz  or  a 


478  FONBLANC. 


witticism  •whenever  he  could  get  an  opportunity,  but  more  a 
listener  than  a  talker. 

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. 

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 

Whose  "  coat  was  red,  and  whose  breeches  were  blue." 

A  hollow,  croaking  voice,  and  a  small,  fiery  black  eye,  with  a 
smile  like  a  skeleton's,  certainly  did  not  improve  his  physiog- 
nomy. 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. 

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 


TRIBUTE    TO    AMERICAN    AUTHORS. 


no  attempt  to  listen ,  a  fatuous  traveller  just  returned  from 
Constantinople ;  and  the  splendid  person  of  Count  D'Orsay  in  a 
careless  attitude  upon  the  ottoman,  completed  the  cordon. 

I  fell  into  conversation  after  a  while  with  Smith,  who,  suppos- 
ing 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,  aud  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.  J 
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 


480  A    SKETCH    OF    BULWER. 


immediate  tribute  paid  to  his  delightful  poetry  by  the  talented 
circle  around  her. 

Toward  twelve  o'clock,  "  Mr.  Lytton  Bulwer"  was  announced, 
and  enter  the  author  of  Pelham.  I  had  made  up  my  mind  how 
he  should  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  announce- 
ment. Imprimis,,  the  gentleman  who  entered  was  not  handsome. 
I  beg  pardon  of  the  boarding-schools — but  he  really  was  not. 
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.  Au 
reste,  I  liked  his  manners  extremely.  He  ran  up  to  Lady  Bless- 
ington,  with  the  joyous  heartiness  of  a  boy  lot  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  intro- 
duction to  him  from  a  friend  in  Italy,  Lady  Blessington  introduced 
me  particularly,  and  we  had  a  long  conversation  about  Naples 
and  its  pleasant  society. 

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 


BULWER'S    CONVERSATION.  481 

extreme  prominence  by  an  immense  pair  of  red  whiskers,  which 
entirely  conceal  the  lower  part  of  his  face  in  profile.  His  com- 
plexion 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  my  impression. 

I  can  imagine  no  style  of  conversation  calculated  to  be  more 
agreeable  than  Bulwer's.  Gray,  quick,  various,  half-satirical,  and 
always  fresh  and  different  from  everbody  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  showman 
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  correc- 
21 


482  AN    AUTHOR    HIS    OWN    CRITIC. 


tions.  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  could  !  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  ?" 

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. 

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. 

"  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. 


LETTER  LXX. 

LONDON VISIT     TO      A     RACE-COURSE GIPSIES THE      PRINCESS 

VICTORIA SPLENDID  APPEARANCE    OF  THE  ENGLISH    NOBILITY 

A    BREAKFAST    WITH  ELIA    AND  BRIDGET    ELIA MYSTIFICA- 
TION— CHARLES  LAMB'S  OPINION  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 

I  HAVE  just  returned  from  Ascot  races.  Ascot  Heath,  on 
which  the  coufse  is  laid  out,  is  a  high  platform  of  land,  beauti- 
fully 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. 

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  no* 
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. 


484  ASCOT    RACES. 


"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  TJS  to  choose  our  own 
places. 

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  exhilarat- 
ing contest. 

Soon  after  we  arrived,  the  King  and  royal  family  drove  up  the 
course  with  twenty  carriages,  and  scores  of  postillions  and  out- 
riders 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.  Siicn  norses  !  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. 

Whiz  !  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,  "  GHaucus  is 


HANDSOME    MEN.  485 


losing,"  said  some  one  on  the  top  of  a  carriage  above  me,  but 
round  they  swept  again,  and  1  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. 

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 
men.  The  nobility  of  this  country,  unlike  every  other,  is  by  far 
the  manliest  and  finest  looking  class  of  its  population.  The 
contadini  of  Rome,  the  lazzaroni  of  Naples,  the  paysans  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. 

Excitement  is  hungry,  and,  after  the  first  race,  our  party  pro- 
duced 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  anal  fresco  style  worthy  of  Italy.  Two  veritable  Bohe- 
mians, 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. 

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. 

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 


486  THE    PRINCESS    VICTORIA. 


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. 

[The  following  sketch  was  written  a  short  time  previous  to  the 
death  of  Charles  Lamb.] 

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  ? 

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.  11.  is  a  gentleman 
•who,  everybody  says,  should  have,  been  an  author,  but  who  never 
wrote  a  book.  He  is  a  profound  German  scholar,  has  travelled 


CHARLES    LAMB.  487 


much,  is  the  intimate  friend  of  Southey,  Coleridge,  and  Lamb, 
has  breakfasted  with  Goethe,  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. 

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  "  Valen- 
tine'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 
Listen  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. 

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  eyo, 
aquiline  nose,  and  a  very  indescribable  mouth.  Whether  it 
expressed  most  humor  or  feeling,  good  nature  or  a  kind  of  whim- 


488  MARY    LAMB. 


sical  peevishness,  or  twenty  other  things  which  passed  over  it  by 
turns,  I  can  not  in  the  least  be  certain. 

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  cham- 
bers, 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.  u  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." 

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  your  Confes- 
sions of  a  Drunkard  very  much,  and  I  was  saying  that  it  was  no 
merit  of  yours,  that  you  understood  the  subject."  We  had  been 


LAMB'S    CONVERSATION.  489 


speaking  of  this  admirable  essay  (which  is  his  own),  half  an  hour 
before. 

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  Eng- 
land. Lamb  said,  "  I  don't  know  much  of  American  authors. 
Mary,  there,  devours  Cooper's  novels  with  a  ravenous  appetite, 
with  which  1  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." 

Mr.  K.  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. 

"  What  did  you  give  for  it  ?"  said  Lamb. 

"About  seven  and  sixpence." 

"  Permit  me  to  pay  you  that,"  said  he,  and  with  the  utmost 
earnestness  he  counted  out  the  money  upon  the  table. 

"  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  ?" 

I  had  not. 

"  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. 
21* 


490         THE  BREAKFAST  AT  FAULT. 


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. 

"  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." 

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. 

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. 


LETTER    LXXI, 

DHTNER  AT  LADY   BLESSINGTON's BUXWER,   D5ISRAELI,    PROCTER, 

FONBLANC,  ETC. ECCENTRICITIES    OF   BECKFORD,    AUTHOR    OP 

VATHEK — D'ISRAELI'S  EXTRAORDINARY  TALENT  AT  DESCRIPTION. 

DINED  at  Lady  Blessington's,  in  compauy  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),  w'as  Count 
D'Orsay.  There  were  plates  for  twelve. 

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  announce- 
ment, with  a  remarkably  timid  manner,  and  a  very  white  forehead. 

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  embroid- 


492  A    DINNER    AT    LADY    BLESSINGTON'S. 

ered  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. 

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. 

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. 

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  fore- 
head 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. 

D'Israeli  has  one  of  the  most  remarkable  faces  1  ever  saw. 


D'ISRAELI— THE    YOUNGER.  493 

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  extraordi- 
nary 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, 

"  With  thy  incomparable  oil,  Macassar !" 

The  anxieties  of  the  first  course,  as  usual,  kept  every  mouth 
occupied  for  a  while,  and  then  the  dandies  led  off  with  a  discus- 
sion 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  (me  judice).  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. 

The  next  book  discussed  was  Beckford's  Italy,  or  rather  the 
next  author,  for  the  writer  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  enor- 


494  THE    AUTHOR    OF    VATHEK. 


mously  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 
Fontnill,  and,  plus  fort  encore,  his  is  one  of  the  oldest  families  in 
England.  What  could  such  a  man  attempt  that  would  not  be 
considered  extraordinary ! 

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  lan- 
guage 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.* 

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  a  la  Ponte  de  Sospiri,  at 
Venice.  His  servants  live  on  one  side,  and  he  and  his  sole  com- 
panion 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, 

*  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'IsraelL 
The  populace  had  not  read  Vivian  Grey,  however,  and  be  lost  his  election. 


MR.    BECKFORD'S    WHIMS.  495 


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  busi- 
ness. 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. 

Mr.  Beckford  thinks  very  highly  of  his  own  books,  and  talks 
of  his  early  production  (Vathek),  in  terms  of  unbounded  admira- 
tion. He  speaks  slightingly  of  Byron,  and  of  his  praise,  and 
affects  to  despise  utterly  the  popular  taste.  It  appeared  alto- 
gether, 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. 

Victor  Hugo  and  his  extraordinary  novels  came  next  under 
dissussion ;  and  D'Israeli,  who  was  fired  with  his  own  eloquence, 
started  off,  apropos  des  bottes,  with  a  long  story  of  an  empale- 
ment  he  had  seen  in  Upper  Egypt.  It  was  as  sJod,  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 


496  IRISH    PATRIOTISM. 


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. 

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  silvei 
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. 

Bulwer  asked  me  if  there  was  any  distinguished  literary  Atner- 


THE    EFFECT    OF    ELOQUENCE.  497 


ican  iu  town.  I  said,  Mr.  Slidell  one  of  our  best  writers,  was 
here. 

"  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. 

There  was  a  general  laugh  and  a  cry  of  "  Pelham  !  Pelham  !5) 
as  he  finished  his  story.  Nobody  chose  to  believe  it. 

u  I  think  the  name  was    Slidell,"  said  Bulwer. 

"  Slidell !"  said  D'Israeli,  "  I  owe  him  two-pence,  by  Jove  V 
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. 

There  was  another  general  laugh,  and  it  was  agreed  that  on 
the  whole  the  Americans  were  "done." 

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  pic- 
tures 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. 


LETTER  LXXIl. 

THE    ITALIAN     OPERA MADEMOISELLE    GRISI A   GLANCE    AT   LORP 

BROUGHAM MRS.  NORTON  AND  LORD  SEFTON — RAND,  THE  AMER 

ICAN   PORTRAIT    PAINTER AN    EVENING    PARTY    AT    BULWER's 

PALMY  STATE    OF   LITERATURE    IN    MODERN    DAYS FASHIONABLE 

NEGLECT  OF  FEMALES PERSONAGES  PRESENT SHIEL  THE  ORA- 
TOR, THE  PRINCE  OF  MOSCOWA,  MRS.  LEICESTER  STANHOPE,  THE 
CELEBRATED  BEAUTY,  ETC.,  ETC. 

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  conti- 
nent. 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. 

Grisi  is  young,  very  pretty,  and  an  admirable  actress —  three 
great  advantages  to  a  singer.  Her  voice  is  under  absolute  com- 
mand, and  she  manages  it  beautifully,  but  it  wants  the  infusion  of 


THE    OPERA    HOUSE.  499 


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. 

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  dair  obscure  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  habitue,  is  a  gayer  thing  to  the 
many. 

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,  flirt- 
ing desperately  with  a  pretty  woman  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
house,  his  mouth  going  with  the  convulsive  twitch  which  so  dis- 
figures 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  gastro- 
nomic 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  ballet.  Beauty  and  all,  the  English 
opera-house  surpasses  anything  I  have  seen  in  the  way  of  a 
spectacle. 


500  WHAT    BOOKS    WILL    PAY    FOR. 


An  evening  party  at  Bulwer's.  Not  yet  perfectly  initiated  iu 
London  hours,  I  arrived,  not  far  from  eleven,  and  found  Mrs. 
Bubrer  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. 

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 
rf  London,  where  rents  are  ruinously  extravagant,  entertains  a 
jreat  deal,  and  is  expensive  in  all  his  habits,  and  for  this  pay 
Messrs.  Clifford,  Pelham,  and  Aram — (it  would  seein),  most 
•ixcellent  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. 

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. 

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 


ENGLISH    BEAUTY.  501 


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  retract- 
ed. 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. 

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  Amer- 
ica, 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  lore !  How  different  are 
the  same  men  at  Naples  !  They  can  never  get  enough  of  one 
there !  We  are  surrounded  and  run  after, 


502  A    BELLE'S    CRITICISM    ON    SOCIETY. 


" '  Our  poodle  dog  is  quite  adored, 
Our  sayings  are  extremely  quoted," 

and  really,  one  feels  that  one  is  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  Strada  Nuova,  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." 

There  were  only  three  men  in  the  party,  which  was  a  very 
crowded  one,  who  could  come  under  the  head  of  beaux.  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  be- 
tween 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  coun- 
tenance, 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 


CELEBRITIES.  593 


throat,  unconscious  of  everything  but  the  presence  of  the  Honor- 
able 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  Bow- 
ring,  who  joined  us  witn  a  paean  for  the  o*d  general  and  hi» 
iar-«isures,  till  it  was  far  into  the  morning. 


LETTER    LXXII1. 

BREAKFAST  WITH  BARRY  CORNWALL LUXURY  OF  THE  FOLLOW 

ERS   OF    THE    MODERN    MUSE BEAUTY    OF    THE    DRAMATIC 

SKETCHES    GAINS   PROCTOR    A   WIFE HAZLITT's    EXTRAOR- 
DINARY   TASTE    FOR    THE   PICTURESQUE    IN    WOMEN COLE- 

RIDGE'S   OPINION   OF   CORNWALL. 

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,  how- 
ever, 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. 

Mr.  Procter  is  a  barrister ;  and  his  "  whereabout"  H  more 
like  that  of  a  lord  chancellor  than  a  poet  proper.  V.  ith  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  poetica] 


BREAKFAST  WITH  PROCTER.         505 

namesake,  I  hoped  would  smooth  my  apology  for  the  intrusion. 
Buried  in  a  deep  morocco  chair,  in  a  large  library,  notwithstand- 
ing, 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  canon- 
ical 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. 

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, 

"  How  many  summers,  love, 
Hast  thou  been  mine  ?" 

and  looked  at  them  with  an  inexpressible  feeling  of  envy.  A 
beautiful  girl,  of  eight  or  nine  years,  the  "  golden-tressed  Ade- 
laide," 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. 

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 
22 


506  A    STORY    OF    HAZLITT. 


could  not  well  repeat  in  a  public  letter.  The  account  of  Hazlitt'a 
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  ?"* 

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  Fongs,  published  since  I  have  been  ID 
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^re 
wretched  things,  which  should  never  have  been  printed,  or  at  least 

*  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 !  Tt  seems  to  me  there  is  a 
whole  drama  in  this  single  fact. 


PROCTER   AS   A   POET.  507 

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  tb«  most  highly- 
finished  and  exquisite  piece  of  pathos  in  the  language,  and  read 
it  to  me  with  his  alterations.  It  was  to  "  gild  refined  g«id,  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. 

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.'r 
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 : 

"  Barry  Cornwall  is  a  poet,  me  saltern  judice,  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. 

"  The  faults  of  these  poems  are  no  less  things  of  hope  than  the  beauties. 
Both  are  just  what  they  ought  to  be :  i.  e.  now. 

"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  naturalistin 
the  light  as  well  as  the  life  of  philosophy.  All  other  men's  worlds  are  his 
chaos. 


508  IMPRESSIONS    OF    THE    MAN. 

"  Hints— Not  to  permit  delicacy  and  exquisiteness  to  seduce  into  effemi- 
nacy. 

"  Not  to  permit  beauties  by  repetition  to  become  mannerism. 

"  To  be  jealous  of  fragmentary  composition  as  epicurism  of  genius— apple- 
pie  made  all  of  quinces. 

u  Item.  That  dramatic  poetry  must  be  poetry  hid  in  thought  and  passion, 
not  thought  or  passion  hid  in  the  dregs  of  poetry. 

•'  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,  ergo,  suc- 
cessive, ergo  every  the  smallest  star  must  be  seen  singly. 

"  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  (competence  protecting  him 
from  gnawing  and  distracting  cares) ,  to  become  a  rightful  poet— i.  e.  a  great 
man. 

"  Oh,  for  such  a  man ;  worldly  prudence  is  transfigured  into  the  high  spir- 
itual duty.  How  generous  is  self-interest  in  him,  whose  true  self  is  all  tha. 
is  good  and  hopeful  in  all  ages  as  far  as  the  language  of  Spenser,  Shakspeare, 
and  Milton,  is  the  mother  tongue 

"  A  map  of  the  road  to  Paradise,  drawn  in  Purgatory  on  the  confines  of 
Hell,  by  S.  T.  C.  July  30,  1819." 

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,  a  business- 
man 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  &a  he 
is,  or  the  poet  as  we  know  him  in  his  books. 


LETTER   LXXIV, 

AW    EVENING   AT    LADY     BLESSINGTON's ANECDOTES    OF    MOORE, 

THE  POET TAYLOR,  THE  PLATONIST POLITICS ELECTION  OF 

SPEAKER PRICES  OF  BOOKS. 

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  soirees  and  dinner-parties,  however,  are  literally 
the  single  and  only  assemblages  of  men  of  genius,  without  refe- 
rence 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  inte- 
rested, therefore,  are  found  within  a  very  small  compass,  pre- 
suming them  to  prefer  the  brighter  side  of  an  eminent  character, 
and  presuming  them  (is  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  Eng- 
land. Having  premised  thus  much,  I  go  on  with  my  letter. 

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  emi- 


510  MOORE'S    DREAD    OF    CRITICISM. 


nent  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. 

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  di8soct 
him,  and  he  would  probably  never  hear  of  it.  In  the  country  he 
lives  on  the  estate  of  Lord  Lansdownc,  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, 


MOORE'S    LOVE    OF    RANK. 


perfectly  preserved  from  everything  that  could  blow  rudely  upon 
him.  He  takes  the  world  en  philosophe,  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. 

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  engage- 
ment 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, 
Ladv  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. 

"  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 


512  A    GENEROUS    OFFER,  NOBLY    REFUSED. 


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." 

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  circum- 
stance, 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 
game  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 
•herished  ambition,  but  the  necessity  of  receiving  a  pecuniary 


A    SACRIFICE    TO    JUPITER.  513 


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  circumstan- 
ces." 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. 

By  what  transition  I  know  not,  the  conversation  turned  on  Pla- 
tonism,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  Charge  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  sacerdos  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  sacrificing  a  bull  to  Jupiter  in  his  back 
parlor  /" 

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 
22* 


514  THE    ELECTION    OF    SPEAKER. 

— where,  however,  it  will  never  be  so  well  told,  as  by  the  extra- 
ordinary creature  from  whom  we  had  heard  it. 


February  22d,  1835. — The  excitement  in  London  about  the 
choice  of  a  Speaker  is  something  startling.  It  took  place  yester- 
day, 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  cor- 
onet 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 
soir6e  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  h:>  maj—^y 


MISS    PARDOE.  515 


better,"  said  the  patrician  soldier,  "  I  would  ride  as  king's  mes- 
senger to-morrow  !"  He  certainly  is  a  remarkable  old  fellow. 

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  Kegent-street,  looking 
what  is  called  in  London,  "  uncommon  seedy ."'  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,  senti- 
mental, 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  Long- 
man to  meet  Tom  Moore,  who  is  living  incog,  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. 

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. 


516  PRICES    OF   BOOKS. 


I  think  I  sent  you  in  one  of  my  letters  an  account  of  my  break- 
fasting in  company  with  Charles  Lamb  and  his  sister  ("  Bridget 
Elia")  at  the  Temple.  The  exquisite  papers  on  his  life  and 
"etters  in  the  Athenaeum,  are  by  Barry  Cornwall. 

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  won- 
der 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  real  prices  of  books  ?  Bulwer 
gets  fifteen  hundred  pounds — Lady  B.  four  hundred,  Honorable 
Mrs.  Norton  two  hundred  and  fifty,  Lady  Charlotte  Bury  two 
hundred,  Grattan  three  hundred  and  most  others  below  this. 
D'Israeli  can  not  sell  a  book  at  all,  I  hear  ?  Is  not  that  odd  ? 
I  would  give  more  for  one  of  his  novels,  than  for  forty  of  the 
common  saleable  things  about  town. 

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  ? 


LETTER  LXXV. 

LONDON THE  POET  MOORE LAST  DAYS  OF  SIR  WALTER  BCOTT 

MOORE'S  OPINION  OF  O'CONNELL — ANACREON  AT  THE  PIANO — 
DEATH  OF  BYRON A  SUPPRESSED  ANECDOTE. 

I  CALLED  on  Moore  with  a  letter  of  introduction,  and  met  Mm 
at  the  door  of  his  lodgings.  I  knew  him  instantly  from  the  pic- 
tures I  had  seen  of  him,  but  was  surprised  at  the  diminutivenesa 
of  his  person.  He  is  much  below  the  middle  size,  and  with  his 
white  hat  and  long  chocolate  frock-coat,  was  far  from  prepos- 
sessing 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. 

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 


518  A    DINNER    AT    LADY    BLESSINGTON'S. 


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. 

"  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  gentle- 
men, 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. 

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  sits  tall,  and 
with  the  peculiar  erectness  of  head  and  neck,  his  diminutiveness 
disappears. 

The  soup  vanished  in  the  busy  silence  that  beseems  it,  and  as 


SCOTT— THE    ITALIANS.  519 


the  courses  commenced  their  procession,  Lady  Blessington  led  the 
conversation  with  the  brilliancy  and  ease,  for  which  she  is  remark- 
able 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,  <md  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 


520  SCOTT'S   MODE    OF    LIVING. 


placed  him  in  the  chair  with  the  most  fervent  expressions  of 
gratitude  for  hia  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. 

Some  other  remarks  were  made  upon  Scott,  but  the  parole  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 
Lockbart'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 


O'CONNELL.  521 


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." 

Some  one  remarked  that  Scott's  life  of  Napoleon  was  a  failure. 

"  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." 

"  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." 

"  But  what  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  ?" 

O'Connell  was  mentioned. 

"  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  '  thinking  on  his 
legs,'  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 
without  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  opposition- 
ist, 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 


522  GRATTAN. 

may  say  what  they  will  of  duelling,  it  is  the  great  preserver  of  the 
decencies  of  society.  The  old  school,  which  made  a  man  respon- 
sible 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  : — 

u '  Some  men,  with  a  horror  of  slaughter, 
Improve  on  the  scripture  command. 

And  '  honor  their' wife  and  daughter — 

That  their  days  may  be  long  in  the  land.'  " 

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  purpose- 
ly 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  th* 
gentleman  has  been  pleased  to  make  with  regard  to  myself,  my 
answer  Aere,  is  they  are,  false.  !  elsewhere,  it  would  be — a  blow  ! 


MOORE'S    MANNER    OF    TALKING.  523 


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  him  ."  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,  is  dead !  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.'  " 

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  gentlemanly  describes 
it  better  than  any  other.  It  is  upon  a  natural  key,  but,  if  I  may 
so  phrase  it,  it  is  fused  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 
Jo  attend  to  him  while  he  is  talking,  though  the  subject  were  but 
the  shape  of  a  wine-glass. 

Moore's  head  is  distinctly  before  me  while  I  write,  but  1  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  sobriquet  of  "  Bacchus,"  is  diminished 


524  LADY    BLESSINGTON'S    TACT. 


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  die  mpst  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  feds.  Fascinating 
beyond  all  men  as  he  is,  Moore  looks  like  a  worldling. 

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  sho 
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  ; 


MOORE'S    SINGING.  525 


and  never  had  diffidence  a  more  apprehensive  and  encouraging 
listener.  But  this  is  a  subject  with  which  I  should  never  be 
done. 

"We  went  up  to  coffee,  and  Moore  brightened  again  over  his 
chasse-cafe,  and  went  glittering  on  with  criticisms  on  Grrisi,  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  diffi- 
culty 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  admir- 
able 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. 

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 


526  A    CURIOUS   INCIDENT. 


drop  silently  asleep  where  I  sat,  with  the  tears  in  my  eyes  and  tho 
softness  upon  my  heart. 

"Here's  a  health  to  thee,  Tom  Moore !" 


I  was  in  company  the  other  evening  where  Westrnacott,  the 
sculptor,  was  telling  a  story  of  himself  and  Leigh  Hunt.  They 
were  together  one  day  at  Fiesole,  when  a  butterfly,  of  an  uncom- 
mon sable  color,  alighted  on  Westmacott's  forehead,  and  remained 
there  several  minutes.  Hunt  immediately  cried  out,  "  The  spirrc 
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. 


I  have  just  time  before  the  packet  sails  to  send  you  an  anec- 
dote, that  is  bought  out  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-ser- 
vant in  his  house,  who  had  escaped  from  Botany  Bay.  His 
Lordship  was  somewhat  surprised,  but  called  up  the  mal.^  part  of 
his  household,  at  the  officer's  request,  and  passed  them  \\\  review. 
The  culprit  was  not  among  them.  The  officer  then  requested  to 
see  the  female  part  of  the  establishment ;  and,  to  the  inexpressi- 
ble astonishment  of  the  whole  household,  he  laid  his  hand  upon 
the  shoulder  of  the  lady"**  confidential  maid,  and  informed  her  she 
was  his  prisoner.  A  change  of  dress  was  immediately  sent  for, 


THE    MAID    METAMORPHOSED.  537 

and  miladi's  dressing-maid  was  re-metamorphosed  into  an  effemi- 
nate-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  confi- 
dential 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  tno  .east 
upon  her  qualities  as  a  member  of  the  beau  sexe.  The  story  & 
quite  authentic,  but  hushed  up  out  of  regard  to  the  lady 


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