Pictures From Italy.............................................................................................................................................1

Charles Dickens.......................................................................................................................................1

THE READER'S PASSPORT .................................................................................................................1

CHAPTER I GOING THROUGH FRANCE......................................................................................2

CHAPTER II LYONS, THE RHONE, AND THE GOBLIN OF AVIGNON....................................6

CHAPTER III AVIGNON TO GENOA............................................................................................11

CHAPTER IV GENOA AND ITS NEIGHBOURHOOD.................................................................13

CHAPTER V TO PARMA, MODENA, AND BOLOGNA ..............................................................29

CHAPTER VI THROUGH BOLOGNA AND FERRARA ...............................................................33

CHAPTER VII AN ITALIAN DREAM............................................................................................36

CHAPTER VIII BY VERONA, MANTUA, AND MILAN, ACROSS THE PASS OF THE SIMPLON INTO SWITZERLAND 0

CHAPTER IX TO ROME BY PISA AND SIENA...........................................................................49

CHAPTER X ROME ..........................................................................................................................55

CHAPTER XI A RAPID DIORAMA ................................................................................................78

IF the readers of this volume will be so kind as to take their credentials for the different places which are the

subject of its author's reminiscences, from the Author himself, perhaps they may visit them, in fancy, the

Many books have been written upon Italy, affording many means of studying the history of that interesting

country, and the innumerable associations entwined about it. I make but little reference to that stock of

information; not at all regarding it as a necessary consequence of my having had recourse to the storehouse

for my own benefit, that I should reproduce its easily accessible contents before the eyes of my readers.

Neither will there be found, in these pages, any grave examination into the government or misgovernment of

any portion of the country. No visitor of that beautiful land can fail to have a strong conviction on the subject;

but as I chose when residing there, a Foreigner, to abstain from the discussion of any such questions with any

order of Italians, so I would rather not enter on the inquiry now. During my twelve months' occupation of a

house at Genoa, I never found that authorities constitutionally jealous were distrustful of me; and I should be

sorry to give them occasion to regret their free courtesy, either to myself or any of my countrymen.

There is, probably, not a famous Picture or Statue in all Italy, but could be easily buried under a mountain of

printed paper devoted to dissertations on it. I do not, therefore, though an earnest admirer of Painting and

This Book is a series of faint reflections mere shadows in the water of places to which the imaginations

of most people are attracted in a greater or less degree, on which mine had dwelt for years, and which have

some interest for all. The greater part of the descriptions were written on the spot, and sent home, from time

to time, in private letters. I do not mention the circumstance as an excuse for any defects they may present,

for it would be none; but as a guarantee to the Reader that they were at least penned in the fulness of the

If they have ever a fanciful and idle air, perhaps the reader will suppose them written in the shade of a Sunny

Day, in the midst of the objects of which they treat, and will like them none the worse for having such

I hope I am not likely to be misunderstood by Professors of the Roman Catholic faith, on account of anything

contained in these pages. I have done my best, in one of my former productions, to do justice to them; and I

trust, in this, they will do justice to me. When I mention any exhibition that impressed me as absurd or

disagreeable, I do not seek to connect it, or recognise it as necessarily connected with, any essentials of their

creed. When I treat of the ceremonies of the Holy Week, I merely treat of their effect, and do not challenge

the good and learned Dr. Wiseman's interpretation of their meaning. When I hint a dislike of nunneries for

young girls who abjure the world before they have ever proved or known it; or doubt the EX OFFICIO

sanctity of all Priests and Friars; I do no more than many conscientious Catholics both abroad and at home.

I have likened these Pictures to shadows in the water, and would fain hope that I have, nowhere, stirred the

water so roughly, as to mar the shadows. I could never desire to be on better terms with all my friends than

now, when distant mountains rise, once more, in my path. For I need not hesitate to avow, that, bent on

correcting a brief mistake I made, not long ago, in disturbing the old relations between myself and my

readers, and departing for a moment from my old pursuits, I am about to resume them, joyfully, in

Switzerland; where during another year of absence, I can at once work out the themes I have now in my

mind, without interruption: and while I keep my English audience within speaking distance, extend my

This book is made as accessible as possible, because it would be a great pleasure to me if I could hope,

through its means, to compare impressions with some among the multitudes who will hereafter visit the

And I have only now, in passport wise, to sketch my reader's portrait, which I hope may be thus

ON a fine Sunday morning in the Midsummer time and weather of eighteen hundred and fortyfour, it was,

my good friend, when don't be alarmed; not when two travellers might have been observed slowly making

their way over that picturesque and broken ground by which the first chapter of a Middle Aged novel is

usually attained but when an English travellingcarriage of considerable proportions, fresh from the shady

halls of the Pantechnicon near Belgrave Square, London, was observed (by a very small French soldier; for I

saw him look at it) to issue from the gate of the Hotel Meurice in the Rue Rivoli at Paris.

I am no more bound to explain why the English family travelling by this carriage, inside and out, should be

starting for Italy on a Sunday morning, of all good days in the week, than I am to assign a reason for all the

little men in France being soldiers, and all the big men postilions; which is the invariable rule. But, they had

some sort of reason for what they did, I have no doubt; and their reason for being there at all, was, as you

know, that they were going to live in fair Genoa for a year; and that the head of the family purposed, in that

And it would have been small comfort to me to have explained to the population of Paris generally, that I was

that Head and Chief; and not the radiant embodiment of good humour who sat beside me in the person of a

French Courier best of servants and most beaming of men! Truth to say, he looked a great deal more

patriarchal than I, who, in the shadow of his portly presence, dwindled down to no account at all.

There was, of course, very little in the aspect of Paris as we rattled near the dismal Morgue and over the

Pont Neuf to reproach us for our Sunday travelling. The wineshops (every second house) were driving a

roaring trade; awnings were spreading, and chairs and tables arranging, outside the cafes, preparatory to the

eating of ices, and drinking of cool liquids, later in the day; shoe blacks were busy on the bridges; shops

were open; carts and waggons clattered to and fro; the narrow, uphill, funnellike streets across the River,

were so many dense perspectives of crowd and bustle, particoloured nightcaps, tobaccopipes, blouses,

large boots, and shaggy heads of hair; nothing at that hour denoted a day of rest, unless it were the

appearance, here and there, of a family pleasureparty, crammed into a bulky old lumbering cab; or of some

contemplative holidaymaker in the freest and easiest dishabille, leaning out of a low garret window,

watching the drying of his newly polished shoes on the little parapet outside (if a gentleman), or the airing of

Once clear of the nevertobeforgottenorforgiven pavement which surrounds Paris, the first three days

of travelling towards Marseilles are quiet and monotonous enough. To Sens. To Avallon. To Chalons. A

We have four horses, and one postilion, who has a very long whip, and drives his team, something like the

Courier of Saint Petersburgh in the circle at Astley's or Franconi's: only he sits his own horse instead of

standing on him. The immense jackboots worn by these postilions, are sometimes a century or two old; and

are so ludicrously disproportionate to the wearer's foot, that the spur, which is put where his own heel comes,

is generally halfway up the leg of the boots. The man often comes out of the stable yard, with his whip in

his hand and his shoes on, and brings out, in both hands, one boot at a time, which he plants on the ground by

the side of his horse, with great gravity, until everything is ready. When it is and oh Heaven! the noise they

make about it! he gets into the boots, shoes and all, or is hoisted into them by a couple of friends; adjusts

the rope harness, embossed by the labours of innumerable pigeons in the stables; makes all the horses kick

and plunge; cracks his whip like a madman; shouts 'En route Hi!' and away we go. He is sure to have a

contest with his horse before we have gone very far; and then he calls him a Thief, and a Brigand, and a Pig,

There is little more than one variety in the appearance of the country, for the first two days. From a dreary

plain, to an interminable avenue, and from an interminable avenue to a dreary plain again. Plenty of vines

there are in the open fields, but of a short low kind, and not trained in festoons, but about straight sticks.

Beggars innumerable there are, everywhere; but an extraordinarily scanty population, and fewer children than

I ever encountered. I don't believe we saw a hundred children between Paris and Chalons. Queer old towns,

drawbridged and walled: with odd little towers at the angles, like grotesque faces, as if the wall had put a

mask on, and were staring down into the moat; other strange little towers, in gardens and fields, and down

lanes, and in farmyards: all alone, and always round, with a peaked roof, and never used for any purpose at

all; ruinous buildings of all sorts; sometimes an hotel de ville, sometimes a guardhouse, sometimes a

dwellinghouse, sometimes a chateau with a rank garden, prolific in dandelion, and watched over by

extinguishertopped turrets, and blinkeyed little casements; are the standard objects, repeated over and over

again. Sometimes we pass a village inn, with a crumbling wall belonging to it, and a perfect town of out

houses; and painted over the gateway, 'Stabling for Sixty Horses;' as indeed there might be stabling for sixty

score, were there any horses to be stabled there, or anybody resting there, or anything stirring about the place

but a dangling bush, indicative of the wine inside: which flutters idly in the wind, in lazy keeping with

everything else, and certainly is never in a green old age, though always so old as to be dropping to pieces.

And all day long, strange little narrow waggons, in strings of six or eight, bringing cheese from Switzerland,

and frequently in charge, the whole line, of one man, or even boy and he very often asleep in the foremost

cart come jingling past: the horses drowsily ringing the bells upon their harness, and looking as if they

thought (no doubt they do) their great blue woolly furniture, of immense weight and thickness, with a pair of

grotesque horns growing out of the collar, very much too warm for the Midsummer weather.

Then, there is the Diligence, twice or thrice aday; with the dusty outsides in blue frocks, like butchers; and

the insides in white nightcaps; and its cabriolet head on the roof, nodding and shaking, like an idiot's head;

and its YoungFrance passengers staring out of window, with beards down to their waists, and blue

spectacles awfully shading their warlike eyes, and very big sticks clenched in their National grasp. Also the

Malle Poste, with only a couple of passengers, tearing along at a real good daredevil pace, and out of sight

in no time. Steady old Cures come jolting past, now and then, in such ramshackle, rusty, musty, clattering

coaches as no Englishman would believe in; and bony women dawdle about in solitary places, holding cows

by ropes while they feed, or digging and hoeing or doing fieldwork of a more laborious kind, or

representing real shepherdesses with their flocks to obtain an adequate idea of which pursuit and its

followers, in any country, it is only necessary to take any pastoral poem, or picture, and imagine to yourself

whatever is most exquisitely and widely unlike the descriptions therein contained.

You have been travelling along, stupidly enough, as you generally do in the last stage of the day; and the

ninetysix bells upon the horses twentyfour apiece have been ringing sleepily in your ears for half an

hour or so; and it has become a very jogtrot, monotonous, tiresome sort of business; and you have been

thinking deeply about the dinner you will have at the next stage; when, down at the end of the long avenue of

trees through which you are travelling, the first indication of a town appears, in the shape of some straggling

cottages: and the carriage begins to rattle and roll over a horribly uneven pavement. As if the equipage were a

great firework, and the mere sight of a smoking cottage chimney had lighted it, instantly it begins to crack

and splutter, as if the very devil were in it. Crack, crack, crack, crack. Crackcrack crack. Crickcrack.

Crickcrack. Helo! Hola! Vite! Voleur! Brigand! Hi hi hi! En rrrrrroute! Whip, wheels, driver, stones,

beggars, children, crack, crack, crack; helo! hola! charite pour l'amour de Dieu! crickcrackcrickcrack;

crick, crick, crick; bump, jolt, crack, bump, crickcrack; round the corner, up the narrow street, down the

paved hill on the other side; in the gutter; bump, bump; jolt, jog, crick, crick, crick; crack, crack, crack; into

the shopwindows on the lefthand side of the street, preliminary to a sweeping turn into the wooden

archway on the right; rumble, rumble, rumble; clatter, clatter, clatter; crick, crick, crick; and here we are in

the yard of the Hotel de l'Ecu d'Or; used up, gone out, smoking, spent, exhausted; but sometimes making a

false start unexpectedly, with nothing coming of it like a firework to the last!

The landlady of the Hotel de l'Ecu d'Or is here; and the landlord of the Hotel de l'Ecu d'Or is here; and the

femme de chambre of the Hotel de l'Ecu d'Or is here; and a gentleman in a glazed cap, with a red beard like a

bosom friend, who is staying at the Hotel de l'Ecu d'Or, is here; and Monsieur le Cure is walking up and

down in a corner of the yard by himself, with a shovel hat upon his head, and a black gown on his back, and a

book in one hand, and an umbrella in the other; and everybody, except Monsieur le Cure, is openmouthed

and openeyed, for the opening of the carriagedoor. The landlord of the Hotel de l'Ecu d'Or, dotes to that

extent upon the Courier, that he can hardly wait for his coming down from the box, but embraces his very

legs and bootheels as he descends. 'My Courier! My brave Courier! My friend! My brother!' The landlady

loves him, the femme de chambre blesses him, the garcon worships him. The Courier asks if his letter has

been received? It has, it has. Are the rooms prepared? They are, they are. The best rooms for my noble

Courier. The rooms of state for my gallant Courier; the whole house is at the service of my best of friends!

He keeps his hand upon the carriagedoor, and asks some other question to enhance the expectation. He

carries a green leathern purse outside his coat, suspended by a belt. The idlers look at it; one touches it. It is

full of fivefranc pieces. Murmurs of admiration are heard among the boys. The landlord falls upon the

Courier's neck, and folds him to his breast. He is so much fatter than he was, he says! He looks so rosy and so

The door is opened. Breathless expectation. The lady of the family gets out. Ah sweet lady! Beautiful lady!

The sister of the lady of the family gets out. Great Heaven, Ma'amselle is charming! First little boy gets out.

Ah, what a beautiful little boy! First little girl gets out. Oh, but this is an enchanting child! Second little girl

gets out. The landlady, yielding to the finest impulse of our common nature, catches her up in her arms!

Second little boy gets out. Oh, the sweet boy! Oh, the tender little family! The baby is handed out. Angelic

baby! The baby has topped everything. All the rapture is expended on the baby! Then the two nurses tumble

out; and the enthusiasm swelling into madness, the whole family are swept upstairs as on a cloud; while the

idlers press about the carriage, and look into it, and walk round it, and touch it. For it is something to touch a

The rooms are on the first floor, except the nursery for the night, which is a great rambling chamber, with

four or five beds in it: through a dark passage, up two steps, down four, past a pump, across a balcony, and

next door to the stable. The other sleeping apartments are large and lofty; each with two small bedsteads,

tastefully hung, like the windows, with red and white drapery. The sittingroom is famous. Dinner is already

laid in it for three; and the napkins are folded in cockedhat fashion. The floors are of red tile. There are no

carpets, and not much furniture to speak of; but there is abundance of lookingglass, and there are large vases

under glass shades, filled with artificial flowers; and there are plenty of clocks. The whole party are in

motion. The brave Courier, in particular, is everywhere: looking after the beds, having wine poured down his

throat by his dear brother the landlord, and picking up green cucumbers always cucumbers; Heaven knows

where he gets them with which he walks about, one in each hand, like truncheons.

Dinner is announced. There is very thin soup; there are very large loaves one apiece; a fish; four dishes

afterwards; some poultry afterwards; a dessert afterwards; and no lack of wine. There is not much in the

dishes; but they are very good, and always ready instantly. When it is nearly dark, the brave Courier, having

eaten the two cucumbers, sliced up in the contents of a pretty large decanter of oil, and another of vinegar,

emerges from his retreat below, and proposes a visit to the Cathedral, whose massive tower frowns down

upon the courtyard of the inn. Off we go; and very solemn and grand it is, in the dim light: so dim at last,

that the polite, old, lanthornjawed Sacristan has a feeble little bit of candle in his hand, to grope among the

tombs with and looks among the grim columns, very like a lost ghost who is searching for his own.

Underneath the balcony, when we return, the inferior servants of the inn are supping in the open air, at a great

table; the dish, a stew of meat and vegetables, smoking hot, and served in the iron cauldron it was boiled in.

They have a pitcher of thin wine, and are very merry; merrier than the gentleman with the red beard, who is

playing billiards in the light room on the left of the yard, where shadows, with cues in their hands, and cigars

in their mouths, cross and recross the window, constantly. Still the thin Cure walks up and down alone, with

his book and umbrella. And there he walks, and there the billiardballs rattle, long after we are fast asleep.

We are astir at six next morning. It is a delightful day, shaming yesterday's mud upon the carriage, if anything

could shame a carriage, in a land where carriages are never cleaned. Everybody is brisk; and as we finish

breakfast, the horses come jingling into the yard from the Posthouse. Everything taken out of the carriage is

put back again. The brave Courier announces that all is ready, after walking into every room, and looking all

round it, to be certain that nothing is left behind. Everybody gets in. Everybody connected with the Hotel de

l'Ecu d'Or is again enchanted. The brave Courier runs into the house for a parcel containing cold fowl, sliced

ham, bread, and biscuits, for lunch; hands it into the coach; and runs back again.

What has he got in his hand now? More cucumbers? No. A long strip of paper. It's the bill.

The brave Courier has two belts on, this morning: one supporting the purse: another, a mighty good sort of

leathern bottle, filled to the throat with the best light Bordeaux wine in the house. He never pays the bill till

He disputes it now, violently. He is still the landlord's brother, but by another father or mother. He is not so

nearly related to him as he was last night. The landlord scratches his head. The brave Courier points to certain

figures in the bill, and intimates that if they remain there, the Hotel de l'Ecu d'Or is thenceforth and for ever

an hotel de l'Ecu de cuivre. The landlord goes into a little countinghouse. The brave Courier follows, forces

the bill and a pen into his hand, and talks more rapidly than ever. The landlord takes the pen. The Courier

smiles. The landlord makes an alteration. The Courier cuts a joke. The landlord is affectionate, but not

weakly so. He bears it like a man. He shakes hands with his brave brother, but he don't hug him. Still, he

loves his brother; for he knows that he will be returning that way, one of these fine days, with another family,

and he foresees that his heart will yearn towards him again. The brave Courier traverses all round the carriage

once, looks at the drag, inspects the wheels, jumps up, gives the word, and away we go!

It is market morning. The market is held in the little square outside in front of the cathedral. It is crowded

with men and women, in blue, in red, in green, in white; with canvassed stalls; and fluttering merchandise.

The country people are grouped about, with their clean baskets before them. Here, the lacesellers; there, the

butter and eggsellers; there, the fruitsellers; there, the shoemakers. The whole place looks as if it were the

stage of some great theatre, and the curtain had just run up, for a picturesque ballet. And there is the cathedral

to boot: scene like: all grim, and swarthy, and mouldering, and cold: just splashing the pavement in one

place with faint purple drops, as the morning sun, entering by a little window on the eastern side, struggles

In five minutes we have passed the iron cross, with a little ragged kneelingplace of turf before it, in the

CHALONS is a fair restingplace, in right of its good inn on the bank of the river, and the little steamboats,

gay with green and red paint, that come and go upon it: which make up a pleasant and refreshing scene, after

the dusty roads. But, unless you would like to dwell on an enormous plain, with jagged rows of irregular

poplars on it, that look in the distance like so many combs with broken teeth: and unless you would like to

pass your life without the possibility of going uphill, or going up anything but stairs: you would hardly

You would probably like it better, however, than Lyons: which you may reach, if you will, in one of the

What a city Lyons is! Talk about people feeling, at certain unlucky times, as if they had tumbled from the

clouds! Here is a whole town that is tumbled, anyhow, out of the sky; having been first caught up, like other

stones that tumble down from that region, out of fens and barren places, dismal to behold! The two great

streets through which the two great rivers dash, and all the little streets whose name is Legion, were

scorching, blistering, and sweltering. The houses, high and vast, dirty to excess, rotten as old cheeses, and as

thickly peopled. All up the hills that hem the city in, these houses swarm; and the mites inside were lolling

out of the windows, and drying their ragged clothes on poles, and crawling in and out at the doors, and

coming out to pant and gasp upon the pavement, and creeping in and out among huge piles and bales of fusty,

musty, stifling goods; and living, or rather not dying till their time should come, in an exhausted receiver.

Every manufacturing town, melted into one, would hardly convey an impression of Lyons as it presented

itself to me: for all the undrained, unscavengered qualities of a foreign town, seemed grafted, there, upon the

native miseries of a manufacturing one; and it bears such fruit as I would go some miles out of my way to

In the cool of the evening: or rather in the faded heat of the day: we went to see the Cathedral, where divers

old women, and a few dogs, were engaged in contemplation. There was no difference, in point of cleanliness,

between its stone pavement and that of the streets; and there was a wax saint, in a little box like a berth

aboard ship, with a glass front to it, whom Madame Tussaud would have nothing to say to, on any terms, and

which even Westminster Abbey might be ashamed of. If you would know all about the architecture of this

church, or any other, its dates, dimensions, endowments, and history, is it not written in Mr. Murray's Guide

For this reason, I should abstain from mentioning the curious clock in Lyons Cathedral, if it were not for a

small mistake I made, in connection with that piece of mechanism. The keeper of the church was very

anxious it should be shown; partly for the honour of the establishment and the town; and partly, perhaps,

because of his deriving a percentage from the additional consideration. However that may be, it was set in

motion, and thereupon a host of little doors flew open, and innumerable little figures staggered out of them,

and jerked themselves back again, with that special unsteadiness of purpose, and hitching in the gait, which

usually attaches to figures that are moved by clockwork. Meanwhile, the Sacristan stood explaining these

wonders, and pointing them out, severally, with a wand. There was a centre puppet of the Virgin Mary; and

close to her, a small pigeonhole, out of which another and a very illlooking puppet made one of the most

sudden plunges I ever saw accomplished: instantly flopping back again at sight of her, and banging his little

door violently after him. Taking this to be emblematic of the victory over Sin and Death, and not at all

unwilling to show that I perfectly understood the subject, in anticipation of the showman, I rashly said, 'Aha!

The Evil Spirit. To be sure. He is very soon disposed of.' 'Pardon, Monsieur,' said the Sacristan, with a polite

motion of his hand towards the little door, as if introducing somebody 'The Angel Gabriel!'

Soon after daybreak next morning, we were steaming down the Arrowy Rhone, at the rate of twenty miles an

hour, in a very dirty vessel full of merchandise, and with only three or four other passengers for our

companions: among whom, the most remarkable was a silly, old, meekfaced, garliceating, immeasurably

polite Chevalier, with a dirty scrap of red ribbon hanging at his buttonhole, as if he had tied it there to

remind himself of something; as Tom Noddy, in the farce, ties knots in his pockethandkerchief.

For the last two days, we had seen great sullen hills, the first indications of the Alps, lowering in the distance.

Now, we were rushing on beside them: sometimes close beside them: sometimes with an intervening slope,

covered with vineyards. Villages and small towns hanging in midair, with great woods of olives seen

through the light open towers of their churches, and clouds moving slowly on, upon the steep acclivity behind

them; ruined castles perched on every eminence; and scattered houses in the clefts and gullies of the hills;

made it very beautiful. The great height of these, too, making the buildings look so tiny, that they had all the

charm of elegant models; their excessive whiteness, as contrasted with the brown rocks, or the sombre, deep,

dull, heavy green of the olivetree; and the puny size, and little slow walk of the Lilliputian men and women

on the bank; made a charming picture. There were ferries out of number, too; bridges; the famous Pont

d'Esprit, with I don't know how many arches; towns where memorable wines are made; Vallence, where

Napoleon studied; and the noble river, bringing at every winding turn, new beauties into view.

There lay before us, that same afternoon, the broken bridge of Avignon, and all the city baking in the sun; yet

with an under donepiecrust, battlemented wall, that never will be brown, though it bake for centuries.

The grapes were hanging in clusters in the streets, and the brilliant Oleander was in full bloom everywhere.

The streets are old and very narrow, but tolerably clean, and shaded by awnings stretched from house to

house. Bright stuffs and handkerchiefs, curiosities, ancient frames of carved wood, old chairs, ghostly tables,

saints, virgins, angels, and staring daubs of portraits, being exposed for sale beneath, it was very quaint and

lively. All this was much set off, too, by the glimpses one caught, through a rusty gate standing ajar, of quiet

sleepy courtyards, having stately old houses within, as silent as tombs. It was all very like one of the

descriptions in the Arabian Nights. The three one eyed Calenders might have knocked at any one of those

doors till the street rang again, and the porter who persisted in asking questions the man who had the

delicious purchases put into his basket in the morning might have opened it quite naturally.

After breakfast next morning, we sallied forth to see the lions. Such a delicious breeze was blowing in, from

the north, as made the walk delightful: though the pavementstones, and stones of the walls and houses, were

We went, first of all, up a rocky height, to the cathedral: where Mass was performing to an auditory very like

that of Lyons, namely, several old women, a baby, and a very selfpossessed dog, who had marked out for

himself a little course or platform for exercise, beginning at the altarrails and ending at the door, up and

down which constitutional walk he trotted, during the service, as methodically and calmly, as any old

It is a bare old church, and the paintings in the roof are sadly defaced by time and damp weather; but the sun

was shining in, splendidly, through the red curtains of the windows, and glittering on the altar furniture; and

Going apart, in this church, to see some painting which was being executed in fresco by a French artist and

his pupil, I was led to observe more closely than I might otherwise have done, a great number of votive

offerings with which the walls of the different chapels were profusely hung. I will not say decorated, for they

were very roughly and comically got up; most likely by poor sign painters, who eke out their living in that

way. They were all little pictures: each representing some sickness or calamity from which the person placing

it there, had escaped, through the interposition of his or her patron saint, or of the Madonna; and I may refer

In a grotesque squareness of outline, and impossibility of perspective, they are not unlike the woodcuts in old

books; but they were oilpaintings, and the artist, like the painter of the Primrose family, had not been

sparing of his colours. In one, a lady was having a toe amputated an operation which a saintly personage

had sailed into the room, upon a couch, to superintend. In another, a lady was lying in bed, tucked up very

tight and prim, and staring with much composure at a tripod, with a slopbasin on it; the usual form of

washingstand, and the only piece of furniture, besides the bedstead, in her chamber. One would never have

supposed her to be labouring under any complaint, beyond the inconvenience of being miraculously wide

awake, if the painter had not hit upon the idea of putting all her family on their knees in one corner, with their

legs sticking out behind them on the floor, like boottrees. Above whom, the Virgin, on a kind of blue divan,

promised to restore the patient. In another case, a lady was in the very act of being run over, immediately

outside the city walls, by a sort of pianoforte van. But the Madonna was there again. Whether the

supernatural appearance had startled the horse (a bay griffin), or whether it was invisible to him, I don't

know; but he was galloping away, ding dong, without the smallest reverence or compunction. On every

Though votive offerings were not unknown in Pagan Temples, and are evidently among the many

compromises made between the false religion and the true, when the true was in its infancy, I could wish that

all the other compromises were as harmless. Gratitude and Devotion are Christian qualities; and a grateful,

Hard by the cathedral stands the ancient Palace of the Popes, of which one portion is now a common jail, and

another a noisy barrack: while gloomy suites of state apartments, shut up and deserted, mock their own old

state and glory, like the embalmed bodies of kings. But we neither went there, to see state rooms, nor soldiers'

quarters, nor a common jail, though we dropped some money into a prisoners' box outside, whilst the

prisoners, themselves, looked through the iron bars, high up, and watched us eagerly. We went to see the

A little, old, swarthy woman, with a pair of flashing black eyes, proof that the world hadn't conjured down

the devil within her, though it had had between sixty and seventy years to do it in, came out of the Barrack

Cabaret, of which she was the keeper, with some large keys in her hands, and marshalled us the way that we

should go. How she told us, on the way, that she was a Government Officer (CONCIERGE DU PALAIS A

APOSTOLIQUE), and had been, for I don't know how many years; and how she had shown these dungeons

to princes; and how she was the best of dungeon demonstrators; and how she had resided in the palace from

an infant, had been born there, if I recollect right, I needn't relate. But such a fierce, little, rapid,

sparkling, energetic shedevil I never beheld. She was alight and flaming, all the time. Her action was violent

in the extreme. She never spoke, without stopping expressly for the purpose. She stamped her feet, clutched

us by the arms, flung herself into attitudes, hammered against walls with her keys, for mere emphasis: now

whispered as if the Inquisition were there still: now shrieked as if she were on the rack herself; and had a

mysterious, haglike way with her forefinger, when approaching the remains of some new horror looking

back and walking stealthily, and making horrible grimaces that might alone have qualified her to walk up

and down a sick man's counterpane, to the exclusion of all other figures, through a whole fever.

Passing through the courtyard, among groups of idle soldiers, we turned off by a gate, which this

SheGoblin unlocked for our admission, and locked again behind us: and entered a narrow court, rendered

narrower by fallen stones and heaps of rubbish; part of it choking up the mouth of a ruined subterranean

passage, that once communicated (or is said to have done so) with another castle on the opposite bank of the

river. Close to this courtyard is a dungeon we stood within it, in another minute in the dismal tower

DES OUBLIETTES, where Rienzi was imprisoned, fastened by an iron chain to the very wall that stands

there now, but shut out from the sky which now looks down into it. A few steps brought us to the Cachots, in

which the prisoners of the Inquisition were confined for fortyeight hours after their capture, without food or

drink, that their constancy might be shaken, even before they were confronted with their gloomy judges. The

day has not got in there yet. They are still small cells, shut in by four unyielding, close, hard walls; still

Goblin, looking back as I have described, went softly on, into a vaulted chamber, now used as a storeroom:

once the chapel of the Holy Office. The place where the tribunal sat, was plain. The platform might have

been removed but yesterday. Conceive the parable of the Good Samaritan having been painted on the wall of

High up in the jealous wall, are niches where the faltering replies of the accused were heard and noted down.

Many of them had been brought out of the very cell we had just looked into, so awfully; along the same stone

I am gazing round me, with the horror that the place inspires, when Goblin clutches me by the wrist, and lays,

not her skinny finger, but the handle of a key, upon her lip. She invites me, with a jerk, to follow her. I do so.

She leads me out into a room adjoining a rugged room, with a funnelshaped, contracting roof, open at the

top, to the bright day. I ask her what it is. She folds her arms, leers hideously, and stares. I ask again. She

glances round, to see that all the little company are there; sits down upon a mound of stones; throws up her

The Chamber of Torture! And the roof was made of that shape to stifle the victim's cries! Oh Goblin, Goblin,

let us think of this awhile, in silence. Peace, Goblin! Sit with your short arms crossed on your short legs, upon

Minutes! Seconds are not marked upon the Palace clock, when, with her eyes flashing fire, Goblin is up, in

the middle of the chamber, describing, with her sunburnt arms, a wheel of heavy blows. Thus it ran round!

cries Goblin. Mash, mash, mash! An endless routine of heavy hammers. Mash, mash, mash! upon the

sufferer's limbs. See the stone trough! says Goblin. For the water torture! Gurgle, swill, bloat, burst, for the

Redeemer's honour! Suck the bloody rag, deep down into your unbelieving body, Heretic, at every breath you

draw! And when the executioner plucks it out, reeking with the smaller mysteries of God's own Image, know

us for His chosen servants, true believers in the Sermon on the Mount, elect disciples of Him who never did a

miracle but to heal: who never struck a man with palsy, blindness, deafness, dumbness, madness, any one

affliction of mankind; and never stretched His blessed hand out, but to give relief and ease!

See! cries Goblin. There the furnace was. There they made the irons redhot. Those holes supported the sharp

stake, on which the tortured persons hung poised: dangling with their whole weight from the roof. 'But;' and

Goblin whispers this; 'Monsieur has heard of this tower? Yes? Let Monsieur look down, then!'

A cold air, laden with an earthy smell, falls upon the face of Monsieur; for she has opened, while speaking, a

trapdoor in the wall. Monsieur looks in. Downward to the bottom, upward to the top, of a steep, dark, lofty

tower: very dismal, very dark, very cold. The Executioner of the Inquisition, says Goblin, edging in her head

to look down also, flung those who were past all further torturing, down here. 'But look! does Monsieur see

the black stains on the wall?' A glance, over his shoulder, at Goblin's keen eye, shows Monsieur and would

In October, 1791, when the Revolution was at its height here, sixty persons: men and women ('and priests,'

says Goblin, 'priests'): were murdered, and hurled, the dying and the dead, into this dreadful pit, where a

quantity of quicklime was tumbled down upon their bodies. Those ghastly tokens of the massacre were soon

no more; but while one stone of the strong building in which the deed was done, remains upon another, there

they will lie in the memories of men, as plain to see as the splashing of their blood upon the wall is now.

Was it a portion of the great scheme of Retribution, that the cruel deed should be committed in this place!

That a part of the atrocities and monstrous institutions, which had been, for scores of years, at work, to

change men's nature, should in its last service, tempt them with the ready means of gratifying their furious

and beastly rage! Should enable them to show themselves, in the height of their frenzy, no worse than a great,

solemn, legal establishment, in the height of its power! No worse! Much better. They used the Tower of the

Forgotten, in the name of Liberty their liberty; an earthborn creature, nursed in the black mud of the

Bastile moats and dungeons, and necessarily betraying many evidences of its unwholesome bringingup

Goblin's finger is lifted; and she steals out again, into the Chapel of the Holy Office. She stops at a certain

part of the flooring. Her great effect is at hand. She waits for the rest. She darts at the brave Courier, who is

explaining something; hits him a sounding rap on the hat with the largest key; and bids him be silent. She

'Voila!' she darts down at the ring, and flings the door open with a crash, in her goblin energy, though it is no

light weight. 'Voila les oubliettes! Voila les oubliettes! Subterranean! Frightful! Black! Terrible! Deadly! Les

My blood ran cold, as I looked from Goblin, down into the vaults, where these forgotten creatures, with

recollections of the world outside: of wives, friends, children, brothers: starved to death, and made the stones

ring with their unavailing groans. But, the thrill I felt on seeing the accursed wall below, decayed and broken

through, and the sun shining in through its gaping wounds, was like a sense of victory and triumph. I felt

exalted with the proud delight of living in these degenerate times, to see it. As if I were the hero of some high

achievement! The light in the doleful vaults was typical of the light that has streamed in, on all persecution in

God's name, but which is not yet at its noon! It cannot look more lovely to a blind man newly restored to

sight, than to a traveller who sees it, calmly and majestically, treading down the darkness of that Infernal

GOBLIN, having shown LES OUBLIETTES, felt that her great COUP was struck. She let the door fall with

When we left the place, I accompanied her into her house, under the outer gateway of the fortress, to buy a

little history of the building. Her cabaret, a dark, low room, lighted by small windows, sunk in the thick wall

in the softened light, and with its forge like chimney; its little counter by the door, with bottles, jars, and

glasses on it; its household implements and scraps of dress against the wall; and a soberlooking woman (she

must have a congenial life of it, with Goblin,) knitting at the door looked exactly like a picture by

I walked round the building on the outside, in a sort of dream, and yet with the delightful sense of having

awakened from it, of which the light, down in the vaults, had given me the assurance. The immense thickness

and giddy height of the walls, the enormous strength of the massive towers, the great extent of the building,

its gigantic proportions, frowning aspect, and barbarous irregularity, awaken awe and wonder. The

recollection of its opposite old uses: an impregnable fortress, a luxurious palace, a horrible prison, a place of

torture, the court of the Inquisition: at one and the same time, a house of feasting, fighting, religion, and

blood: gives to every stone in its huge form a fearful interest, and imparts new meaning to its incongruities. I

could think of little, however, then, or long afterwards, but the sun in the dungeons. The palace coming down

to be the loungingplace of noisy soldiers, and being forced to echo their rough talk, and common oaths, and

to have their garments fluttering from its dirty windows, was some reduction of its state, and something to

rejoice at; but the day in its cells, and the sky for the roof of its chambers of cruelty that was its desolation

and defeat! If I had seen it in a blaze from ditch to rampart, I should have felt that not that light, nor all the

light in all the fire that burns, could waste it, like the sunbeams in its secret councilchamber, and its prisons.

Before I quit this Palace of the Popes, let me translate from the little history I mentioned just now, a short

'An ancient tradition relates, that in 1441, a nephew of Pierre de Lude, the Pope's legate, seriously insulted

some distinguished ladies of Avignon, whose relations, in revenge, seized the young man, and horribly

mutilated him. For several years the legate kept HIS revenge within his own breast, but he was not the less

resolved upon its gratification at last. He even made, in the fulness of time, advances towards a complete

reconciliation; and when their apparent sincerity had prevailed, he invited to a splendid banquet, in this

palace, certain families, whole families, whom he sought to exterminate. The utmost gaiety animated the

repast; but the measures of the legate were well taken. When the dessert was on the board, a Swiss presented

himself, with the announcement that a strange ambassador solicited an extraordinary audience. The legate,

excusing himself, for the moment, to his guests, retired, followed by his officers. Within a few minutes

afterwards, five hundred persons were reduced to ashes: the whole of that wing of the building having been

After seeing the churches (I will not trouble you with churches just now), we left Avignon that afternoon. The

heat being very great, the roads outside the walls were strewn with people fast asleep in every little slip of

shade, and with lazy groups, half asleep and half awake, who were waiting until the sun should be low

enough to admit of their playing bowls among the burntup trees, and on the dusty road. The harvest here

was already gathered in, and mules and horses were treading out the corn in the fields. We came, at dusk,

upon a wild and hilly country, once famous for brigands; and travelled slowly up a steep ascent. So we went

on, until eleven at night, when we halted at the town of Aix (within two stages of Marseilles) to sleep.

The hotel, with all the blinds and shutters closed to keep the light and heat out, was comfortable and airy next

morning, and the town was very clean; but so hot, and so intensely light, that when I walked out at noon it

was like coming suddenly from the darkened room into crisp blue fire. The air was so very clear, that distant

hills and rocky points appeared within an hour's walk; while the town immediately at hand with a kind of

blue wind between me and it seemed to be white hot, and to be throwing off a fiery air from the surface.

We left this town towards evening, and took the road to Marseilles. A dusty road it was; the houses shut up

close; and the vines powdered white. At nearly all the cottage doors, women were peeling and slicing onions

into earthen bowls for supper. So they had been doing last night all the way from Avignon. We passed one or

two shady dark chateaux, surrounded by trees, and embellished with cool basins of water: which were the

more refreshing to behold, from the great scarcity of such residences on the road we had travelled. As we

approached Marseilles, the road began to be covered with holiday people. Outside the publichouses were

parties smoking, drinking, playing draughts and cards, and (once) dancing. But dust, dust, dust, everywhere.

We went on, through a long, straggling, dirty suburb, thronged with people; having on our left a dreary slope

of land, on which the countryhouses of the Marseilles merchants, always staring white, are jumbled and

heaped without the slightest order: backs, fronts, sides, and gables towards all points of the compass; until, at

I was there, twice or thrice afterwards, in fair weather and foul; and I am afraid there is no doubt that it is a

dirty and disagreeable place. But the prospect, from the fortified heights, of the beautiful Mediterranean, with

its lovely rocks and islands, is most delightful. These heights are a desirable retreat, for less picturesque

reasons as an escape from a compound of vile smells perpetually arising from a great harbour full of

stagnant water, and befouled by the refuse of innumerable ships with all sorts of cargoes: which, in hot

There were foreign sailors, of all nations, in the streets; with red shirts, blue shirts, buff shirts, tawny shirts,

and shirts of orange colour; with red caps, blue caps, green caps, great beards, and no beards; in Turkish

turbans, glazed English hats, and Neapolitan headdresses. There were the townspeople sitting in clusters on

the pavement, or airing themselves on the tops of their houses, or walking up and down the closest and least

airy of Boulevards; and there were crowds of fiercelooking people of the lower sort, blocking up the way,

constantly. In the very heart of all this stir and uproar, was the common madhouse; a low, contracted,

miserable building, looking straight upon the street, without the smallest screen or courtyard; where

chattering madmen and madwomen were peeping out, through rusty bars, at the staring faces below, while

the sun, darting fiercely aslant into their little cells, seemed to dry up their brains, and worry them, as if they

We were pretty well accommodated at the Hotel du Paradis, situated in a narrow street of very high houses,

with a hairdresser's shop opposite, exhibiting in one of its windows two fulllength waxen ladies, twirling

round and round: which so enchanted the hairdresser himself, that he and his family sat in armchairs, and in

cool undresses, on the pavement outside, enjoying the gratification of the passersby, with lazy dignity. The

family had retired to rest when we went to bed, at midnight; but the hairdresser (a corpulent man, in drab

slippers) was still sitting there, with his legs stretched out before him, and evidently couldn't bear to have the

Next day we went down to the harbour, where the sailors of all nations were discharging and taking in

cargoes of all kinds: fruits, wines, oils, silks, stuffs, velvets, and every manner of merchandise. Taking one of

a great number of lively little boats with gaystriped awnings, we rowed away, under the sterns of great

ships, under towropes and cables, against and among other boats, and very much too near the sides of

vessels that were faint with oranges, to the MARIE ANTOINETTE, a handsome steamer bound for Genoa,

lying near the mouth of the harbour. Byandby, the carriage, that unwieldy 'trifle from the Pantechnicon,' on

a flat barge, bumping against everything, and giving occasion for a prodigious quantity of oaths and

grimaces, came stupidly alongside; and by five o'clock we were steaming out in the open sea. The vessel was

beautifully clean; the meals were served under an awning on deck; the night was calm and clear; the quiet

We were off Nice, early next morning, and coasted along, within a few miles of the Cornice road (of which

more in its place) nearly all day. We could see Genoa before three; and watching it as it gradually developed

its splendid amphitheatre, terrace rising above terrace, garden above garden, palace above palace, height upon

height, was ample occupation for us, till we ran into the stately harbour. Having been duly astonished, here,

by the sight of a few Cappucini monks, who were watching the fairweighing of some wood upon the wharf,

The way lay through the main streets, but not through the Strada Nuova, or the Strada Balbi, which are the

famous streets of palaces. I never in my life was so dismayed! The wonderful novelty of everything, the

unusual smells, the unaccountable filth (though it is reckoned the cleanest of Italian towns), the disorderly

jumbling of dirty houses, one upon the roof of another; the passages more squalid and more close than any in

St. Giles's or old Paris; in and out of which, not vagabonds, but welldressed women, with white veils and

great fans, were passing and repassing; the perfect absence of resemblance in any dwellinghouse, or shop,

or wall, or post, or pillar, to anything one had ever seen before; and the disheartening dirt, discomfort, and

decay; perfectly confounded me. I fell into a dismal reverie. I am conscious of a feverish and bewildered

vision of saints and virgins' shrines at the street corners of great numbers of friars, monks, and soldiers of

vast red curtains, waving in the doorways of the churches of always going up hill, and yet seeing every

other street and passage going higher up of fruitstalls, with fresh lemons and oranges hanging in garlands

made of vineleaves of a guardhouse, and a drawbridge and some gateways and vendors of iced

water, sitting with little trays upon the margin of the kennel and this is all the consciousness I had, until I

was set down in a rank, dull, weedy courtyard, attached to a kind of pink jail; and was told I lived there.

I little thought, that day, that I should ever come to have an attachment for the very stones in the streets of

Genoa, and to look back upon the city with affection as connected with many hours of happiness and quiet!

But these are my first impressions honestly set down; and how they changed, I will set down too. At present,

THE first impressions of such a place as ALBARO, the suburb of Genoa, where I am now, as my American

friends would say, 'located,' can hardly fail, I should imagine, to be mournful and disappointing. It requires a

little time and use to overcome the feeling of depression consequent, at first, on so much ruin and neglect.

Novelty, pleasant to most people, is particularly delightful, I think, to me. I am not easily dispirited when I

have the means of pursuing my own fancies and occupations; and I believe I have some natural aptitude for

accommodating myself to circumstances. But, as yet, I stroll about here, in all the holes and corners of the

neighbourhood, in a perpetual state of forlorn surprise; and returning to my villa: the Villa Bagnerello (it

sounds romantic, but Signor Bagnerello is a butcher hard by): have sufficient occupation in pondering over

my new experiences, and comparing them, very much to my own amusement, with my expectations, until I

The Villa Bagnerello: or the Pink Jail, a far more expressive name for the mansion: is in one of the most

splendid situations imaginable. The noble bay of Genoa, with the deep blue Mediterranean, lies stretched out

near at hand; monstrous old desolate houses and palaces are dotted all about; lofty hills, with their tops often

hidden in the clouds, and with strong forts perched high up on their craggy sides, are close upon the left; and

in front, stretching from the walls of the house, down to a ruined chapel which stands upon the bold and

picturesque rocks on the sea shore, are green vineyards, where you may wander all day long in partial

shade, through interminable vistas of grapes, trained on a rough trelliswork across the narrow paths.

This sequestered spot is approached by lanes so very narrow, that when we arrived at the Customhouse, we

found the people here had TAKEN THE MEASURE of the narrowest among them, and were waiting to

apply it to the carriage; which ceremony was gravely performed in the street, while we all stood by in

breathless suspense. It was found to be a very tight fit, but just a possibility, and no more as I am reminded

every day, by the sight of various large holes which it punched in the walls on either side as it came along.

We are more fortunate, I am told, than an old lady, who took a house in these parts not long ago, and who

stuck fast in HER carriage in a lane; and as it was impossible to open one of the doors, she was obliged to

submit to the indignity of being hauled through one of the little front windows, like a harlequin.

When you have got through these narrow lanes, you come to an archway, imperfectly stopped up by a rusty

old gate my gate. The rusty old gate has a bell to correspond, which you ring as long as you like, and which

nobody answers, as it has no connection whatever with the house. But there is a rusty old knocker, too very

loose, so that it slides round when you touch it and if you learn the trick of it, and knock long enough,

somebody comes. The brave Courier comes, and gives you admittance. You walk into a seedy little garden,

all wild and weedy, from which the vineyard opens; cross it, enter a square hall like a cellar, walk up a

cracked marble staircase, and pass into a most enormous room with a vaulted roof and whitewashed walls:

not unlike a great Methodist chapel. This is the SALA. It has five windows and five doors, and is decorated

with pictures which would gladden the heart of one of those picturecleaners in London who hang up, as a

sign, a picture divided, like death and the lady, at the top of the old ballad: which always leaves you in a state

of uncertainty whether the ingenious professor has cleaned one half, or dirtied the other. The furniture of this

SALA is a sort of red brocade. All the chairs are immovable, and the sofa weighs several tons.

On the same floor, and opening out of this same chamber, are diningroom, drawingroom, and divers

bedrooms: each with a multiplicity of doors and windows. Upstairs are divers other gaunt chambers, and a

kitchen; and downstairs is another kitchen, which, with all sorts of strange contrivances for burning

charcoal, looks like an alchemical laboratory. There are also some half dozen small sittingrooms, where

the servants in this hot July, may escape from the heat of the fire, and where the brave Courier plays all sorts

of musical instruments of his own manufacture, all the evening long. A mighty old, wandering, ghostly,

There is a little vinecovered terrace, opening from the drawing room; and under this terrace, and forming

one side of the little garden, is what used to be the stable. It is now a cowhouse, and has three cows in it, so

that we get new milk by the bucketful. There is no pasturage near, and they never go out, but are constantly

lying down, and surfeiting themselves with vineleaves perfect Italian cows enjoying the DOLCE FAR'

NIENTE all day long. They are presided over, and slept with, by an old man named Antonio, and his son;

two burntsienna natives with naked legs and feet, who wear, each, a shirt, a pair of trousers, and a red sash,

with a relic, or some sacred charm like the bonbon off a twelfth cake, hanging round the neck. The old man

is very anxious to convert me to the Catholic faith, and exhorts me frequently. We sit upon a stone by the

door, sometimes in the evening, like Robinson Crusoe and Friday reversed; and he generally relates, towards

my conversion, an abridgment of the History of Saint Peter chiefly, I believe, from the unspeakable delight

The view, as I have said, is charming; but in the day you must keep the latticeblinds close shut, or the sun

would drive you mad; and when the sun goes down you must shut up all the windows, or the mosquitoes

would tempt you to commit suicide. So at this time of the year, you don't see much of the prospect within

doors. As for the flies, you don't mind them. Nor the fleas, whose size is prodigious, and whose name is

Legion, and who populate the coach house to that extent that I daily expect to see the carriage going off

bodily, drawn by myriads of industrious fleas in harness. The rats are kept away, quite comfortably, by scores

of lean cats, who roam about the garden for that purpose. The lizards, of course, nobody cares for; they play

in the sun, and don't bite. The little scorpions are merely curious. The beetles are rather late, and have not

appeared yet. The frogs are company. There is a preserve of them in the grounds of the next villa; and after

nightfall, one would think that scores upon scores of women in pattens were going up and down a wet stone

The ruined chapel, on the picturesque and beautiful seashore, was dedicated, once upon a time, to Saint John

the Baptist. I believe there is a legend that Saint John's bones were received there, with various solemnities,

when they were first brought to Genoa; for Genoa possesses them to this day. When there is any uncommon

tempest at sea, they are brought out and exhibited to the raging weather, which they never fail to calm. In

consequence of this connection of Saint John with the city, great numbers of the common people are

christened Giovanni Baptista, which latter name is pronounced in the Genoese patois 'Batcheetcha,' like a

sneeze. To hear everybody calling everybody else Batcheetcha, on a Sunday, or festaday, when there are

The narrow lanes have great villas opening into them, whose walls (outside walls, I mean) are profusely

painted with all sorts of subjects, grim and holy. But time and the seaair have nearly obliterated them; and

they look like the entrance to Vauxhall Gardens on a sunny day. The courtyards of these houses are

overgrown with grass and weeds; all sorts of hideous patches cover the bases of the statues, as if they were

afflicted with a cutaneous disorder; the outer gates are rusty; and the iron bars outside the lower windows are

all tumbling down. Firewood is kept in halls where costly treasures might be heaped up, mountains high;

waterfalls are dry and choked; fountains, too dull to play, and too lazy to work, have just enough recollection

of their identity, in their sleep, to make the neighbourhood damp; and the sirocco wind is often blowing over

Not long ago, there was a festaday, in honour of the VIRGIN'S MOTHER, when the young men of the

neighbourhood, having worn green wreaths of the vine in some procession or other, bathed in them, by

scores. It looked very odd and pretty. Though I am bound to confess (not knowing of the festa at that time),

that I thought, and was quite satisfied, they wore them as horses do to keep the flies off.

Soon afterwards, there was another festaday, in honour of St. Nazaro. One of the Albaro young men brought

two large bouquets soon after breakfast, and coming upstairs into the great SALA, presented them himself.

This was a polite way of begging for a contribution towards the expenses of some music in the Saint's

honour, so we gave him whatever it may have been, and his messenger departed: well satisfied. At six o'clock

in the evening we went to the church close at hand a very gaudy place, hung all over with festoons and

bright draperies, and filled, from the altar to the main door, with women, all seated. They wear no bonnets

here, simply a long white veil the 'mezzero;' and it was the most gauzy, ethereallooking audience I ever

saw. The young women are not generally pretty, but they walk remarkably well, and in their personal carriage

and the management of their veils, display much innate grace and elegance. There were some men present:

not very many: and a few of these were kneeling about the aisles, while everybody else tumbled over them.

Innumerable tapers were burning in the church; the bits of silver and tin about the saints (especially in the

Virgin's necklace) sparkled brilliantly; the priests were seated about the chief altar; the organ played away,

lustily, and a full band did the like; while a conductor, in a little gallery opposite to the band, hammered away

on the desk before him, with a scroll; and a tenor, without any voice, sang. The band played one way, the

organ played another, the singer went a third, and the unfortunate conductor banged and banged, and

flourished his scroll on some principle of his own: apparently well satisfied with the whole performance. I

The men, in red caps, and with loose coats hanging on their shoulders (they never put them on), were playing

bowls, and buying sweetmeats, immediately outside the church. When halfadozen of them finished a

game, they came into the aisle, crossed themselves with the holy water, knelt on one knee for an instant, and

walked off again to play another game at bowls. They are remarkably expert at this diversion, and will play in

the stony lanes and streets, and on the most uneven and disastrous ground for such a purpose, with as much

nicety as on a billiardtable. But the most favourite game is the national one of Mora, which they pursue with

surprising ardour, and at which they will stake everything they possess. It is a destructive kind of gambling,

requiring no accessories but the ten fingers, which are always I intend no pun at hand. Two men play

together. One calls a number say the extreme one, ten. He marks what portion of it he pleases by throwing

out three, or four, or five fingers; and his adversary has, in the same instant, at hazard, and without seeing his

hand, to throw out as many fingers, as will make the exact balance. Their eyes and hands become so used to

this, and act with such astonishing rapidity, that an uninitiated bystander would find it very difficult, if not

impossible, to follow the progress of the game. The initiated, however, of whom there is always an eager

group looking on, devour it with the most intense avidity; and as they are always ready to champion one side

or the other in case of a dispute, and are frequently divided in their partisanship, it is often a very noisy

proceeding. It is never the quietest game in the world; for the numbers are always called in a loud sharp

voice, and follow as close upon each other as they can be counted. On a holiday evening, standing at a

window, or walking in a garden, or passing through the streets, or sauntering in any quiet place about the

town, you will hear this game in progress in a score of wine shops at once; and looking over any vineyard

walk, or turning almost any corner, will come upon a knot of players in full cry. It is observable that most

men have a propensity to throw out some particular number oftener than another; and the vigilance with

which two sharpeyed players will mutually endeavour to detect this weakness, and adapt their game to it, is

very curious and entertaining. The effect is greatly heightened by the universal suddenness and vehemence of

gesture; two men playing for half a farthing with an intensity as allabsorbing as if the stake were life.

Hard by here is a large Palazzo, formerly belonging to some member of the Brignole family, but just now

hired by a school of Jesuits for their summer quarters. I walked into its dismantled precincts the other evening

about sunset, and couldn't help pacing up and down for a little time, drowsily taking in the aspect of the

I loitered to and fro, under a colonnade, forming two sides of a weedy, grassgrown courtyard, whereof the

house formed a third side, and a low terracewalk, overlooking the garden and the neighbouring hills, the

fourth. I don't believe there was an uncracked stone in the whole pavement. In the centre was a melancholy

statue, so piebald in its decay, that it looked exactly as if it had been covered with stickingplaster, and

afterwards powdered. The stables, coachhouses, offices, were all empty, all ruinous, all utterly deserted.

Doors had lost their hinges, and were holding on by their latches; windows were broken, painted plaster had

peeled off, and was lying about in clods; fowls and cats had so taken possession of the out buildings, that I

couldn't help thinking of the fairy tales, and eyeing them with suspicion, as transformed retainers, waiting to

be changed back again. One old Tom in particular: a scraggy brute, with a hungry green eye (a poor relation,

in reality, I am inclined to think): came prowling round and round me, as if he half believed, for the moment,

that I might be the hero come to marry the lady, and set all torights; but discovering his mistake, he

suddenly gave a grim snarl, and walked away with such a tremendous tail, that he couldn't get into the little

hole where he lived, but was obliged to wait outside, until his indignation and his tail had gone down

In a sort of summerhouse, or whatever it may be, in this colonnade, some Englishmen had been living, like

grubs in a nut; but the Jesuits had given them notice to go, and they had gone, and THAT was shut up too.

The house: a wandering, echoing, thundering barrack of a place, with the lower windows barred up, as usual,

was wide open at the door: and I have no doubt I might have gone in, and gone to bed, and gone dead, and

nobody a bit the wiser. Only one suite of rooms on an upper floor was tenanted; and from one of these, the

voice of a younglady vocalist, practising bravura lustily, came flaunting out upon the silent evening.

I went down into the garden, intended to be prim and quaint, with avenues, and terraces, and orangetrees,

and statues, and water in stone basins; and everything was green, gaunt, weedy, straggling, under grown or

over grown, mildewy, damp, redolent of all sorts of slabby, clammy, creeping, and uncomfortable life. There

was nothing bright in the whole scene but a firefly one solitary firefly showing against the dark bushes

like the last little speck of the departed Glory of the house; and even it went flitting up and down at sudden

angles, and leaving a place with a jerk, and describing an irregular circle, and returning to the same place

with a twitch that startled one: as if it were looking for the rest of the Glory, and wondering (Heaven knows it

In the course of two months, the flitting shapes and shadows of my dismal entering reverie gradually resolved

themselves into familiar forms and substances; and I already began to think that when the time should come,

a year hence, for closing the long holiday and turning back to England, I might part from Genoa with

It is a place that 'grows upon you' every day. There seems to be always something to find out in it. There are

the most extraordinary alleys and byways to walk about in. You can lose your way (what a comfort that is,

when you are idle!) twenty times a day, if you like; and turn up again, under the most unexpected and

surprising difficulties. It abounds in the strangest contrasts; things that are picturesque, ugly, mean,

They who would know how beautiful the country immediately surrounding Genoa is, should climb (in clear

weather) to the top of Monte Faccio, or, at least, ride round the city walls: a feat more easily performed. No

prospect can be more diversified and lovely than the changing views of the harbour, and the valleys of the

two rivers, the Polcevera and the Bizagno, from the heights along which the strongly fortified walls are

carried, like the great wall of China in little. In not the least picturesque part of this ride, there is a fair

specimen of a real Genoese tavern, where the visitor may derive good entertainment from real Genoese

dishes, such as Tagliarini; Ravioli; German sausages, strong of garlic, sliced and eaten with fresh green figs;

cocks' combs and sheep kidneys, chopped up with mutton chops and liver; small pieces of some unknown

part of a calf, twisted into small shreds, fried, and served up in a great dish like whitebait; and other

curiosities of that kind. They often get wine at these suburban Trattorie, from France and Spain and Portugal,

which is brought over by small captains in little tradingvessels. They buy it at so much a bottle, without

asking what it is, or caring to remember if anybody tells them, and usually divide it into two heaps; of which

they label one Champagne, and the other Madeira. The various opposite flavours, qualities, countries, ages,

and vintages that are comprised under these two general heads is quite extraordinary. The most limited range

The great majority of the streets are as narrow as any thoroughfare can well be, where people (even Italian

people) are supposed to live and walk about; being mere lanes, with here and there a kind of well, or

breathingplace. The houses are immensely high, painted in all sorts of colours, and are in every stage and

state of damage, dirt, and lack of repair. They are commonly let off in floors, or flats, like the houses in the

old town of Edinburgh, or many houses in Paris. There are few street doors; the entrance halls are, for the

most part, looked upon as public property; and any moderately enterprising scavenger might make a fine

fortune by now and then clearing them out. As it is impossible for coaches to penetrate into these streets,

there are sedan chairs, gilded and otherwise, for hire in divers places. A great many private chairs are also

kept among the nobility and gentry; and at night these are trotted to and fro in all directions, preceded by

bearers of great lanthorns, made of linen stretched upon a frame. The sedans and lanthorns are the legitimate

successors of the long strings of patient and muchabused mules, that go jingling their little bells through

these confined streets all day long. They follow them, as regularly as the stars the sun.

When shall I forget the Streets of Palaces: the Strada Nuova and the Strada Balbi! or how the former looked

one summer day, when I first saw it underneath the brightest and most intensely blue of summer skies: which

its narrow perspective of immense mansions, reduced to a tapering and most precious strip of brightness,

looking down upon the heavy shade below! A brightness not too common, even in July and August, to be

well esteemed: for, if the Truth must out, there were not eight blue skies in as many midsummer weeks,

saving, sometimes, early in the morning; when, looking out to sea, the water and the firmament were one

world of deep and brilliant blue. At other times, there were clouds and haze enough to make an Englishman

The endless details of these rich Palaces: the walls of some of them, within, alive with masterpieces by

Vandyke! The great, heavy, stone balconies, one above another, and tier over tier: with here and there, one

larger than the rest, towering high up a huge marble platform; the doorless vestibules, massively barred

lower windows, immense public staircases, thick marble pillars, strong dungeonlike arches, and dreary,

dreaming, echoing vaulted chambers: among which the eye wanders again, and again, and again, as every

palace is succeeded by another the terrace gardens between house and house, with green arches of the vine,

and groves of orangetrees, and blushing oleander in full bloom, twenty, thirty, forty feet above the street

the painted halls, mouldering, and blotting, and rotting in the damp corners, and still shining out in beautiful

colours and voluptuous designs, where the walls are dry the faded figures on the outsides of the houses,

holding wreaths, and crowns, and flying upward, and downward, and standing in niches, and here and there

looking fainter and more feeble than elsewhere, by contrast with some fresh little Cupids, who on a more

recently decorated portion of the front, are stretching out what seems to be the semblance of a blanket, but is,

indeed, a sundial the steep, steep, uphill streets of small palaces (but very large palaces for all that), with

marble terraces looking down into close byways the magnificent and innumerable Churches; and the rapid

passage from a street of stately edifices, into a maze of the vilest squalor, steaming with unwholesome

stenches, and swarming with halfnaked children and whole worlds of dirty people make up, altogether,

such a scene of wonder: so lively, and yet so dead: so noisy, and yet so quiet: so obtrusive, and yet so shy and

lowering: so wide awake, and yet so fast asleep: that it is a sort of intoxication to a stranger to walk on, and

on, and on, and look about him. A bewildering phantasmagoria, with all the inconsistency of a dream, and all

The different uses to which some of these Palaces are applied, all at once, is characteristic. For instance, the

English Banker (my excellent and hospitable friend) has his office in a goodsized Palazzo in the Strada

Nuova. In the hall (every inch of which is elaborately painted, but which is as dirty as a policestation in

London), a hooknosed Saracen's Head with an immense quantity of black hair (there is a man attached to it)

sells walkingsticks. On the other side of the doorway, a lady with a showy handkerchief for headdress

(wife to the Saracen's Head, I believe) sells articles of her own knitting; and sometimes flowers. A little

further in, two or three blind men occasionally beg. Sometimes, they are visited by a man without legs, on a

little gocart, but who has such a freshcoloured, lively face, and such a respectable, wellconditioned body,

that he looks as if he had sunk into the ground up to his middle, or had come, but partially, up a flight of

cellarsteps to speak to somebody. A little further in, a few men, perhaps, lie asleep in the middle of the day;

or they may be chairmen waiting for their absent freight. If so, they have brought their chairs in with them,

and there THEY stand also. On the left of the hall is a little room: a hatter's shop. On the first floor, is the

English bank. On the first floor also, is a whole house, and a good large residence too. Heaven knows what

there may be above that; but when you are there, you have only just begun to go upstairs. And yet, coming

downstairs again, thinking of this; and passing out at a great crazy door in the back of the hall, instead of

turning the other way, to get into the street again; it bangs behind you, making the dismallest and most

lonesome echoes, and you stand in a yard (the yard of the same house) which seems to have been unvisited

by human foot, for a hundred years. Not a sound disturbs its repose. Not a head, thrust out of any of the grim,

dark, jealous windows, within sight, makes the weeds in the cracked pavement faint of heart, by suggesting

the possibility of there being hands to grub them up. Opposite to you, is a giant figure carved in stone,

reclining, with an urn, upon a lofty piece of artificial rockwork; and out of the urn, dangles the fag end of a

leaden pipe, which, once upon a time, poured a small torrent down the rocks. But the eyesockets of the giant

are not drier than this channel is now. He seems to have given his urn, which is nearly upside down, a final

tilt; and after crying, like a sepulchral child, 'All gone!' to have lapsed into a stony silence.

In the streets of shops, the houses are much smaller, but of great size notwithstanding, and extremely high.

They are very dirty: quite undrained, if my nose be at all reliable: and emit a peculiar fragrance, like the smell

of very bad cheese, kept in very hot blankets. Notwithstanding the height of the houses, there would seem to

have been a lack of room in the City, for new houses are thrust in everywhere. Wherever it has been possible

to cram a tumbledown tenement into a crack or corner, in it has gone. If there be a nook or angle in the wall

of a church, or a crevice in any other dead wall, of any sort, there you are sure to find some kind of

habitation: looking as if it had grown there, like a fungus. Against the Government House, against the old

Senate House, round about any large building, little shops stick so close, like parasite vermin to the great

carcase. And for all this, look where you may: up steps, down steps, anywhere, everywhere: there are

irregular houses, receding, starting forward, tumbling down, leaning against their neighbours, crippling

themselves or their friends by some means or other, until one, more irregular than the rest, chokes up the way,

One of the rottenestlooking parts of the town, I think, is down by the landingwharf: though it may be, that

its being associated with a great deal of rottenness on the evening of our arrival, has stamped it deeper in my

mind. Here, again, the houses are very high, and are of an infinite variety of deformed shapes, and have (as

most of the houses have) something hanging out of a great many windows, and wafting its frowsy fragrance

on the breeze. Sometimes, it is a curtain; sometimes, it is a carpet; sometimes, it is a bed; sometimes, a whole

linefull of clothes; but there is almost always something. Before the basement of these houses, is an arcade

over the pavement: very massive, dark, and low, like an old crypt. The stone, or plaster, of which it is made,

has turned quite black; and against every one of these black piles, all sorts of filth and garbage seem to

accumulate spontaneously. Beneath some of the arches, the sellers of macaroni and polenta establish their

stalls, which are by no means inviting. The offal of a fish market, near at hand that is to say, of a back

lane, where people sit upon the ground and on various old bulkheads and sheds, and sell fish when they

have any to dispose of and of a vegetable market, constructed on the same principle are contributed to the

decoration of this quarter; and as all the mercantile business is transacted here, and it is crowded all day, it

has a very decided flavour about it. The Porto Franco, or Free Port (where goods brought in from foreign

countries pay no duty until they are sold and taken out, as in a bonded warehouse in England), is down here

also; and two portentous officials, in cocked hats, stand at the gate to search you if they choose, and to keep

out Monks and Ladies. For, Sanctity as well as Beauty has been known to yield to the temptation of

smuggling, and in the same way: that is to say, by concealing the smuggled property beneath the loose folds

The streets of Genoa would be all the better for the importation of a few Priests of prepossessing appearance.

Every fourth or fifth man in the streets is a Priest or a Monk; and there is pretty sure to be at least one

itinerant ecclesiastic inside or outside every hackney carriage on the neighbouring roads. I have no

knowledge, elsewhere, of more repulsive countenances than are to be found among these gentry. If Nature's

handwriting be at all legible, greater varieties of sloth, deceit, and intellectual torpor, could hardly be

MR. PEPYS once heard a clergyman assert in his sermon, in illustration of his respect for the Priestly office,

that if he could meet a Priest and angel together, he would salute the Priest first. I am rather of the opinion of

PETRARCH, who, when his pupil BOCCACCIO wrote to him in great tribulation, that he had been visited

and admonished for his writings by a Carthusian Friar who claimed to be a messenger immediately

commissioned by Heaven for that purpose, replied, that for his own part, he would take the liberty of testing

the reality of the commission by personal observation of the Messenger's face, eyes, forehead, behaviour, and

discourse. I cannot but believe myself, from similar observation, that many unaccredited celestial messengers

may be seen skulking through the streets of Genoa, or droning away their lives in other Italian towns.

Perhaps the Cappuccini, though not a learned body, are, as an order, the best friends of the people. They seem

to mingle with them more immediately, as their counsellors and comforters; and to go among them more,

when they are sick; and to pry less than some other orders, into the secrets of families, for the purpose of

establishing a baleful ascendency over their weaker members; and to be influenced by a less fierce desire to

make converts, and once made, to let them go to ruin, soul and body. They may be seen, in their coarse dress,

in all parts of the town at all times, and begging in the markets early in the morning. The Jesuits too, muster

strong in the streets, and go slinking noiselessly about, in pairs, like black cats.

In some of the narrow passages, distinct trades congregate. There is a street of jewellers, and there is a row of

booksellers; but even down in places where nobody ever can, or ever could, penetrate in a carriage, there are

mighty old palaces shut in among the gloomiest and closest walls, and almost shut out from the sun. Very

few of the tradesmen have any idea of setting forth their goods, or disposing them for show. If you, a

stranger, want to buy anything, you usually look round the shop till you see it; then clutch it, if it be within

reach, and inquire how much. Everything is sold at the most unlikely place. If you want coffee, you go to a

sweetmeat shop; and if you want meat, you will probably find it behind an old checked curtain, down

halfadozen steps, in some sequestered nook as hard to find as if the commodity were poison, and Genoa's

Most of the apothecaries' shops are great loungingplaces. Here, grave men with sticks, sit down in the shade

for hours together, passing a meagre Genoa paper from hand to hand, and talking, drowsily and sparingly,

about the News. Two or three of these are poor physicians, ready to proclaim themselves on an emergency,

and tear off with any messenger who may arrive. You may know them by the way in which they stretch their

necks to listen, when you enter; and by the sigh with which they fall back again into their dull corners, on

finding that you only want medicine. Few people lounge in the barbers' shops; though they are very

numerous, as hardly any man shaves himself. But the apothecary's has its group of loungers, who sit back

among the bottles, with their hands folded over the tops of their sticks. So still and quiet, that either you don't

see them in the darkened shop, or mistake them as I did one ghostly man in bottlegreen, one day, with a

On a summer evening the Genoese are as fond of putting themselves, as their ancestors were of putting

houses, in every available inch of space in and about the town. In all the lanes and alleys, and up every little

ascent, and on every dwarf wall, and on every flight of steps, they cluster like bees. Meanwhile (and

especially on festadays) the bells of the churches ring incessantly; not in peals, or any known form of sound,

but in a horrible, irregular, jerking, dingle, dingle, dingle: with a sudden stop at every fifteenth dingle or so,

which is maddening. This performance is usually achieved by a boy up in the steeple, who takes hold of the

clapper, or a little rope attached to it, and tries to dingle louder than every other boy similarly employed. The

noise is supposed to be particularly obnoxious to Evil Spirits; but looking up into the steeples, and seeing

(and hearing) these young Christians thus engaged, one might very naturally mistake them for the Enemy.

Festadays, early in the autumn, are very numerous. All the shops were shut up, twice within a week, for

these holidays; and one night, all the houses in the neighbourhood of a particular church were illuminated,

while the church itself was lighted, outside, with torches; and a grove of blazing links was erected, in an open

space outside one of the city gates. This part of the ceremony is prettier and more singular a little way in the

country, where you can trace the illuminated cottages all the way up a steep hill side; and where you pass

festoons of tapers, wasting away in the starlight night, before some lonely little house upon the road.

On these days, they always dress the church of the saint in whose honour the festa is holden, very gaily.

Goldembroidered festoons of different colours, hang from the arches; the altar furniture is set forth; and

sometimes, even the lofty pillars are swathed from top to bottom in tightfitting draperies. The cathedral is

dedicated to St. Lorenzo. On St. Lorenzo's day, we went into it, just as the sun was setting. Although these

decorations are usually in very indifferent taste, the effect, just then, was very superb indeed. For the whole

building was dressed in red; and the sinking sun, streaming in, through a great red curtain in the chief

doorway, made all the gorgeousness its own. When the sun went down, and it gradually grew quite dark

inside, except for a few twinkling tapers on the principal altar, and some small dangling silver lamps, it was

very mysterious and effective. But, sitting in any of the churches towards evening, is like a mild dose of

With the money collected at a festa, they usually pay for the dressing of the church, and for the hiring of the

band, and for the tapers. If there be any left (which seldom happens, I believe), the souls in Purgatory get the

benefit of it. They are also supposed to have the benefit of the exertions of certain small boys, who shake

moneyboxes before some mysterious little buildings like rural turnpikes, which (usually shut up close) fly

Just without the city gate, on the Albara road, is a small house, with an altar in it, and a stationary

moneybox: also for the benefit of the souls in Purgatory. Still further to stimulate the charitable, there is a

monstrous painting on the plaster, on either side of the grated door, representing a select party of souls,

frying. One of them has a grey moustache, and an elaborate head of grey hair: as if he had been taken out of a

hairdresser's window and cast into the furnace. There he is: a most grotesque and hideously comic old soul:

for ever blistering in the real sun, and melting in the mimic fire, for the gratification and improvement (and

They are not a very joyous people, and are seldom seen to dance on their holidays: the staple places of

entertainment among the women, being the churches and the public walks. They are very goodtempered,

obliging, and industrious. Industry has not made them clean, for their habitations are extremely filthy, and

their usual occupation on a fine Sunday morning, is to sit at their doors, hunting in each other's heads. But

their dwellings are so close and confined that if those parts of the city had been beaten down by Massena in

the time of the terrible Blockade, it would have at least occasioned one public benefit among many

The Peasant Women, with naked feet and legs, are so constantly washing clothes, in the public tanks, and in

every stream and ditch, that one cannot help wondering, in the midst of all this dirt, who wears them when

they are clean. The custom is to lay the wet linen which is being operated upon, on a smooth stone, and

hammer away at it, with a flat wooden mallet. This they do, as furiously as if they were revenging themselves

It is not unusual to see, lying on the edge of the tank at these times, or on another flat stone, an unfortunate

baby, tightly swathed up, arms and legs and all, in an enormous quantity of wrapper, so that it is unable to

move a toe or finger. This custom (which we often see represented in old pictures) is universal among the

common people. A child is left anywhere without the possibility of crawling away, or is accidentally knocked

off a shelf, or tumbled out of bed, or is hung up to a hook now and then, and left dangling like a doll at an

I was sitting, one Sunday, soon after my arrival, in the little country church of San Martino, a couple of miles

from the city, while a baptism took place. I saw the priest, and an attendant with a large taper, and a man, and

a woman, and some others; but I had no more idea, until the ceremony was all over, that it was a baptism, or

that the curious little stiff instrument, that was passed from one to another, in the course of the ceremony, by

the handle like a short poker was a child, than I had that it was my own christening. I borrowed the child

afterwards, for a minute or two (it was lying across the font then), and found it very red in the face but

perfectly quiet, and not to be bent on any terms. The number of cripples in the streets, soon ceased to surprise

There are plenty of Saints' and Virgin's Shrines, of course; generally at the corners of streets. The favourite

memento to the Faithful, about Genoa, is a painting, representing a peasant on his knees, with a spade and

some other agricultural implements beside him; and the Madonna, with the Infant Saviour in her arms,

appearing to him in a cloud. This is the legend of the Madonna della Guardia: a chapel on a mountain within

a few miles, which is in high repute. It seems that this peasant lived all alone by himself, tilling some land

atop of the mountain, where, being a devout man, he daily said his prayers to the Virgin in the open air; for

his hut was a very poor one. Upon a certain day, the Virgin appeared to him, as in the picture, and said, 'Why

do you pray in the open air, and without a priest?' The peasant explained because there was neither priest nor

church at hand a very uncommon complaint indeed in Italy. 'I should wish, then,' said the Celestial Visitor,

'to have a chapel built here, in which the prayers of the Faithful may be offered up.' 'But, Santissima

Madonna,' said the peasant, 'I am a poor man; and chapels cannot be built without money. They must be

supported, too, Santissima; for to have a chapel and not support it liberally, is a wickedness a deadly sin.'

This sentiment gave great satisfaction to the visitor. 'Go!' said she. 'There is such a village in the valley on the

left, and such another village in the valley on the right, and such another village elsewhere, that will gladly

contribute to the building of a chapel. Go to them! Relate what you have seen; and do not doubt that

sufficient money will be forthcoming to erect my chapel, or that it will, afterwards, be handsomely

maintained.' All of which (miraculously) turned out to be quite true. And in proof of this prediction and

revelation, there is the chapel of the Madonna della Guardia, rich and flourishing at this day.

The splendour and variety of the Genoese churches, can hardly be exaggerated. The church of the Annunciata

especially: built, like many of the others, at the cost of one noble family, and now in slow progress of repair:

from the outer door to the utmost height of the high cupola, is so elaborately painted and set in gold, that it

looks (as SIMOND describes it, in his charming book on Italy) like a great enamelled snuffbox. Most of the

richer churches contain some beautiful pictures, or other embellishments of great price, almost universally

set, side by side, with sprawling effigies of maudlin monks, and the veriest trash and tinsel ever seen.

It may be a consequence of the frequent direction of the popular mind, and pocket, to the souls in Purgatory,

but there is very little tenderness for the BODIES of the dead here. For the very poor, there are, immediately

outside one angle of the walls, and behind a jutting point of the fortification, near the sea, certain common

pits one for every day in the year which all remain closed up, until the turn of each comes for its daily

reception of dead bodies. Among the troops in the town, there are usually some Swiss: more or less. When

any of these die, they are buried out of a fund maintained by such of their countrymen as are resident in

Genoa. Their providing coffins for these men is matter of great astonishment to the authorities.

Certainly, the effect of this promiscuous and indecent splashing down of dead people in so many wells, is

bad. It surrounds Death with revolting associations, that insensibly become connected with those whom

Death is approaching. Indifference and avoidance are the natural result; and all the softening influences of the

There is a ceremony when an old Cavaliere or the like, expires, of erecting a pile of benches in the cathedral,

to represent his bier; covering them over with a pall of black velvet; putting his hat and sword on the top;

making a little square of seats about the whole; and sending out formal invitations to his friends and

acquaintances to come and sit there, and hear Mass: which is performed at the principal Altar, decorated with

When the better kind of people die, or are at the point of death, their nearest relations generally walk off:

retiring into the country for a little change, and leaving the body to be disposed of, without any

superintendence from them. The procession is usually formed, and the coffin borne, and the funeral

conducted, by a body of persons called a Confraternita, who, as a kind of voluntary penance, undertake to

perform these offices, in regular rotation, for the dead; but who, mingling something of pride with their

humility, are dressed in a loose garment covering their whole person, and wear a hood concealing the face;

with breathingholes and apertures for the eyes. The effect of this costume is very ghastly: especially in the

case of a certain Blue Confraternita belonging to Genoa, who, to say the least of them, are very ugly

customers, and who look suddenly encountered in their pious ministration in the streets as if they were

Although such a custom may be liable to the abuse attendant on many Italian customs, of being recognised as

a means of establishing a current account with Heaven, on which to draw, too easily, for future bad actions,

or as an expiation for past misdeeds, it must be admitted to be a good one, and a practical one, and one

involving unquestionably good works. A voluntary service like this, is surely better than the imposed penance

(not at all an infrequent one) of giving so many licks to such and such a stone in the pavement of the

cathedral; or than a vow to the Madonna to wear nothing but blue for a year or two. This is supposed to give

great delight above; blue being (as is well known) the Madonna's favourite colour. Women who have devoted

There are three theatres in the city, besides an old one now rarely opened. The most important the Carlo

Felice: the operahouse of Genoa is a very splendid, commodious, and beautiful theatre. A company of

comedians were acting there, when we arrived: and soon after their departure, a secondrate opera company

came. The great season is not until the carnival time in the spring. Nothing impressed me, so much, in my

visits here (which were pretty numerous) as the uncommonly hard and cruel character of the audience, who

resent the slightest defect, take nothing good humouredly, seem to be always lying in wait for an

But, as there is nothing else of a public nature at which they are allowed to express the least disapprobation,

There are a great number of Piedmontese officers too, who are allowed the privilege of kicking their heels in

the pit, for next to nothing: gratuitous, or cheap accommodation for these gentlemen being insisted on, by the

Governor, in all public or semipublic entertainments. They are lofty critics in consequence, and infinitely

The TEATRO DIURNO, or Day Theatre, is a covered stage in the open air, where the performances take

place by daylight, in the cool of the afternoon; commencing at four or five o'clock, and lasting, some three

hours. It is curious, sitting among the audience, to have a fine view of the neighbouring hills and houses, and

to see the neighbours at their windows looking on, and to hear the bells of the churches and convents ringing

at most complete cross purposes with the scene. Beyond this, and the novelty of seeing a play in the fresh

pleasant air, with the darkening evening closing in, there is nothing very exciting or characteristic in the

performances. The actors are indifferent; and though they sometimes represent one of Goldoni's comedies,

the staple of the Drama is French. Anything like nationality is dangerous to despotic governments, and

The Theatre of Puppets, or Marionetti a famous company from Milan is, without any exception, the

drollest exhibition I ever beheld in my life. I never saw anything so exquisitely ridiculous. They LOOK

between four and five feet high, but are really much smaller; for when a musician in the orchestra happens to

put his hat on the stage, it becomes alarmingly gigantic, and almost blots out an actor. They usually play a

comedy, and a ballet. The comic man in the comedy I saw one summer night, is a waiter in an hotel. There

never was such a locomotive actor, since the world began. Great pains are taken with him. He has extra joints

in his legs: and a practical eye, with which he winks at the pit, in a manner that is absolutely insupportable to

a stranger, but which the initiated audience, mainly composed of the common people, receive (so they do

everything else) quite as a matter of course, and as if he were a man. His spirits are prodigious. He

continually shakes his legs, and winks his eye. And there is a heavy father with grey hair, who sits down on

the regular conventional stagebank, and blesses his daughter in the regular conventional way, who is

tremendous. No one would suppose it possible that anything short of a real man could be so tedious. It is the

In the ballet, an Enchanter runs away with the Bride, in the very hour of her nuptials, He brings her to his

cave, and tries to soothe her. They sit down on a sofa (the regular sofa! in the regular place, O. P. Second

Entrance!) and a procession of musicians enters; one creature playing a drum, and knocking himself off his

legs at every blow. These failing to delight her, dancers appear. Four first; then two; THE two; the

fleshcoloured two. The way in which they dance; the height to which they spring; the impossible and

inhuman extent to which they pirouette; the revelation of their preposterous legs; the coming down with a

pause, on the very tips of their toes, when the music requires it; the gentleman's retiring up, when it is the

lady's turn; and the lady's retiring up, when it is the gentleman's turn; the final passion of a pasdedeux; and

the going off with a bound! I shall never see a real ballet, with a composed countenance again.

I went, another night, to see these Puppets act a play called 'St. Helena, or the Death of Napoleon.' It began by

the disclosure of Napoleon, with an immense head, seated on a sofa in his chamber at St. Helena; to whom

Sir Hudson (that you could have seen his regimentals!) was a perfect mammoth of a man, to Napoleon;

hideously ugly, with a monstrously disproportionate face, and a great clump for the lower jaw, to express

his tyrannical and obdurate nature. He began his system of persecution, by calling his prisoner 'General

Buonaparte;' to which the latter replied, with the deepest tragedy, 'Sir Yew ud se on Low, call me not thus.

Repeat that phrase and leave me! I am Napoleon, Emperor of France!' Sir Yew ud se on, nothing daunted,

proceeded to entertain him with an ordinance of the British Government, regulating the state he should

preserve, and the furniture of his rooms: and limiting his attendants to four or five persons. 'Four or five for

ME!' said Napoleon. 'Me! One hundred thousand men were lately at my sole command; and this English

officer talks of four or five for ME!' Throughout the piece, Napoleon (who talked very like the real Napoleon,

and was, for ever, having small soliloquies by himself) was very bitter on 'these English officers,' and 'these

English soldiers;' to the great satisfaction of the audience, who were perfectly delighted to have Low bullied;

and who, whenever Low said 'General Buonaparte' (which he always did: always receiving the same

correction), quite execrated him. It would be hard to say why; for Italians have little cause to sympathise with

There was no plot at all, except that a French officer, disguised as an Englishman, came to propound a plan of

escape; and being discovered, but not before Napoleon had magnanimously refused to steal his freedom, was

immediately ordered off by Low to be hanged. In two very long speeches, which Low made memorable, by

winding up with 'Yas!' to show that he was English which brought down thunders of applause. Napoleon

was so affected by this catastrophe, that he fainted away on the spot, and was carried out by two other

puppets. Judging from what followed, it would appear that he never recovered the shock; for the next act

showed him, in a clean shirt, in his bed (curtains crimson and white), where a lady, prematurely dressed in

mourning, brought two little children, who kneeled down by the bedside, while he made a decent end; the last

It was unspeakably ludicrous. Buonaparte's boots were so wonderfully beyond control, and did such

marvellous things of their own accord: doubling themselves up, and getting under tables, and dangling in the

air, and sometimes skating away with him, out of all human knowledge, when he was in full speech

mischances which were not rendered the less absurd, by a settled melancholy depicted in his face. To put an

end to one conference with Low, he had to go to a table, and read a book: when it was the finest spectacle I

ever beheld, to see his body bending over the volume, like a boot jack, and his sentimental eyes glaring

obstinately into the pit. He was prodigiously good, in bed, with an immense collar to his shirt, and his little

hands outside the coverlet. So was Dr. Antommarchi, represented by a puppet with long lank hair, like

Mawworm's, who, in consequence of some derangement of his wires, hovered about the couch like a vulture,

and gave medical opinions in the air. He was almost as good as Low, though the latter was great at all times

a decided brute and villain, beyond all possibility of mistake. Low was especially fine at the last, when,

hearing the doctor and the valet say, 'The Emperor is dead!' he pulled out his watch, and wound up the piece

(not the watch) by exclaiming, with characteristic brutality, 'Ha! ha! Eleven minutes to six! The General

There is not in Italy, they say (and I believe them), a lovelier residence than the Palazzo Peschiere, or Palace

of the Fishponds, whither we removed as soon as our three months' tenancy of the Pink Jail at Albaro had

It stands on a height within the walls of Genoa, but aloof from the town: surrounded by beautiful gardens of

its own, adorned with statues, vases, fountains, marble basins, terraces, walks of orangetrees and

lemontrees, groves of roses and camellias. All its apartments are beautiful in their proportions and

decorations; but the great hall, some fifty feet in height, with three large windows at the end, overlooking the

whole town of Genoa, the harbour, and the neighbouring sea, affords one of the most fascinating and

delightful prospects in the world. Any house more cheerful and habitable than the great rooms are, within, it

would be difficult to conceive; and certainly nothing more delicious than the scene without, in sunshine or in

moonlight, could be imagined. It is more like an enchanted place in an Eastern story than a grave and sober

How you may wander on, from room to room, and never tire of the wild fancies on the walls and ceilings, as

bright in their fresh colouring as if they had been painted yesterday; or how one floor, or even the great hall

which opens on eight other rooms, is a spacious promenade; or how there are corridors and bedchambers

above, which we never use and rarely visit, and scarcely know the way through; or how there is a view of a

perfectly different character on each of the four sides of the building; matters little. But that prospect from the

hall is like a vision to me. I go back to it, in fancy, as I have done in calm reality a hundred times a day; and

stand there, looking out, with the sweet scents from the garden rising up about me, in a perfect dream of

There lies all Genoa, in beautiful confusion, with its many churches, monasteries, and convents, pointing up

into the sunny sky; and down below me, just where the roofs begin, a solitary convent parapet, fashioned like

a gallery, with an iron across at the end, where sometimes early in the morning, I have seen a little group of

darkveiled nuns gliding sorrowfully to and fro, and stopping now and then to peep down upon the waking

world in which they have no part. Old Monte Faccio, brightest of hills in good weather, but sulkiest when

storms are coming on, is here, upon the left. The Fort within the walls (the good King built it to command the

town, and beat the houses of the Genoese about their ears, in case they should be discontented) commands

that height upon the right. The broad sea lies beyond, in front there; and that line of coast, beginning by the

lighthouse, and tapering away, a mere speck in the rosy distance, is the beautiful coast road that leads to

Nice. The garden near at hand, among the roofs and houses: all red with roses and fresh with little fountains:

is the Acqua Sola a public promenade, where the military band plays gaily, and the white veils cluster

thick, and the Genoese nobility ride round, and round, and round, in stateclothes and coaches at least, if not

in absolute wisdom. Within a stone'sthrow, as it seems, the audience of the Day Theatre sit: their faces

turned this way. But as the stage is hidden, it is very odd, without a knowledge of the cause, to see their faces

changed so suddenly from earnestness to laughter; and odder still, to hear the rounds upon rounds of

applause, rattling in the evening air, to which the curtain falls. But, being Sunday night, they act their best

and most attractive play. And now, the sun is going down, in such magnificent array of red, and green, and

golden light, as neither pen nor pencil could depict; and to the ringing of the vesper bells, darkness sets in at

once, without a twilight. Then, lights begin to shine in Genoa, and on the country road; and the revolving

lanthorn out at sea there, flashing, for an instant, on this palace front and portico, illuminates it as if there

were a bright moon bursting from behind a cloud; then, merges it in deep obscurity. And this, so far as I

know, is the only reason why the Genoese avoid it after dark, and think it haunted.

My memory will haunt it, many nights, in time to come; but nothing worse, I will engage. The same Ghost

will occasionally sail away, as I did one pleasant autumn evening, into the bright prospect, and sniff the

The corpulent hairdresser was still sitting in his slippers outside his shopdoor there, but the twirling ladies in

the window, with the natural inconstancy of their sex, had ceased to twirl, and were languishing, stock still,

with their beautiful faces addressed to blind corners of the establishment, where it was impossible for

The steamer had come from Genoa in a delicious run of eighteen hours, and we were going to run back again

by the Cornice road from Nice: not being satisfied to have seen only the outsides of the beautiful towns that

rise in picturesque white clusters from among the olive woods, and rocks, and hills, upon the margin of the

The Boat which started for Nice that night, at eight o'clock, was very small, and so crowded with goods that

there was scarcely room to move; neither was there anything to cat on board, except bread; nor to drink,

except coffee. But being due at Nice at about eight or so in the morning, this was of no consequence; so when

we began to wink at the bright stars, in involuntary acknowledgment of their winking at us, we turned into

our berths, in a crowded, but cool little cabin, and slept soundly till morning.

The Boat, being as dull and dogged a little boat as ever was built, it was within an hour of noon when we

turned into Nice Harbour, where we very little expected anything but breakfast. But we were laden with

wool. Wool must not remain in the Customhouse at Marseilles more than twelve months at a stretch,

without paying duty. It is the custom to make fictitious removals of unsold wool to evade this law; to take it

somewhere when the twelve months are nearly out; bring it straight back again; and warehouse it, as a new

cargo, for nearly twelve months longer. This wool of ours, had come originally from some place in the East.

It was recognised as Eastern produce, the moment we entered the harbour. Accordingly, the gay little Sunday

boats, full of holiday people, which had come off to greet us, were warned away by the authorities; we were

declared in quarantine; and a great flag was solemnly run up to the masthead on the wharf, to make it

It was a very hot day indeed. We were unshaved, unwashed, undressed, unfed, and could hardly enjoy the

absurdity of lying blistering in a lazy harbour, with the town looking on from a respectful distance, all

manner of whiskered men in cocked hats discussing our fate at a remote guardhouse, with gestures (we

looked very hard at them through telescopes) expressive of a week's detention at least: and nothing whatever

the matter all the time. But even in this crisis the brave Courier achieved a triumph. He telegraphed

somebody (I saw nobody) either naturally connected with the hotel, or put EN RAPPORT with the

establishment for that occasion only. The telegraph was answered, and in half an hour or less, there came a

loud shout from the guardhouse. The captain was wanted. Everybody helped the captain into his boat.

Everybody got his luggage, and said we were going. The captain rowed away, and disappeared behind a little

jutting corner of the Galley slaves' Prison: and presently came back with something, very sulkily. The brave

Courier met him at the side, and received the something as its rightful owner. It was a wicker basket, folded

in a linen cloth; and in it were two great bottles of wine, a roast fowl, some salt fish chopped with garlic, a

great loaf of bread, a dozen or so of peaches, and a few other trifles. When we had selected our own

breakfast, the brave Courier invited a chosen party to partake of these refreshments, and assured them that

they need not be deterred by motives of delicacy, as he would order a second basket to be furnished at their

expense. Which he did no one knew how and byandby, the captain being again summoned, again

sulkily returned with another something; over which my popular attendant presided as before: carving with a

The whole party on board were made merry by these unexpected supplies; but none more so than a

loquacious little Frenchman, who got drunk in five minutes, and a sturdy Cappuccino Friar, who had taken

everybody's fancy mightily, and was one of the best friars in the world, I verily believe.

He had a free, open countenance; and a rich brown, flowing beard; and was a remarkably handsome man, of

about fifty. He had come up to us, early in the morning, and inquired whether we were sure to be at Nice by

eleven; saying that he particularly wanted to know, because if we reached it by that time he would have to

perform Mass, and must deal with the consecrated wafer, fasting; whereas, if there were no chance of his

being in time, he would immediately breakfast. He made this communication, under the idea that the brave

Courier was the captain; and indeed he looked much more like it than anybody else on board. Being assured

that we should arrive in good time, he fasted, and talked, fasting, to everybody, with the most charming good

humour; answering jokes at the expense of friars, with other jokes at the expense of laymen, and saying that,

friar as he was, he would engage to take up the two strongest men on board, one after the other, with his

teeth, and carry them along the deck. Nobody gave him the opportunity, but I dare say he could have done it;

for he was a gallant, noble figure of a man, even in the Cappuccino dress, which is the ugliest and most

All this had given great delight to the loquacious Frenchman, who gradually patronised the Friar very much,

and seemed to commiserate him as one who might have been born a Frenchman himself, but for an

unfortunate destiny. Although his patronage was such as a mouse might bestow upon a lion, he had a vast

opinion of its condescension; and in the warmth of that sentiment, occasionally rose on tiptoe, to slap the

When the baskets arrived: it being then too late for Mass: the Friar went to work bravely: eating prodigiously

of the cold meat and bread, drinking deep draughts of the wine, smoking cigars, taking snuff, sustaining an

uninterrupted conversation with all hands, and occasionally running to the boat's side and hailing somebody

on shore with the intelligence that we MUST be got out of this quarantine somehow or other, as he had to

take part in a great religious procession in the afternoon. After this, he would come back, laughing lustily

from pure good humour: while the Frenchman wrinkled his small face into ten thousand creases, and said

how droll it was, and what a brave boy was that Friar! At length the heat of the sun without, and the wine

within, made the Frenchman sleepy. So, in the noontide of his patronage of his gigantic protege, he lay down

It was four o'clock before we were released; and the Frenchman, dirty and woolly, and snuffy, was still

sleeping when the Friar went ashore. As soon as we were free, we all hurried away, to wash and dress, that

we might make a decent appearance at the procession; and I saw no more of the Frenchman until we took up

our station in the main street to see it pass, when he squeezed himself into a front place, elaborately

renovated; threw back his little coat, to show a broadbarred velvet waistcoat, sprinkled all over with stars;

then adjusted himself and his cane so as utterly to bewilder and transfix the Friar, when he should appear.

The procession was a very long one, and included an immense number of people divided into small parties;

each party chanting nasally, on its own account, without reference to any other, and producing a most dismal

result. There were angels, crosses, Virgins carried on flat boards surrounded by Cupids, crowns, saints,

missals, infantry, tapers, monks, nuns, relics, dignitaries of the church in green hats, walking under crimson

parasols: and, here and there, a species of sacred streetlamp hoisted on a pole. We looked out anxiously for

the Cappuccini, and presently their brown robes and corded girdles were seen coming on, in a body.

I observed the little Frenchman chuckle over the idea that when the Friar saw him in the broadbarred

waistcoat, he would mentally exclaim, 'Is that my Patron! THAT distinguished man!' and would be covered

with confusion. Ah! never was the Frenchman so deceived. As our friend the Cappuccino advanced, with

folded arms, he looked straight into the visage of the little Frenchman, with a bland, serene, composed

abstraction, not to be described. There was not the faintest trace of recognition or amusement on his features;

not the smallest consciousness of bread and meat, wine, snuff, or cigars. 'C'est luimeme,' I heard the little

Frenchman say, in some doubt. Oh yes, it was himself. It was not his brother or his nephew, very like him. It

was he. He walked in great state: being one of the Superiors of the Order: and looked his part to admiration.

There never was anything so perfect of its kind as the contemplative way in which he allowed his placid gaze

to rest on us, his late companions, as if he had never seen us in his life and didn't see us then. The Frenchman,

quite humbled, took off his hat at last, but the Friar still passed on, with the same imperturbable serenity; and

The procession wound up with a discharge of musketry that shook all the windows in the town. Next

The halfFrench, halfItalian Vetturino, who undertook, with his little rattling carriage and pair, to convey us

thither in three days, was a careless, goodlooking fellow, whose lightheartedness and singing propensities

knew no bounds as long as we went on smoothly. So long, he had a word and a smile, and a flick of his whip,

for all the peasant girls, and odds and ends of the Sonnambula for all the echoes. So long, he went jingling

through every little village, with bells on his horses and rings in his ears: a very meteor of gallantry and

cheerfulness. But, it was highly characteristic to see him under a slight reverse of circumstances, when, in one

part of the journey, we came to a narrow place where a waggon had broken down and stopped up the road.

His hands were twined in his hair immediately, as if a combination of all the direst accidents in life had

suddenly fallen on his devoted head. He swore in French, prayed in Italian, and went up and down, beating

his feet on the ground in a very ecstasy of despair. There were various carters and muledrivers assembled

round the broken waggon, and at last some man of an original turn of mind, proposed that a general and joint

effort should be made to get things torights again, and clear the way an idea which I verily believe would

never have presented itself to our friend, though we had remained there until now. It was done at no great

cost of labour; but at every pause in the doing, his hands were wound in his hair again, as if there were no ray

of hope to lighten his misery. The moment he was on his box once more, and clattering briskly down hill, he

returned to the Sonnambula and the peasant girls, as if it were not in the power of misfortune to depress him.

Much of the romance of the beautiful towns and villages on this beautiful road, disappears when they are

entered, for many of them are very miserable. The streets are narrow, dark, and dirty; the inhabitants lean and

squalid; and the withered old women, with their wiry grey hair twisted up into a knot on the top of the head,

like a pad to carry loads on, are so intensely ugly, both along the Riviera, and in Genoa, too, that, seen

straggling about in dim doorways with their spindles, or crooning together in bycorners, they are like a

population of Witches except that they certainly are not to be suspected of brooms or any other instrument

of cleanliness. Neither are the pigskins, in common use to hold wine, and hung out in the sun in all

directions, by any means ornamental, as they always preserve the form of very bloated pigs, with their heads

These towns, as they are seen in the approach, however: nestling, with their clustering roofs and towers,

among trees on steep hill sides, or built upon the brink of noble bays: are charming. The vegetation is,

everywhere, luxuriant and beautiful, and the Palm tree makes a novel feature in the novel scenery. In one

town, San Remo a most extraordinary place, built on gloomy open arches, so that one might ramble

underneath the whole town there are pretty terrace gardens; in other towns, there is the clang of

shipwrights' hammers, and the building of small vessels on the beach. In some of the broad bays, the fleets of

Europe might ride at anchor. In every case, each little group of houses presents, in the distance, some

The road itself now high above the glittering sea, which breaks against the foot of the precipice: now

turning inland to sweep the shore of a bay: now crossing the stony bed of a mountain stream: now low down

on the beach: now winding among riven rocks of many forms and colours: now chequered by a solitary

ruined tower, one of a chain of towers built, in old time, to protect the coast from the invasions of the Barbary

Corsairs presents new beauties every moment. When its own striking scenery is passed, and it trails on

through a long line of suburb, lying on the flat seashore, to Genoa, then, the changing glimpses of that noble

city and its harbour, awaken a new source of interest; freshened by every huge, unwieldy, halfinhabited old

house in its outskirts: and coming to its climax when the city gate is reached, and all Genoa with its beautiful

I STROLLED away from Genoa on the 6th of November, bound for a good many places (England among

them), but first for Piacenza; for which town I started in the COUPE of a machine something like a travelling

caravan, in company with the brave Courier, and a lady with a large dog, who howled dolefully, at intervals,

all night. It was very wet, and very cold; very dark, and very dismal; we travelled at the rate of barely four

miles an hour, and stopped nowhere for refreshment. At ten o'clock next morning, we changed coaches at

Alessandria, where we were packed up in another coach (the body whereof would have been small for a fly),

in company with a very old priest; a young Jesuit, his companion who carried their breviaries and other

books, and who, in the exertion of getting into the coach, had made a gash of pink leg between his black

stocking and his black kneeshorts, that reminded one of Hamlet in Ophelia's closet, only it was visible on

both legs a provincial Avvocato; and a gentleman with a red nose that had an uncommon and singular

sheen upon it, which I never observed in the human subject before. In this way we travelled on, until four

o'clock in the afternoon; the roads being still very heavy, and the coach very slow. To mend the matter, the

old priest was troubled with cramps in his legs, so that he had to give a terrible yell every ten minutes or so,

and be hoisted out by the united efforts of the company; the coach always stopping for him, with great

gravity. This disorder, and the roads, formed the main subject of conversation. Finding, in the afternoon, that

the COUPE had discharged two people, and had only one passenger inside a monstrous ugly Tuscan, with a

great purple moustache, of which no man could see the ends when he had his hat on I took advantage of its

better accommodation, and in company with this gentleman (who was very conversational and

goodhumoured) travelled on, until nearly eleven o'clock at night, when the driver reported that he couldn't

think of going any farther, and we accordingly made a halt at a place called Stradella.

The inn was a series of strange galleries surrounding a yard where our coach, and a waggon or two, and a lot

of fowls, and firewood, were all heaped up together, higgledypiggledy; so that you didn't know, and couldn't

have taken your oath, which was a fowl and which was a cart. We followed a sleepy man with a flaring torch,

into a great, cold room, where there were two immensely broad beds, on what looked like two immensely

broad deal diningtables; another deal table of similar dimensions in the middle of the bare floor; four

windows; and two chairs. Somebody said it was my room; and I walked up and down it, for half an hour or

so, staring at the Tuscan, the old priest, the young priest, and the Avvocato (Red Nose lived in the town, and

The rather dreary whimsicality of this stage of the proceedings, is interrupted by an announcement from the

Brave (he had been cooking) that supper is ready; and to the priest's chamber (the next room and the

counterpart of mine) we all adjourn. The first dish is a cabbage, boiled with a great quantity of rice in a tureen

full of water, and flavoured with cheese. It is so hot, and we are so cold, that it appears almost jolly. The

second dish is some little bits of pork, fried with pigs' kidneys. The third, two red fowls. The fourth, two little

red turkeys. The fifth, a huge stew of garlic and truffles, and I don't know what else; and this concludes the

Before I can sit down in my own chamber, and think it of the dampest, the door opens, and the Brave comes

moving in, in the middle of such a quantity of fuel that he looks like Birnam Wood taking a winter walk. He

kindles this heap in a twinkling, and produces a jorum of hot brandy and water; for that bottle of his keeps

company with the seasons, and now holds nothing but the purest EAU DE VIE. When he has accomplished

this feat, he retires for the night; and I hear him, for an hour afterwards, and indeed until I fall asleep, making

jokes in some outhouse (apparently under the pillow), where he is smoking cigars with a party of confidential

friends. He never was in the house in his life before; but he knows everybody everywhere, before he has been

anywhere five minutes; and is certain to have attracted to himself, in the meantime, the enthusiastic devotion

This is at twelve o'clock at night. At four o'clock next morning, he is up again, fresher than a fullblown rose;

making blazing fires without the least authority from the landlord; producing mugs of scalding coffee when

nobody else can get anything but cold water; and going out into the dark streets, and roaring for fresh milk,

on the chance of somebody with a cow getting up to supply it. While the horses are 'coming,' I stumble out

into the town too. It seems to be all one little Piazza, with a cold damp wind blowing in and out of the arches,

alternately, in a sort of pattern. But it is profoundly dark, and raining heavily; and I shouldn't know it

The horses arrive in about an hour. In the interval, the driver swears; sometimes Christian oaths, sometimes

Pagan oaths. Sometimes, when it is a long, compound oath, he begins with Christianity and merges into

Paganism. Various messengers are despatched; not so much after the horses, as after each other; for the first

messenger never comes back, and all the rest imitate him. At length the horses appear, surrounded by all the

messengers; some kicking them, and some dragging them, and all shouting abuse to them. Then, the old

priest, the young priest, the Avvocato, the Tuscan, and all of us, take our places; and sleepy voices

proceeding from the doors of extraordinary hutches in divers parts of the yard, cry out 'Addio corriere mio!

Buon' viaggio, corriere!' Salutations which the courier, with his face one monstrous grin, returns in like

At Piacenza, which was four or five hours' journey from the inn at Stradella, we broke up our little company

before the hotel door, with divers manifestations of friendly feeling on all sides. The old priest was taken with

the cramp again, before he had got half way down the street; and the young priest laid the bundle of books

on a doorstep, while he dutifully rubbed the old gentleman's legs. The client of the Avvocato was waiting

for him at the yardgate, and kissed him on each cheek, with such a resounding smack, that I am afraid he

had either a very bad case, or a scantilyfurnished purse. The Tuscan, with a cigar in his mouth, went

loitering off, carrying his hat in his hand that he might the better trail up the ends of his dishevelled

moustache. And the brave Courier, as he and I strolled away to look about us, began immediately to entertain

A brown, decayed, old town, Piacenza is. A deserted, solitary, grassgrown place, with ruined ramparts; half

filledup trenches, which afford a frowsy pasturage to the lean kine that wander about them; and streets of

stern houses, moodily frowning at the other houses over the way. The sleepiest and shabbiest of soldiery go

wandering about, with the double curse of laziness and poverty, uncouthly wrinkling their misfitting

regimentals; the dirtiest of children play with their impromptu toys (pigs and mud) in the feeblest of gutters;

and the gauntest of dogs trot in and out of the dullest of archways, in perpetual search of something to eat,

which they never seem to find. A mysterious and solemn Palace, guarded by two colossal statues, twin Genii

of the place, stands gravely in the midst of the idle town; and the king with the marble legs, who flourished in

the time of the thousand and one Nights, might live contentedly inside of it, and never have the energy, in his

What a strange, halfsorrowful and halfdelicious doze it is, to ramble through these places gone to sleep and

basking in the sun! Each, in its turn, appears to be, of all the mouldy, dreary, God forgotten towns in the

wide world, the chief. Sitting on this hillock where a bastion used to be, and where a noisy fortress was, in the

time of the old Roman station here, I became aware that I have never known till now, what it is to be lazy. A

dormouse must surely be in very much the same condition before he retires under the wool in his cage; or a

I feel that I am getting rusty. That any attempt to think, would be accompanied with a creaking noise. That

there is nothing, anywhere, to be done, or needing to be done. That there is no more human progress, motion,

effort, or advancement, of any kind beyond this. That the whole scheme stopped here centuries ago, and laid

Never while the brave Courier lives! Behold him jingling out of Piacenza, and staggering this way, in the

tallest postingchaise ever seen, so that he looks out of the front window as if he were peeping over a garden

wall; while the postilion, concentrated essence of all the shabbiness of Italy, pauses for a moment in his

animated conversation, to touch his hat to a bluntnosed little Virgin, hardly less shabby than himself,

In Genoa, and thereabouts, they train the vines on trelliswork, supported on square clumsy pillars, which, in

themselves, are anything but picturesque. But, here, they twine them around trees, and let them trail among

the hedges; and the vineyards are full of trees, regularly planted for this purpose, each with its own vine

twining and clustering about it. Their leaves are now of the brightest gold and deepest red; and never was

anything so enchantingly graceful and full of beauty. Through miles of these delightful forms and colours, the

road winds its way. The wild festoons, the elegant wreaths, and crowns, and garlands of all shapes; the fairy

nets flung over great trees, and making them prisoners in sport; the tumbled heaps and mounds of exquisite

shapes upon the ground; how rich and beautiful they are! And every now and then, a long, long line of trees,

will be all bound and garlanded together: as if they had taken hold of one another, and were coming dancing

Parma has cheerful, stirring streets, for an Italian town; and consequently is not so characteristic as many

places of less note. Always excepting the retired Piazza, where the Cathedral, Baptistery, and Campanile

ancient buildings, of a sombre brown, embellished with innumerable grotesque monsters and

dreamylooking creatures carved in marble and red stone are clustered in a noble and magnificent repose.

Their silent presence was only invaded, when I saw them, by the twittering of the many birds that were flying

in and out of the crevices in the stones and little nooks in the architecture, where they had made their nests.

They were busy, rising from the cold shade of Temples made with hands, into the sunny air of Heaven. Not

so the worshippers within, who were listening to the same drowsy chaunt, or kneeling before the same kinds

of images and tapers, or whispering, with their heads bowed down, in the selfsame dark confessionals, as I

The decayed and mutilated paintings with which this church is covered, have, to my thinking, a remarkably

mournful and depressing influence. It is miserable to see great works of art something of the Souls of

Painters perishing and fading away, like human forms. This cathedral is odorous with the rotting of

Correggio's frescoes in the Cupola. Heaven knows how beautiful they may have been at one time.

Connoisseurs fall into raptures with them now; but such a labyrinth of arms and legs: such heaps of fore

shortened limbs, entangled and involved and jumbled together: no operative surgeon, gone mad, could

There is a very interesting subterranean church here: the roof supported by marble pillars, behind each of

which there seemed to be at least one beggar in ambush: to say nothing of the tombs and secluded altars.

From every one of these lurkingplaces, such crowds of phantomlooking men and women, leading other

men and women with twisted limbs, or chattering jaws, or paralytic gestures, or idiotic heads, or some other

sad infirmity, came hobbling out to beg, that if the ruined frescoes in the cathedral above, had been suddenly

animated, and had retired to this lower church, they could hardly have made a greater confusion, or exhibited

There is Petrarch's Monument, too; and there is the Baptistery, with its beautiful arches and immense font;

and there is a gallery containing some very remarkable pictures, whereof a few were being copied by

hairyfaced artists, with little velvet caps more off their heads than on. There is the Farnese Palace, too; and

in it one of the dreariest spectacles of decay that ever was seen a grand, old, gloomy theatre, mouldering

It is a large wooden structure, of the horseshoe shape; the lower seats arranged upon the Roman plan, but

above them, great heavy chambers; rather than boxes, where the Nobles sat, remote in their proud state. Such

desolation as has fallen on this theatre, enhanced in the spectator's fancy by its gay intention and design, none

but worms can be familiar with. A hundred and ten years have passed, since any play was acted here. The sky

shines in through the gashes in the roof; the boxes are dropping down, wasting away, and only tenanted by

rats; damp and mildew smear the faded colours, and make spectral maps upon the panels; lean rags are

dangling down where there were gay festoons on the Proscenium; the stage has rotted so, that a narrow

wooden gallery is thrown across it, or it would sink beneath the tread, and bury the visitor in the gloomy

depth beneath. The desolation and decay impress themselves on all the senses. The air has a mouldering

smell, and an earthy taste; any stray outer sounds that straggle in with some lost sunbeam, are muffled and

heavy; and the worm, the maggot, and the rot have changed the surface of the wood beneath the touch, as

time will seam and roughen a smooth hand. If ever Ghosts act plays, they act them on this ghostly stage.

It was most delicious weather, when we came into Modena, where the darkness of the sombre colonnades

over the footways skirting the main street on either side, was made refreshing and agreeable by the bright

sky, so wonderfully blue. I passed from all the glory of the day, into a dim cathedral, where High Mass was

performing, feeble tapers were burning, people were kneeling in all directions before all manner of shrines,

and officiating priests were crooning the usual chant, in the usual, low, dull, drawling, melancholy tone.

Thinking how strange it was, to find, in every stagnant town, this same Heart beating with the same

monotonous pulsation, the centre of the same torpid, listless system, I came out by another door, and was

suddenly scared to death by a blast from the shrillest trumpet that ever was blown. Immediately, came tearing

round the corner, an equestrian company from Paris: marshalling themselves under the walls of the church,

and flouting, with their horses' heels, the griffins, lions, tigers, and other monsters in stone and marble,

decorating its exterior. First, there came a stately nobleman with a great deal of hair, and no hat, bearing an

enormous banner, on which was inscribed, MAZEPPA! TONIGHT! Then, a Mexican chief, with a great

pearshaped club on his shoulder, like Hercules. Then, six or eight Roman chariots: each with a beautiful

lady in extremely short petticoats, and unnaturally pink tights, erect within: shedding beaming looks upon the

crowd, in which there was a latent expression of discomposure and anxiety, for which I couldn't account,

until, as the open back of each chariot presented itself, I saw the immense difficulty with which the pink legs

maintained their perpendicular, over the uneven pavement of the town: which gave me quite a new idea of the

ancient Romans and Britons. The procession was brought to a close, by some dozen indomitable warriors of

different nations, riding two and two, and haughtily surveying the tame population of Modena: among whom,

however, they occasionally condescended to scatter largesse in the form of a few handbills. After caracolling

among the lions and tigers, and proclaiming that evening's entertainments with blast of trumpet, it then filed

off, by the other end of the square, and left a new and greatly increased dulness behind.

When the procession had so entirely passed away, that the shrill trumpet was mild in the distance, and the tail

of the last horse was hopelessly round the corner, the people who had come out of the church to stare at it,

went back again. But one old lady, kneeling on the pavement within, near the door, had seen it all, and had

been immensely interested, without getting up; and this old lady's eye, at that juncture, I happened to catch: to

our mutual confusion. She cut our embarrassment very short, however, by crossing herself devoutly, and

going down, at full length, on her face, before a figure in a fancy petticoat and a gilt crown; which was so like

one of the processionfigures, that perhaps at this hour she may think the whole appearance a celestial vision.

Anyhow, I must certainly have forgiven her her interest in the Circus, though I had been her Father

There was a little fieryeyed old man with a crooked shoulder, in the cathedral, who took it very ill that I

made no effort to see the bucket (kept in an old tower) which the people of Modena took away from the

people of Bologna in the fourteenth century, and about which there was war made and a mockheroic poem

by TASSONE, too. Being quite content, however, to look at the outside of the tower, and feast, in

imagination, on the bucket within; and preferring to loiter in the shade of the tall Campanile, and about the

cathedral; I have no personal knowledge of this bucket, even at the present time.

Indeed, we were at Bologna, before the little old man (or the GuideBook) would have considered that we

had half done justice to the wonders of Modena. But it is such a delight to me to leave new scenes behind,

and still go on, encountering newer scenes and, moreover, I have such a perverse disposition in respect of

sights that are cut, and dried, and dictated that I fear I sin against similar authorities in every place I visit.

Be this as it may, in the pleasant Cemetery at Bologna, I found myself walking next Sunday morning, among

the stately marble tombs and colonnades, in company with a crowd of Peasants, and escorted by a little

Cicerone of that town, who was excessively anxious for the honour of the place, and most solicitous to divert

my attention from the bad monuments: whereas he was never tired of extolling the good ones. Seeing this

little man (a goodhumoured little man he was, who seemed to have nothing in his face but shining teeth and

eyes) looking wistfully at a certain plot of grass, I asked him who was buried there. 'The poor people,

Signore,' he said, with a shrug and a smile, and stopping to look back at me for he always went on a little

before, and took off his hat to introduce every new monument. 'Only the poor, Signore! It's very cheerful. It's

very lively. How green it is, how cool! It's like a meadow! There are five,' holding up all the fingers of his

right hand to express the number, which an Italian peasant will always do, if it be within the compass of his

ten fingers, 'there are five of my little children buried there, Signore; just there; a little to the right. Well!

Thanks to God! It's very cheerful. How green it is, how cool it is! It's quite a meadow!'

He looked me very hard in the face, and seeing I was sorry for him, took a pinch of snuff (every Cicerone

takes snuff), and made a little bow; partly in deprecation of his having alluded to such a subject, and partly in

memory of the children and of his favourite saint. It was as unaffected and as perfectly natural a little bow, as

ever man made. Immediately afterwards, he took his hat off altogether, and begged to introduce me to the

THERE was such a very smart official in attendance at the Cemetery where the little Cicerone had buried his

children, that when the little Cicerone suggested to me, in a whisper, that there would be no offence in

presenting this officer, in return for some slight extra service, with a couple of pauls (about tenpence, English

money), I looked incredulously at his cocked hat, washleather gloves, wellmade uniform, and dazzling

buttons, and rebuked the little Cicerone with a grave shake of the head. For, in splendour of appearance, he

was at least equal to the Deputy Usher of the Black Rod; and the idea of his carrying, as Jeremy Diddler

would say, 'such a thing as tenpence' away with him, seemed monstrous. He took it in excellent part,

however, when I made bold to give it him, and pulled off his cocked hat with a flourish that would have been

It seemed to be his duty to describe the monuments to the people at all events he was doing so; and when I

compared him, like Gulliver in Brobdingnag, 'with the Institutions of my own beloved country, I could not

refrain from tears of pride and exultation.' He had no pace at all; no more than a tortoise. He loitered as the

people loitered, that they might gratify their curiosity; and positively allowed them, now and then, to read the

inscriptions on the tombs. He was neither shabby, nor insolent, nor churlish, nor ignorant. He spoke his own

language with perfect propriety, and seemed to consider himself, in his way, a kind of teacher of the people,

and to entertain a just respect both for himself and them. They would no more have such a man for a Verger

in Westminster Abbey, than they would let the people in (as they do at Bologna) to see the monuments for

Again, an ancient sombre town, under the brilliant sky; with heavy arcades over the footways of the older

streets, and lighter and more cheerful archways in the newer portions of the town. Again, brown piles of

sacred buildings, with more birds flying in and out of chinks in the stones; and more snarling monsters for the

bases of the pillars. Again, rich churches, drowsy Masses, curling incense, tinkling bells, priests in bright

vestments: pictures, tapers, laced altar cloths, crosses, images, and artificial flowers.

There is a grave and learned air about the city, and a pleasant gloom upon it, that would leave it, a distinct

and separate impression in the mind, among a crowd of cities, though it were not still further marked in the

traveller's remembrance by the two brick leaning towers (sufficiently unsightly in themselves, it must be

acknowledged), inclining crosswise as if they were bowing stiffly to each other a most extraordinary

termination to the perspective of some of the narrow streets. The colleges, and churches too, and palaces: and

above all the academy of Fine Arts, where there are a host of interesting pictures, especially by GUIDO,

DOMENICHINO, and LUDOVICO CARACCI: give it a place of its own in the memory. Even though these

were not, and there were nothing else to remember it by, the great Meridian on the pavement of the church of

San Petronio, where the sunbeams mark the time among the kneeling people, would give it a fanciful and

Bologna being very full of tourists, detained there by an inundation which rendered the road to Florence

impassable, I was quartered up at the top of an hotel, in an outoftheway room which I never could find:

containing a bed, big enough for a boardingschool, which I couldn't fall asleep in. The chief among the

waiters who visited this lonely retreat, where there was no other company but the swallows in the broad eaves

over the window, was a man of one idea in connection with the English; and the subject of this harmless

monomania, was Lord Byron. I made the discovery by accidentally remarking to him, at breakfast, that the

matting with which the floor was covered, was very comfortable at that season, when he immediately replied

that Milor Beeron had been much attached to that kind of matting. Observing, at the same moment, that I

took no milk, he exclaimed with enthusiasm, that Milor Beeron had never touched it. At first, I took it for

granted, in my innocence, that he had been one of the Beeron servants; but no, he said, no, he was in the habit

of speaking about my Lord, to English gentlemen; that was all. He knew all about him, he said. In proof of it,

he connected him with every possible topic, from the Monte Pulciano wine at dinner (which was grown on an

estate he had owned), to the big bed itself, which was the very model of his. When I left the inn, he coupled

with his final bow in the yard, a parting assurance that the road by which I was going, had been Milor

Beeron's favourite ride; and before the horse's feet had well begun to clatter on the pavement, he ran briskly

upstairs again, I dare say to tell some other Englishman in some other solitary room that the guest who had

I had entered Bologna by night almost midnight and all along the road thither, after our entrance into the

Papal territory: which is not, in any part, supremely well governed, Saint Peter's keys being rather rusty now;

the driver had so worried about the danger of robbers in travelling after dark, and had so infected the brave

Courier, and the two had been so constantly stopping and getting up and down to look after a portmanteau

which was tied on behind, that I should have felt almost obliged to any one who would have had the

goodness to take it away. Hence it was stipulated, that, whenever we left Bologna, we should start so as not to

arrive at Ferrara later than eight at night; and a delightful afternoon and evening journey it was, albeit through

a flat district which gradually became more marshy from the overflow of brooks and rivers in the recent

At sunset, when I was walking on alone, while the horses rested, I arrived upon a little scene, which, by one

of those singular mental operations of which we are all conscious, seemed perfectly familiar to me, and which

I see distinctly now. There was not much in it. In the blood red light, there was a mournful sheet of water, just

stirred by the evening wind; upon its margin a few trees. In the foreground was a group of silent peasant girls

leaning over the parapet of a little bridge, and looking, now up at the sky, now down into the water; in the

distance, a deep bell; the shade of approaching night on everything. If I had been murdered there, in some

former life, I could not have seemed to remember the place more thoroughly, or with a more emphatic

chilling of the blood; and the mere remembrance of it acquired in that minute, is so strengthened by the

More solitary, more depopulated, more deserted, old Ferrara, than any city of the solemn brotherhood! The

grass so grows up in the silent streets, that any one might make hay there, literally, while the sun shines. But

the sun shines with diminished cheerfulness in grim Ferrara; and the people are so few who pass and repass

through the places, that the flesh of its inhabitants might be grass indeed, and growing in the squares.

I wonder why the head coppersmith in an Italian town, always lives next door to the Hotel, or opposite:

making the visitor feel as if the beating hammers were his own heart, palpitating with a deadly energy! I

wonder why jealous corridors surround the bedroom on all sides, and fill it with unnecessary doors that can't

be shut, and will not open, and abut on pitchy darkness! I wonder why it is not enough that these distrustful

genii stand agape at one's dreams all night, but there must also be round open portholes, high in the wall,

suggestive, when a mouse or rat is heard behind the wainscot, of a somebody scraping the wall with his toes,

in his endeavours to reach one of these portholes and look in! I wonder why the faggots are so constructed, as

to know of no effect but an agony of heat when they are lighted and replenished, and an agony of cold and

suffocation at all other times! I wonder, above all, why it is the great feature of domestic architecture in

The answer matters little. Coppersmiths, doors, portholes, smoke, and faggots, are welcome to me. Give me

the smiling face of the attendant, man or woman; the courteous manner; the amiable desire to please and to be

pleased; the lighthearted, pleasant, simple air so many jewels set in dirt and I am theirs again

ARIOSTO'S house, TASSO'S prison, a rare old Gothic cathedral, and more churches of course, are the sights

of Ferrara. But the long silent streets, and the dismantled palaces, where ivy waves in lieu of banners, and

where rank weeds are slowly creeping up the long untrodden stairs, are the best sights of all.

The aspect of this dreary town, half an hour before sunrise one fine morning, when I left it, was as

picturesque as it seemed unreal and spectral. It was no matter that the people were not yet out of bed; for if

they had all been up and busy, they would have made but little difference in that desert of a place. It was best

to see it, without a single figure in the picture; a city of the dead, without one solitary survivor. Pestilence

might have ravaged streets, squares, and marketplaces; and sack and siege have ruined the old houses,

battered down their doors and windows, and made breaches in their roofs. In one part, a great tower rose into

the air; the only landmark in the melancholy view. In another, a prodigious castle, with a moat about it, stood

aloof: a sullen city in itself. In the black dungeons of this castle, Parisina and her lover were beheaded in the

dead of night. The red light, beginning to shine when I looked back upon it, stained its walls without, as they

have, many a time, been stained within, in old days; but for any sign of life they gave, the castle and the city

might have been avoided by all human creatures, from the moment when the axe went down upon the last of

Coming to the Po, which was greatly swollen, and running fiercely, we crossed it by a floating bridge of

boats, and so came into the Austrian territory, and resumed our journey: through a country of which, for some

miles, a great part was under water. The brave Courier and the soldiery had first quarrelled, for half an hour

or more, over our eternal passport. But this was a daily relaxation with the Brave, who was always stricken

deaf when shabby functionaries in uniform came, as they constantly did come, plunging out of wooden boxes

to look at it or in other words to beg and who, stone deaf to my entreaties that the man might have a trifle

given him, and we resume our journey in peace, was wont to sit reviling the functionary in broken English:

while the unfortunate man's face was a portrait of mental agony framed in the coach window, from his perfect

There was a postilion, in the course of this day's journey, as wild and savagely goodlooking a vagabond as

you would desire to see. He was a tall, stoutmade, darkcomplexioned fellow, with a profusion of shaggy

black hair hanging all over his face, and great black whiskers stretching down his throat. His dress was a torn

suit of rifle green, garnished here and there with red; a steeple crowned hat, innocent of nap, with a broken

and bedraggled feather stuck in the band; and a flaming red neckerchief hanging on his shoulders. He was not

in the saddle, but reposed, quite at his ease, on a sort of low footboard in front of the postchaise, down

amongst the horses' tails convenient for having his brains kicked out, at any moment. To this Brigand, the

brave Courier, when we were at a reasonable trot, happened to suggest the practicability of going faster. He

received the proposal with a perfect yell of derision; brandished his whip about his head (such a whip! it was

more like a homemade bow); flung up his heels, much higher than the horses; and disappeared, in a

paroxysm, somewhere in the neighbourhood of the axletree. I fully expected to see him lying in the road, a

hundred yards behind, but up came the steeple crowned hat again, next minute, and he was seen reposing, as

on a sofa, entertaining himself with the idea, and crying, 'Ha, ha! what next! Oh the devil! Faster too! Shoo

hoo o o!' (This last ejaculation, an inexpressibly defiant hoot.) Being anxious to reach our immediate

destination that night, I ventured, byandby, to repeat the experiment on my own account. It produced

exactly the same effect. Round flew the whip with the same scornful flourish, up came the heels, down went

the steeplecrowned hat, and presently he reappeared, reposing as before and saying to himself, 'Ha ha! what

I HAD been travelling, for some days; resting very little in the night, and never in the day. The rapid and

unbroken succession of novelties that had passed before me, came back like halfformed dreams; and a

crowd of objects wandered in the greatest confusion through my mind, as I travelled on, by a solitary road. At

intervals, some one among them would stop, as it were, in its restless flitting to and fro, and enable me to

look at it, quite steadily, and behold it in full distinctness. After a few moments, it would dissolve, like a view

in a magiclantern; and while I saw some part of it quite plainly, and some faintly, and some not at all, would

show me another of the many places I had lately seen, lingering behind it, and coming through it. This was no

At one moment, I was standing again, before the brown old rugged churches of Modena. As I recognised the

curious pillars with grim monsters for their bases, I seemed to see them, standing by themselves in the quiet

square at Padua, where there were the staid old University, and the figures, demurely gowned, grouped here

and there in the open space about it. Then, I was strolling in the outskirts of that pleasant city, admiring the

unusual neatness of the dwellinghouses, gardens, and orchards, as I had seen them a few hours before. In

their stead arose, immediately, the two towers of Bologna; and the most obstinate of all these objects, failed

to hold its ground, a minute, before the monstrous moated castle of Ferrara, which, like an illustration to a

wild romance, came back again in the red sunrise, lording it over the solitary, grassgrown, withered town. In

short, I had that incoherent but delightful jumble in my brain, which travellers are apt to have, and are

indolently willing to encourage. Every shake of the coach in which I sat, half dozing in the dark, appeared to

jerk some new recollection out of its place, and to jerk some other new recollection into it; and in this state I

I was awakened after some time (as I thought) by the stopping of the coach. It was now quite night, and we

were at the waterside. There lay here, a black boat, with a little house or cabin in it of the same mournful

colour. When I had taken my seat in this, the boat was paddled, by two men, towards a great light, lying in

Ever and again, there was a dismal sigh of wind. It ruffled the water, and rocked the boat, and sent the dark

clouds flying before the stars. I could not but think how strange it was, to be floating away at that hour:

leaving the land behind, and going on, towards this light upon the sea. It soon began to burn brighter; and

from being one light became a cluster of tapers, twinkling and shining out of the water, as the boat

approached towards them by a dreamy kind of track, marked out upon the sea by posts and piles.

We had floated on, five miles or so, over the dark water, when I heard it rippling in my dream, against some

obstruction near at hand. Looking out attentively, I saw, through the gloom, a something black and massive

like a shore, but lying close and flat upon the water, like a raft which we were gliding past. The chief of the

Full of the interest and wonder which a cemetery lying out there, in the lonely sea, inspired, I turned to gaze

upon it as it should recede in our path, when it was quickly shut out from my view. Before I knew by what, or

how, I found that we were gliding up a street a phantom street; the houses rising on both sides, from the

water, and the black boat gliding on beneath their windows. Lights were shining from some of these

casements, plumbing the depth of the black stream with their reflected rays, but all was profoundly silent.

So we advanced into this ghostly city, continuing to hold our course through narrow streets and lanes, all

filled and flowing with water. Some of the corners where our way branched off, were so acute and narrow,

that it seemed impossible for the long slender boat to turn them; but the rowers, with a low melodious cry of

warning, sent it skimming on without a pause. Sometimes, the rowers of another black boat like our own,

echoed the cry, and slackening their speed (as I thought we did ours) would come flitting past us like a dark

shadow. Other boats, of the same sombre hue, were lying moored, I thought, to painted pillars, near to dark

mysterious doors that opened straight upon the water. Some of these were empty; in some, the rowers lay

asleep; towards one, I saw some figures coming down a gloomy archway from the interior of a palace: gaily

dressed, and attended by torchbearers. It was but a glimpse I had of them; for a bridge, so low and close

upon the boat that it seemed ready to fall down and crush us: one of the many bridges that perplexed the

Dream: blotted them out, instantly. On we went, floating towards the heart of this strange place with water

all about us where never water was elsewhere clusters of houses, churches, heaps of stately buildings

growing out of it and, everywhere, the same extraordinary silence. Presently, we shot across a broad and

open stream; and passing, as I thought, before a spacious paved quay, where the bright lamps with which it

was illuminated showed long rows of arches and pillars, of ponderous construction and great strength, but as

light to the eye as garlands of hoarfrost or gossamer and where, for the first time, I saw people walking

arrived at a flight of steps leading from the water to a large mansion, where, having passed through corridors

and galleries innumerable, I lay down to rest; listening to the black boats stealing up and down below the

The glory of the day that broke upon me in this Dream; its freshness, motion, buoyancy; its sparkles of the

sun in water; its clear blue sky and rustling air; no waking words can tell. But, from my window, I looked

down on boats and barks; on masts, sails, cordage, flags; on groups of busy sailors, working at the cargoes of

these vessels; on wide quays, strewn with bales, casks, merchandise of many kinds; on great ships, lying near

at hand in stately indolence; on islands, crowned with gorgeous domes and turrets: and where golden crosses

glittered in the light, atop of wondrous churches, springing from the sea! Going down upon the margin of the

green sea, rolling on before the door, and filling all the streets, I came upon a place of such surpassing beauty,

and such grandeur, that all the rest was poor and faded, in comparison with its absorbing loveliness.

It was a great Piazza, as I thought; anchored, like all the rest, in the deep ocean. On its broad bosom, was a

Palace, more majestic and magnificent in its old age, than all the buildings of the earth, in the high prime and

fulness of their youth. Cloisters and galleries: so light, they might have been the work of fairy hands: so

strong that centuries had battered them in vain: wound round and round this palace, and enfolded it with a

Cathedral, gorgeous in the wild luxuriant fancies of the East. At no great distance from its porch, a lofty

tower, standing by itself, and rearing its proud head, alone, into the sky, looked out upon the Adriatic Sea.

Near to the margin of the stream, were two illomened pillars of red granite; one having on its top, a figure

with a sword and shield; the other, a winged lion. Not far from these again, a second tower: richest of the rich

in all its decorations: even here, where all was rich: sustained aloft, a great orb, gleaming with gold and

deepest blue: the Twelve Signs painted on it, and a mimic sun revolving in its course around them: while

above, two bronze giants hammered out the hours upon a sounding bell. An oblong square of lofty houses of

the whitest stone, surrounded by a light and beautiful arcade, formed part of this enchanted scene; and, here

and there, gay masts for flags rose, tapering, from the pavement of the unsubstantial ground.

I thought I entered the Cathedral, and went in and out among its many arches: traversing its whole extent. A

grand and dreamy structure, of immense proportions; golden with old mosaics; redolent of perfumes; dim

with the smoke of incense; costly in treasure of precious stones and metals, glittering through iron bars; holy

with the bodies of deceased saints; rainbowhued with windows of stained glass; dark with carved woods and

coloured marbles; obscure in its vast heights, and lengthened distances; shining with silver lamps and

winking lights; unreal, fantastic, solemn, inconceivable throughout. I thought I entered the old palace; pacing

silent galleries and councilchambers, where the old rulers of this mistress of the waters looked sternly out,

in pictures, from the walls, and where her highprowed galleys, still victorious on canvas, fought and

conquered as of old. I thought I wandered through its halls of state and triumph bare and empty now! and

musing on its pride and might, extinct: for that was past; all past: heard a voice say, 'Some tokens of its

ancient rule and some consoling reasons for its downfall, may be traced here, yet!'

I dreamed that I was led on, then, into some jealous rooms, communicating with a prison near the palace;

separated from it by a lofty bridge crossing a narrow street; and called, I dreamed, The Bridge of Sighs.

But first I passed two jagged slits in a stone wall; the lions' mouths now toothless where, in the

distempered horror of my sleep, I thought denunciations of innocent men to the old wicked Council, had been

dropped through, many a time, when the night was dark. So, when I saw the councilroom to which such

prisoners were taken for examination, and the door by which they passed out, when they were condemned a

door that never closed upon a man with life and hope before him my heart appeared to die within me.

It was smitten harder though, when, torch in hand, I descended from the cheerful day into two ranges, one

below another, of dismal, awful, horrible stone cells. They were quite dark. Each had a loophole in its

massive wall, where, in the old time, every day, a torch was placed I dreamed to light the prisoner within,

for half an hour. The captives, by the glimmering of these brief rays, had scratched and cut inscriptions in the

blackened vaults. I saw them. For their labour with a rusty nail's point, had outlived their agony and them,

One cell, I saw, in which no man remained for more than fourand twenty hours; being marked for dead

before he entered it. Hard by, another, and a dismal one, whereto, at midnight, the confessor came a monk

brownrobed, and hooded ghastly in the day, and free bright air, but in the midnight of that murky prison,

Hope's extinguisher, and Murder's herald. I had my foot upon the spot, where, at the same dread hour, the

shriven prisoner was strangled; and struck my hand upon the guilty door lowbrowed and stealthy

through which the lumpish sack was carried out into a boat, and rowed away, and drowned where it was

Around this dungeon stronghold, and above some part of it: licking the rough walls without, and smearing

them with damp and slime within: stuffing dank weeds and refuse into chinks and crevices, as if the very

stones and bars had mouths to stop: furnishing a smooth road for the removal of the bodies of the secret

victims of the State a road so ready that it went along with them, and ran before them, like a cruel officer

flowed the same water that filled this Dream of mine, and made it seem one, even at the time.

Descending from the palace by a staircase, called, I thought, the Giant's I had some imaginary recollection

of an old man abdicating, coming, more slowly and more feebly, down it, when he heard the bell,

proclaiming his successor I glided off, in one of the dark boats, until we came to an old arsenal guarded by

four marble lions. To make my Dream more monstrous and unlikely, one of these had words and sentences

upon its body, inscribed there, at an unknown time, and in an unknown language; so that their purport was a

There was little sound of hammers in this place for building ships, and little work in progress; for the

greatness of the city was no more, as I have said. Indeed, it seemed a very wreck found drifting on the sea; a

strange flag hoisted in its honourable stations, and strangers standing at its helm. A splendid barge in which

its ancient chief had gone forth, pompously, at certain periods, to wed the ocean, lay here, I thought, no more;

but, in its place, there was a tiny model, made from recollection like the city's greatness; and it told of what

had been (so are the strong and weak confounded in the dust) almost as eloquently as the massive pillars,

arches, roofs, reared to overshadow stately ships that had no other shadow now, upon the water or the earth.

An armoury was there yet. Plundered and despoiled; but an armoury. With a fierce standard taken from the

Turks, drooping in the dull air of its cage. Rich suits of mail worn by great warriors were hoarded there;

crossbows and bolts; quivers full of arrows; spears; swords, daggers, maces, shields, and heavyheaded axes.

Plates of wrought steel and iron, to make the gallant horse a monster cased in metal scales; and one

springweapon (easy to be carried in the breast) designed to do its office noiselessly, and made for shooting

One press or case I saw, full of accursed instruments of torture horribly contrived to cramp, and pinch, and

grind and crush men's bones, and tear and twist them with the torment of a thousand deaths. Before it, were

two iron helmets, with breastpieces: made to close up tight and smooth upon the heads of living sufferers;

and fastened on to each, was a small knob or anvil, where the directing devil could repose his elbow at his

ease, and listen, near the walledup ear, to the lamentations and confessions of the wretch within. There was

that grim resemblance in them to the human shape they were such moulds of sweating faces, pained and

cramped that it was difficult to think them empty; and terrible distortions lingering within them, seemed to

follow me, when, taking to my boat again, I rowed off to a kind of garden or public walk in the sea, where

there were grass and trees. But I forgot them when I stood upon its farthest brink I stood there, in my dream

and looked, along the ripple, to the setting sun; before me, in the sky and on the deep, a crimson flush; and

behind me the whole city resolving into streaks of red and purple, on the water.

In the luxurious wonder of so rare a dream, I took but little heed of time, and had but little understanding of

its flight. But there were days and nights in it; and when the sun was high, and when the rays of lamps were

crooked in the running water, I was still afloat, I thought: plashing the slippery walls and houses with the

cleavings of the tide, as my black boat, borne upon it, skimmed along the streets.

Sometimes, alighting at the doors of churches and vast palaces, I wandered on, from room to room, from aisle

to aisle, through labyrinths of rich altars, ancient monuments; decayed apartments where the furniture, half

awful, half grotesque, was mouldering away. Pictures were there, replete with such enduring beauty and

expression: with such passion, truth and power: that they seemed so many young and fresh realities among a

host of spectres. I thought these, often intermingled with the old days of the city: with its beauties, tyrants,

captains, patriots, merchants, counters, priests: nay, with its very stones, and bricks, and public places; all of

which lived again, about me, on the walls. Then, coming down some marble staircase where the water lapped

and oozed against the lower steps, I passed into my boat again, and went on in my dream.

Floating down narrow lanes, where carpenters, at work with plane and chisel in their shops, tossed the light

shaving straight upon the water, where it lay like weed, or ebbed away before me in a tangled heap. Past open

doors, decayed and rotten from long steeping in the wet, through which some scanty patch of vine shone

green and bright, making unusual shadows on the pavement with its trembling leaves. Past quays and

terraces, where women, gracefully veiled, were passing and repassing, and where idlers were reclining in the

sunshine, on flagstones and on flights of steps. Past bridges, where there were idlers too; loitering and

looking over. Below stone balconies, erected at a giddy height, before the loftiest windows of the loftiest

houses. Past plots of garden, theatres, shrines, prodigious piles of architecture Gothic Saracenic fanciful

with all the fancies of all times and countries. Past buildings that were high, and low, and black, and white,

and straight, and crooked; mean and grand, crazy and strong. Twining among a tangled lot of boats and

barges, and shooting out at last into a Grand Canal! There, in the errant fancy of my dream, I saw old Shylock

passing to and fro upon a bridge, all built upon with shops and humming with the tongues of men; a form I

seemed to know for Desdemona's, leaned down through a latticed blind to pluck a flower. And, in the dream,

I thought that Shakespeare's spirit was abroad upon the water somewhere: stealing through the city.

At night, when two votive lamps burnt before an image of the Virgin, in a gallery outside the great cathedral,

near the roof, I fancied that the great piazza of the Winged Lion was a blaze of cheerful light, and that its

whole arcade was thronged with people; while crowds were diverting themselves in splendid coffeehouses

opening from it which were never shut, I thought, but open all night long. When the bronze giants struck

the hour of midnight on the bell, I thought the life and animation of the city were all centred here; and as I

rowed away, abreast the silent quays, I only saw them dotted, here and there, with sleeping boatmen wrapped

But close about the quays and churches, palaces and prisons sucking at their walls, and welling up into the

secret places of the town: crept the water always. Noiseless and watchful: coiled round and round it, in its

many folds, like an old serpent: waiting for the time, I thought, when people should look down into its depths

Thus it floated me away, until I awoke in the old marketplace at Verona. I have, many and many a time,

thought since, of this strange Dream upon the water: halfwondering if it lie there yet, and if its name be

I HAD been half afraid to go to Verona, lest it should at all put me out of conceit with Romeo and Juliet. But,

I was no sooner come into the old marketplace, than the misgiving vanished. It is so fanciful, quaint, and

picturesque a place, formed by such an extraordinary and rich variety of fantastic buildings, that there could

be nothing better at the core of even this romantic town: scene of one of the most romantic and beautiful of

It was natural enough, to go straight from the Marketplace, to the House of the Capulets, now degenerated

into a most miserable little inn. Noisy vetturini and muddy marketcarts were disputing possession of the

yard, which was ankledeep in dirt, with a brood of splashed and bespattered geese; and there was a

grimvisaged dog, viciously panting in a doorway, who would certainly have had Romeo by the leg, the

moment he put it over the wall, if he had existed and been at large in those times. The orchard fell into other

hands, and was parted off many years ago; but there used to be one attached to the house or at all events

there may have, been, and the hat (Cappello) the ancient cognizance of the family, may still be seen, carved

in stone, over the gateway of the yard. The geese, the marketcarts, their drivers, and the dog, were

somewhat in the way of the story, it must be confessed; and it would have been pleasanter to have found the

house empty, and to have been able to walk through the disused rooms. But the hat was unspeakably

comfortable; and the place where the garden used to be, hardly less so. Besides, the house is a distrustful,

jealous looking house as one would desire to see, though of a very moderate size. So I was quite satisfied

with it, as the veritable mansion of old Capulet, and was correspondingly grateful in my acknowledgments to

an extremely unsentimental middleaged lady, the Padrona of the Hotel, who was lounging on the threshold

looking at the geese; and who at least resembled the Capulets in the one particular of being very great indeed

From Juliet's home, to Juliet's tomb, is a transition as natural to the visitor, as to fair Juliet herself, or to the

proudest Juliet that ever has taught the torches to burn bright in any time. So, I went off, with a guide, to an

CHAPTER VIII BY VERONA, MANTUA, AND MILAN, ACROSS THE PASS OF THE SIMPLON INTO SWITZERLAND 40

old, old garden, once belonging to an old, old convent, I suppose; and being admitted, at a shattered gate, by a

brighteyed woman who was washing clothes, went down some walks where fresh plants and young flowers

were prettily growing among fragments of old wall, and ivycoloured mounds; and was shown a little tank,

or watertrough, which the brighteyed woman drying her arms upon her 'kerchief, called 'La tomba di

Giulietta la sfortunata.' With the best disposition in the world to believe, I could do no more than believe that

the brighteyed woman believed; so I gave her that much credit, and her customary fee in ready money. It

was a pleasure, rather than a disappointment, that Juliet's restingplace was forgotten. However consolatory it

may have been to Yorick's Ghost, to hear the feet upon the pavement overhead, and, twenty times a day, the

repetition of his name, it is better for Juliet to lie out of the track of tourists, and to have no visitors but such

Pleasant Verona! With its beautiful old palaces, and charming country in the distance, seen from terrace

walks, and stately, balustraded galleries. With its Roman gates, still spanning the fair street, and casting, on

the sunlight of today, the shade of fifteen hundred years ago. With its marblefitted churches, lofty towers,

rich architecture, and quaint old quiet thoroughfares, where shouts of Montagues and Capulets once

And made Verona's ancient citizens Cast by their grave, beseeming ornaments, To wield old partizans.

With its fastrushing river, picturesque old bridge, great castle, waving cypresses, and prospect so delightful,

In the midst of it, in the Piazza di Bra a spirit of old time among the familiar realities of the passing hour

is the great Roman Amphitheatre. So well preserved, and carefully maintained, that every row of seats is

there, unbroken. Over certain of the arches, the old Roman numerals may yet be seen; and there are corridors,

and staircases, and subterranean passages for beasts, and winding ways, above ground and below, as when

the fierce thousands hurried in and out, intent upon the bloody shows of the arena. Nestling in some of the

shadows and hollow places of the walls, now, are smiths with their forges, and a few small dealers of one

kind or other; and there are green weeds, and leaves, and grass, upon the parapet. But little else is greatly

When I had traversed all about it, with great interest, and had gone up to the topmost round of seats, and

turning from the lovely panorama closed in by the distant Alps, looked down into the building, it seemed to

lie before me like the inside of a prodigious hat of plaited straw, with an enormously broad brim and a

shallow crown; the plaits being represented by the fourandforty rows of seats. The comparison is a homely

and fantastic one, in sober remembrance and on paper, but it was irresistibly suggested at the moment,

An equestrian troop had been there, a short time before the same troop, I dare say, that appeared to the old

lady in the church at Modena and had scooped out a little ring at one end of the area; where their

performances had taken place, and where the marks of their horses' feet were still fresh. I could not but

picture to myself, a handful of spectators gathered together on one or two of the old stone seats, and a

spangled Cavalier being gallant, or a Policinello funny, with the grim walls looking on. Above all, I thought

how strangely those Roman mutes would gaze upon the favourite comic scene of the travelling English,

where a British nobleman (Lord John), with a very loose stomach: dressed in a bluetailed coat down to his

heels, bright yellow breeches, and a white hat: comes abroad, riding double on a rearing horse, with an

English lady (Lady Betsy) in a straw bonnet and green veil, and a red spencer; and who always carries a

I walked through and through the town all the rest of the day, and could have walked there until now, I think.

In one place, there was a very pretty modern theatre, where they had just performed the opera (always

CHAPTER VIII BY VERONA, MANTUA, AND MILAN, ACROSS THE PASS OF THE SIMPLON INTO SWITZERLAND 41

popular in Verona) of Romeo and Juliet. In another there was a collection, under a colonnade, of Greek,

Roman, and Etruscan remains, presided over by an ancient man who might have been an Etruscan relic

himself; for he was not strong enough to open the iron gate, when he had unlocked it, and had neither voice

enough to be audible when he described the curiosities, nor sight enough to see them: he was so very old. In

another place, there was a gallery of pictures: so abominably bad, that it was quite delightful to see them

mouldering away. But anywhere: in the churches, among the palaces, in the streets, on the bridge, or down

beside the river: it was always pleasant Verona, and in my remembrance always will be.

I read Romeo and Juliet in my own room at the inn that night of course, no Englishman had ever read it

there, before and set out for Mantua next day at sunrise, repeating to myself (in the COUPE of an omnibus,

There is no world without Verona's walls But purgatory, torture, hell itself. Hencebanished is banished from

which reminded me that Romeo was only banished fiveandtwenty miles after all, and rather disturbed my

Was the way to Mantua as beautiful, in his time, I wonder! Did it wind through pasture land as green, bright

with the same glancing streams, and dotted with fresh clumps of graceful trees! Those purple mountains lay

on the horizon, then, for certain; and the dresses of these peasant girls, who wear a great, knobbed, silver pin

like an English 'lifepreserver' through their hair behind, can hardly be much changed. The hopeful feeling of

so bright a morning, and so exquisite a sunrise, can have been no stranger, even to an exiled lover's breast;

and Mantua itself must have broken on him in the prospect, with its towers, and walls, and water, pretty much

as on a commonplace and matrimonial omnibus. He made the same sharp twists and turns, perhaps, over

two rumbling drawbridges; passed through the like long, covered, wooden bridge; and leaving the marshy

If ever a man were suited to his place of residence, and his place of residence to him, the lean Apothecary and

Mantua came together in a perfect fitness of things. It may have been more stirring then, perhaps. If so, the

Apothecary was a man in advance of his time, and knew what Mantua would be, in eighteen hundred and

I put up at the Hotel of the Golden Lion, and was in my own room arranging plans with the brave Courier,

when there came a modest little tap at the door, which opened on an outer gallery surrounding a courtyard;

and an intensely shabby little man looked in, to inquire if the gentleman would have a Cicerone to show the

town. His face was so very wistful and anxious, in the halfopened doorway, and there was so much poverty

expressed in his faded suit and little pinched hat, and in the threadbare worsted glove with which he held it

not expressed the less, because these were evidently his genteel clothes, hastily slipped on that I would as

soon have trodden on him as dismissed him. I engaged him on the instant, and he stepped in directly.

While I finished the discussion in which I was engaged, he stood, beaming by himself in a corner, making a

feint of brushing my hat with his arm. If his fee had been as many napoleons as it was francs, there could not

have shot over the twilight of his shabbiness such a gleam of sun, as lighted up the whole man, now that he

'If the gentleman pleases. It is a beautiful day. A little fresh, but charming; altogether charming. The

gentleman will allow me to open the door. This is the Inn Yard. The courtyard of the Golden Lion! The

CHAPTER VIII BY VERONA, MANTUA, AND MILAN, ACROSS THE PASS OF THE SIMPLON INTO SWITZERLAND 42

'This is the street of the Golden Lion. This, the outside of the Golden Lion. The interesting window up there,

on the first Piano, where the pane of glass is broken, is the window of the gentleman's chamber!'

Having viewed all these remarkable objects, I inquired if there were much to see in Mantua.

'Well! Truly, no. Not much! So, so,' he said, shrugging his shoulders apologetically.

'Then, when we have seen the two large churches yonder, what shall we do next?' said I.

He looked up the street, and down the street, and rubbed his chin timidly; and then said, glancing in my face

as if a light had broken on his mind, yet with a humble appeal to my forbearance that was perfectly

'We can take a little turn about the town, Signore!' (Si puo far 'un piccolo giro della citta).

It was impossible to be anything but delighted with the proposal, so we set off together in great

goodhumour. In the relief of his mind, he opened his heart, and gave up as much of Mantua as a Cicerone

He made as much as possible of the Basilica of Santa Andrea a noble church and of an inclosed portion

of the pavement, about which tapers were burning, and a few people kneeling, and under which is said to be

preserved the Sangreal of the old Romances. This church disposed of, and another after it (the cathedral of

San Pietro), we went to the Museum, which was shut up. 'It was all the same,' he said. 'Bah! There was not

much inside!' Then, we went to see the Piazza del Diavolo, built by the Devil (for no particular purpose) in a

single night; then, the Piazza Virgiliana; then, the statue of Virgil OUR Poet, my little friend said, plucking

up a spirit, for the moment, and putting his hat a little on one side. Then, we went to a dismal sort of

farmyard, by which a picturegallery was approached. The moment the gate of this retreat was opened,

some five hundred geese came waddling round us, stretching out their necks, and clamouring in the most

hideous manner, as if they were ejaculating, 'Oh! here's somebody come to see the Pictures! Don't go up!

CHAPTER VIII BY VERONA, MANTUA, AND MILAN, ACROSS THE PASS OF THE SIMPLON INTO SWITZERLAND 43

Don't go up!' While we went up, they waited very quietly about the door in a crowd, cackling to one another

occasionally, in a subdued tone; but the instant we appeared again, their necks came out like telescopes, and

setting up a great noise, which meant, I have no doubt, 'What, you would go, would you! What do you think

of it! How do you like it!' they attended us to the outer gate, and cast us forth, derisively, into Mantua.

The geese who saved the Capitol, were, as compared to these, Pork to the learned Pig. What a gallery it was!

I would take their opinion on a question of art, in preference to the discourses of Sir Joshua Reynolds.

Now that we were standing in the street, after being thus ignominiouly escorted thither, my little friend was

plainly reduced to the 'piccolo giro,' or little circuit of the town, he had formerly proposed. But my suggestion

that we should visit the Palazzo Te (of which I had heard a great deal, as a strange wild place) imparted new

The secret of the length of Midas's ears, would have been more extensively known, if that servant of his, who

whispered it to the reeds, had lived in Mantua, where there are reeds and rushes enough to have published it

to all the world. The Palazzo Te stands in a swamp, among this sort of vegetation; and is, indeed, as singular

Not for its dreariness, though it is very dreary. Not for its dampness, though it is very damp. Nor for its

desolate condition, though it is as desolate and neglected as house can be. But chiefly for the unaccountable

nightmares with which its interior has been decorated (among other subjects of more delicate execution), by

Giulio Romano. There is a leering Giant over a certain chimneypiece, and there are dozens of Giants (Titans

warring with Jove) on the walls of another room, so inconceivably ugly and grotesque, that it is marvellous

how any man can have imagined such creatures. In the chamber in which they abound, these monsters, with

swollen faces and cracked cheeks, and every kind of distortion of look and limb, are depicted as staggering

under the weight of falling buildings, and being overwhelmed in the ruins; upheaving masses of rock, and

burying themselves beneath; vainly striving to sustain the pillars of heavy roofs that topple down upon their

heads; and, in a word, undergoing and doing every kind of mad and demoniacal destruction. The figures are

immensely large, and exaggerated to the utmost pitch of uncouthness; the colouring is harsh and

disagreeable; and the whole effect more like (I should imagine) a violent rush of blood to the head of the

spectator, than any real picture set before him by the hand of an artist. This apoplectic performance was

shown by a sicklylooking woman, whose appearance was referable, I dare say, to the bad air of the marshes;

but it was difficult to help feeling as if she were too much haunted by the Giants, and they were frightening

her to death, all alone in that exhausted cistern of a Palace, among the reeds and rushes, with the mists

Our walk through Mantua showed us, in almost every street, some suppressed church: now used for a

warehouse, now for nothing at all: all as crazy and dismantled as they could be, short of tumbling down

bodily. The marshy town was so intensely dull and flat, that the dirt upon it seemed not to have come there in

the ordinary course, but to have settled and mantled on its surface as on standing water. And yet there were

some businessdealings going on, and some profits realising; for there were arcades full of Jews, where those

extraordinary people were sitting outside their shops, contemplating their stores of stuffs, and woollens, and

bright handkerchiefs, and trinkets: and looking, in all respects, as wary and businesslike, as their brethren in

Having selected a Vetturino from among the neighbouring Christians, who agreed to carry us to Milan in two

days and a half, and to start, next morning, as soon as the gates were opened, I returned to the Golden Lion,

and dined luxuriously in my own room, in a narrow passage between two bedsteads: confronted by a smoky

fire, and backed up by a chest of drawers. At six o'clock next morning, we were jingling in the dark through

the wet cold mist that enshrouded the town; and, before noon, the driver (a native of Mantua, and sixty years

CHAPTER VIII BY VERONA, MANTUA, AND MILAN, ACROSS THE PASS OF THE SIMPLON INTO SWITZERLAND 44

It lay through Bozzolo; formerly a little republic, and now one of the most deserted and povertystricken of

towns: where the landlord of the miserable inn (God bless him! it was his weekly custom) was distributing

infinitesimal coins among a clamorous herd of women and children, whose rags were fluttering in the wind

and rain outside his door, where they were gathered to receive his charity. It lay through mist, and mud, and

rain, and vines trained low upon the ground, all that day and the next; the first sleeping place being

Cremona, memorable for its dark brick churches, and immensely high tower, the Torrazzo to say nothing of

its violins, of which it certainly produces none in these degenerate days; and the second, Lodi. Then we went

on, through more mud, mist, and rain, and marshy ground: and through such a fog, as Englishmen, strong in

the faith of their own grievances, are apt to believe is nowhere to be found but in their own country, until we

The fog was so dense here, that the spire of the farfamed Cathedral might as well have been at Bombay, for

anything that could be seen of it at that time. But as we halted to refresh, for a few days then, and returned to

Milan again next summer, I had ample opportunities of seeing the glorious structure in all its majesty and

All Christian homage to the saint who lies within it! There are many good and true saints in the calendar, but

San Carlo Borromeo has if I may quote Mrs. Primrose on such a subject 'my warm heart.' A charitable

doctor to the sick, a munificent friend to the poor, and this, not in any spirit of blind bigotry, but as the bold

opponent of enormous abuses in the Romish church, I honour his memory. I honour it none the less, because

he was nearly slain by a priest, suborned, by priests, to murder him at the altar: in acknowledgment of his

endeavours to reform a false and hypocritical brotherhood of monks. Heaven shield all imitators of San Carlo

Borromeo as it shielded him! A reforming Pope would need a little shielding, even now.

The subterranean chapel in which the body of San Carlo Borromeo is preserved, presents as striking and as

ghastly a contrast, perhaps, as any place can show. The tapers which are lighted down there, flash and gleam

on altirilievi in gold and silver, delicately wrought by skilful hands, and representing the principal events in

the life of the saint. Jewels, and precious metals, shine and sparkle on every side. A windlass slowly removes

the front of the altar; and, within it, in a gorgeous shrine of gold and silver, is seen, through alabaster, the

shrivelled mummy of a man: the pontifical robes with which it is adorned, radiant with diamonds, emeralds,

rubies: every costly and magnificent gem. The shrunken heap of poor earth in the midst of this great glitter, is

more pitiful than if it lay upon a dunghill. There is not a ray of imprisoned light in all the flash and fire of

jewels, but seems to mock the dusty holes where eyes were, once. Every thread of silk in the rich vestments

seems only a provision from the worms that spin, for the behoof of worms that propagate in sepulchres.

In the old refectory of the dilapidated Convent of Santa Maria delle Grazie, is the work of art, perhaps, better

known than any other in the world: the Last Supper, by Leonardo da Vinci with a door cut through it by the

I am not mechanically acquainted with the art of painting, and have no other means of judging of a picture

than as I see it resembling and refining upon nature, and presenting graceful combinations of forms and

colours. I am, therefore, no authority whatever, in reference to the 'touch' of this or that master; though I

know very well (as anybody may, who chooses to think about the matter) that few very great masters can

possibly have painted, in the compass of their lives, onehalf of the pictures that bear their names, and that

are recognised by many aspirants to a reputation for taste, as undoubted originals. But this, by the way. Of the

Last Supper, I would simply observe, that in its beautiful composition and arrangement, there it is, at Milan, a

wonderful picture; and that, in its original colouring, or in its original expression of any single face or feature,

there it is not. Apart from the damage it has sustained from damp, decay, or neglect, it has been (as Barry

shows) so retouched upon, and repainted, and that so clumsily, that many of the heads are, now, positive

deformities, with patches of paint and plaster sticking upon them like wens, and utterly distorting the

expression. Where the original artist set that impress of his genius on a face, which, almost in a line or touch,

CHAPTER VIII BY VERONA, MANTUA, AND MILAN, ACROSS THE PASS OF THE SIMPLON INTO SWITZERLAND 45

separated him from meaner painters and made him what he was, succeeding bunglers, filling up, or painting

across seams and cracks, have been quite unable to imitate his hand; and putting in some scowls, or frowns,

or wrinkles, of their own, have blotched and spoiled the work. This is so well established as an historical fact,

that I should not repeat it, at the risk of being tedious, but for having observed an English gentleman before

the picture, who was at great pains to fall into what I may describe as mild convulsions, at certain minute

details of expression which are not left in it. Whereas, it would be comfortable and rational for travellers and

critics to arrive at a general understanding that it cannot fail to have been a work of extraordinary merit, once:

when, with so few of its original beauties remaining, the grandeur of the general design is yet sufficient to

We achieved the other sights of Milan, in due course, and a fine city it is, though not so unmistakably Italian

as to possess the characteristic qualities of many towns far less important in themselves. The Corso, where

the Milanese gentry ride up and down in carriages, and rather than not do which, they would half starve

themselves at home, is a most noble public promenade, shaded by long avenues of trees. In the splendid

theatre of La Scala, there was a ballet of action performed after the opera, under the title of Prometheus: in

the beginning of which, some hundred or two of men and women represented our mortal race before the

refinements of the arts and sciences, and loves and graces, came on earth to soften them. I never saw anything

more effective. Generally speaking, the pantomimic action of the Italians is more remarkable for its sudden

and impetuous character than for its delicate expression, but, in this case, the drooping monotony: the weary,

miserable, listless, moping life: the sordid passions and desires of human creatures, destitute of those

elevating influences to which we owe so much, and to whose promoters we render so little: were expressed in

a manner really powerful and affecting. I should have thought it almost impossible to present such an idea so

Milan soon lay behind us, at five o'clock in the morning; and before the golden statue on the summit of the

cathedral spire was lost in the blue sky, the Alps, stupendously confused in lofty peaks and ridges, clouds and

Still, we continued to advance toward them until nightfall; and, all day long, the mountain tops presented

strangely shifting shapes, as the road displayed them in different points of view. The beautiful day was just

declining, when we came upon the Lago Maggiore, with its lovely islands. For however fanciful and fantastic

the Isola Bella may be, and is, it still is beautiful. Anything springing out of that blue water, with that scenery

It was ten o'clock at night when we got to Domo d'Ossola, at the foot of the Pass of the Simplon. But as the

moon was shining brightly, and there was not a cloud in the starlit sky, it was no time for going to bed, or

going anywhere but on. So, we got a little carriage, after some delay, and began the ascent.

It was late in November; and the snow lying four or five feet thick in the beaten road on the summit (in other

parts the new drift was already deep), the air was piercing cold. But, the serenity of the night, and the

grandeur of the road, with its impenetrable shadows, and deep glooms, and its sudden turns into the shining

of the moon and its incessant roar of falling water, rendered the journey more and more sublime at every step.

Soon leaving the calm Italian villages below us, sleeping in the moonlight, the road began to wind among

dark trees, and after a time emerged upon a barer region, very steep and toilsome, where the moon shone

bright and high. By degrees, the roar of water grew louder; and the stupendous track, after crossing the torrent

by a bridge, struck in between two massive perpendicular walls of rock that quite shut out the moonlight, and

only left a few stars shining in the narrow strip of sky above. Then, even this was lost, in the thick darkness of

a cavern in the rock, through which the way was pierced; the terrible cataract thundering and roaring close

below it, and its foam and spray hanging, in a mist, about the entrance. Emerging from this cave, and coming

again into the moonlight, and across a dizzy bridge, it crept and twisted upward, through the Gorge of Gondo,

CHAPTER VIII BY VERONA, MANTUA, AND MILAN, ACROSS THE PASS OF THE SIMPLON INTO SWITZERLAND 46

savage and grand beyond description, with smoothfronted precipices, rising up on either hand, and almost

meeting overhead. Thus we went, climbing on our rugged way, higher and higher all night, without a

moment's weariness: lost in the contemplation of the black rocks, the tremendous heights and depths, the

fields of smooth snow lying, in the clefts and hollows, and the fierce torrents thundering headlong down the

Towards daybreak, we came among the snow, where a keen wind was blowing fiercely. Having, with some

trouble, awakened the inmates of a wooden house in this solitude: round which the wind was howling

dismally, catching up the snow in wreaths and hurling it away: we got some breakfast in a room built of

rough timbers, but well warmed by a stove, and well contrived (as it had need to be) for keeping out the bitter

storms. A sledge being then made ready, and four horses harnessed to it, we went, ploughing, through the

snow. Still upward, but now in the cold light of morning, and with the great white desert on which we

We were well upon the summit of the mountain: and had before us the rude cross of wood, denoting its

greatest altitude above the sea: when the light of the rising sun, struck, all at once, upon the waste of snow,

and turned it a deep red. The lonely grandeur of the scene was then at its height.

As we went sledging on, there came out of the Hospice founded by Napoleon, a group of Peasant travellers,

with staves and knapsacks, who had rested there last night: attended by a Monk or two, their hospitable

entertainers, trudging slowly forward with them, for company's sake. It was pleasant to give them good

morning, and pretty, looking back a long way after them, to see them looking back at us, and hesitating

presently, when one of our horses stumbled and fell, whether or no they should return and help us. But he was

soon up again, with the assistance of a rough waggoner whose team had stuck fast there too; and when we

had helped him out of his difficulty, in return, we left him slowly ploughing towards them, and went slowly

and swiftly forward, on the brink of a steep precipice, among the mountain pines.

Taking to our wheels again, soon afterwards, we began rapidly to descend; passing under everlasting glaciers,

by means of arched galleries, hung with clusters of dripping icicles; under and over foaming waterfalls; near

places of refuge, and galleries of shelter against sudden danger; through caverns over whose arched roofs the

avalanches slide, in spring, and bury themselves in the unknown gulf beneath. Down, over lofty bridges, and

through horrible ravines: a little shifting speck in the vast desolation of ice and snow, and monstrous granite

rocks; down through the deep Gorge of the Saltine, and deafened by the torrent plunging madly down, among

the riven blocks of rock, into the level country, far below. Gradually down, by zigzag roads, lying between

an upward and a downward precipice, into warmer weather, calmer air, and softer scenery, until there lay

before us, glittering like gold or silver in the thaw and sunshine, the metalcovered, red, green, yellow,

The business of these recollections being with Italy, and my business, consequently, being to scamper back

thither as fast as possible, I will not recall (though I am sorely tempted) how the Swiss villages, clustered at

the feet of Giant mountains, looked like playthings; or how confusedly the houses were heaped and piled

together; or how there were very narrow streets to shut the howling winds out in the wintertime; and broken

bridges, which the impetuous torrents, suddenly released in spring, had swept away. Or how there were

peasant women here, with great round fur caps: looking, when they peeped out of casements and only their

heads were seen, like a population of Swordbearers to the Lord Mayor of London; or how the town of

Vevey, lying on the smooth lake of Geneva, was beautiful to see; or how the statue of Saint Peter in the street

at Fribourg, grasps the largest key that ever was beheld; or how Fribourg is illustrious for its two suspension

Or how, between that town and Bale, the road meandered among thriving villages of wooden cottages, with

overhanging thatched roofs, and low protruding windows, glazed with small round panes of glass like

CHAPTER VIII BY VERONA, MANTUA, AND MILAN, ACROSS THE PASS OF THE SIMPLON INTO SWITZERLAND 47

crownpieces; or how, in every little Swiss homestead, with its cart or waggon carefully stowed away beside

the house, its little garden, stock of poultry, and groups of redcheeked children, there was an air of comfort,

very new and very pleasant after Italy; or how the dresses of the women changed again, and there were no

more swordbearers to be seen; and fair white stomachers, and great black, fanshaped, gauzylooking caps,

Or how the country by the Jura mountains, sprinkled with snow, and lighted by the moon, and musical with

falling water, was delightful; or how, below the windows of the great hotel of the Three Kings at Bale, the

swollen Rhine ran fast and green; or how, at Strasbourg, it was quite as fast but not as green: and was said to

be foggy lower down: and, at that late time of the year, was a far less certain means of progress, than the

Or how Strasbourg itself, in its magnificent old Gothic Cathedral, and its ancient houses with their peaked

roofs and gables, made a little gallery of quaint and interesting views; or how a crowd was gathered inside the

cathedral at noon, to see the famous mechanical clock in motion, striking twelve. How, when it struck twelve,

a whole army of puppets went through many ingenious evolutions; and, among them, a huge puppetcock,

perched on the top, crowed twelve times, loud and clear. Or how it was wonderful to see this cock at great

pains to clap its wings, and strain its throat; but obviously having no connection whatever with its own voice;

Or how the road to Paris, was one sea of mud, and thence to the coast, a little better for a hard frost. Or how

the cliffs of Dover were a pleasant sight, and England was so wonderfully neat though dark, and lacking

Or how, a few days afterwards, it was cool, recrossing the channel, with ice upon the decks, and snow lying

pretty deep in France. Or how the Malle Poste scrambled through the snow, headlong, drawn in the hilly parts

by any number of stout horses at a canter; or how there were, outside the Postoffice Yard in Paris, before

daybreak, extraordinary adventurers in heaps of rags, groping in the snowy streets with little rakes, in search

Or how, between Paris and Marseilles, the snow being then exceeding deep, a thaw came on, and the mail

waded rather than rolled for the next three hundred miles or so; breaking springs on Sunday nights, and

putting out its two passengers to warm and refresh themselves pending the repairs, in miserable

billiardrooms, where hairy company, collected about stoves, were playing cards; the cards being very like

Or how there was detention at Marseilles from stress of weather; and steamers were advertised to go, which

did not go; or how the good Steampacket Charlemagne at length put out, and met such weather that now she

threatened to run into Toulon, and now into Nice, but, the wind moderating, did neither, but ran on into

Genoa harbour instead, where the familiar Bells rang sweetly in my ear. Or how there was a travelling party

on board, of whom one member was very ill in the cabin next to mine, and being ill was cross, and therefore

declined to give up the Dictionary, which he kept under his pillow; thereby obliging his companions to come

down to him, constantly, to ask what was the Italian for a lump of sugar a glass of brandy and water

what's o'clock? and so forth: which he always insisted on looking out, with his own seasick eyes, declining

Like GRUMIO, I might have told you, in detail, all this and something more but to as little purpose were

I not deterred by the remembrance that my business is with Italy. Therefore, like GRUMIO'S story, 'it shall

CHAPTER VIII BY VERONA, MANTUA, AND MILAN, ACROSS THE PASS OF THE SIMPLON INTO SWITZERLAND 48

THERE is nothing in Italy, more beautiful to me, than the coast road between Genoa and Spezzia. On one

side: sometimes far below, sometimes nearly on a level with the road, and often skirted by broken rocks of

many shapes: there is the free blue sea, with here and there a picturesque felucca gliding slowly on; on the

other side are lofty hills, ravines besprinkled with white cottages, patches of dark olive woods, country

churches with their light open towers, and country houses gaily painted. On every bank and knoll by the

wayside, the wild cactus and aloe flourish in exuberant profusion; and the gardens of the bright villages along

the road, are seen, all blushing in the summertime with clusters of the Belladonna, and are fragrant in the

Some of the villages are inhabited, almost exclusively, by fishermen; and it is pleasant to see their great boats

hauled up on the beach, making little patches of shade, where they lie asleep, or where the women and

children sit romping and looking out to sea, while they mend their nets upon the shore. There is one town,

Camoglia, with its little harbour on the sea, hundreds of feet below the road; where families of mariners live,

who, time out of mind, have owned coastingvessels in that place, and have traded to Spain and elsewhere.

Seen from the road above, it is like a tiny model on the margin of the dimpled water, shining in the sun.

Descended into, by the winding muletracks, it is a perfect miniature of a primitive seafaring town; the

saltest, roughest, most piratical little place that ever was seen. Great rusty iron rings and mooringchains,

capstans, and fragments of old masts and spars, choke up the way; hardy roughweather boats, and seamen's

clothing, flutter in the little harbour or are drawn out on the sunny stones to dry; on the parapet of the rude

pier, a few amphibiouslooking fellows lie asleep, with their legs dangling over the wall, as though earth or

water were all one to them, and if they slipped in, they would float away, dozing comfortably among the

fishes; the church is bright with trophies of the sea, and votive offerings, in commemoration of escape from

storm and shipwreck. The dwellings not immediately abutting on the harbour are approached by blind low

archways, and by crooked steps, as if in darkness and in difficulty of access they should be like holds of

ships, or inconvenient cabins under water; and everywhere, there is a smell of fish, and seaweed, and old

The coastroad whence Camoglia is descried so far below, is famous, in the warm season, especially in some

parts near Genoa, for fire flies. Walking there on a dark night, I have seen it made one sparkling firmament

by these beautiful insects: so that the distant stars were pale against the flash and glitter that spangled every

It was not in such a season, however, that we traversed this road on our way to Rome. The middle of January

was only just past, and it was very gloomy and dark weather; very wet besides. In crossing the fine pass of

Bracco, we encountered such a storm of mist and rain, that we travelled in a cloud the whole way. There

might have been no Mediterranean in the world, for anything that we saw of it there, except when a sudden

gust of wind, clearing the mist before it, for a moment, showed the agitated sea at a great depth below,

lashing the distant rocks, and spouting up its foam furiously. The rain was incessant; every brook and torrent

was greatly swollen; and such a deafening leaping, and roaring, and thundering of water, I never heard the

Hence, when we came to Spezzia, we found that the Magra, an unbridged river on the highroad to Pisa, was

too high to be safely crossed in the Ferry Boat, and were fain to wait until the afternoon of next day, when it

had, in some degree, subsided. Spezzia, however, is a good place to tarry at; by reason, firstly, of its beautiful

bay; secondly, of its ghostly Inn; thirdly, of the headdress of the women, who wear, on one side of their

head, a small doll's straw hat, stuck on to the hair; which is certainly the oddest and most roguish headgear

The Magra safely crossed in the Ferry Boat the passage is not by any means agreeable, when the current is

swollen and strong we arrived at Carrara, within a few hours. In good time next morning, we got some

They are four or five great glens, running up into a range of lofty hills, until they can run no longer, and are

stopped by being abruptly strangled by Nature. The quarries, 'or caves,' as they call them there, are so many

openings, high up in the hills, on either side of these passes, where they blast and excavate for marble: which

may turn out good or bad: may make a man's fortune very quickly, or ruin him by the great expense of

working what is worth nothing. Some of these caves were opened by the ancient Romans, and remain as they

left them to this hour. Many others are being worked at this moment; others are to be begun tomorrow, next

week, next month; others are unbought, unthought of; and marble enough for more ages than have passed

since the place was resorted to, lies hidden everywhere: patiently awaiting its time of discovery.

As you toil and clamber up one of these steep gorges (having left your pony soddening his girths in water, a

mile or two lower down) you hear, every now and then, echoing among the hills, in a low tone, more silent

than the previous silence, a melancholy warning bugle, a signal to the miners to withdraw. Then, there is a

thundering, and echoing from hill to hill, and perhaps a splashing up of great fragments of rock into the air;

and on you toil again until some other bugle sounds, in a new direction, and you stop directly, lest you should

There were numbers of men, working high up in these hills on the sides clearing away, and sending down

the broken masses of stone and earth, to make way for the blocks of marble that had been discovered. As

these came rolling down from unseen hands into the narrow valley, I could not help thinking of the deep glen

(just the same sort of glen) where the Roc left Sindbad the Sailor; and where the merchants from the heights

above, flung down great pieces of meat for the diamonds to stick to. There were no eagles here, to darken the

sun in their swoop, and pounce upon them; but it was as wild and fierce as if there had been hundreds.

But the road, the road down which the marble comes, however immense the blocks! The genius of the

country, and the spirit of its institutions, pave that road: repair it, watch it, keep it going! Conceive a channel

of water running over a rocky bed, beset with great heaps of stone of all shapes and sizes, winding down the

middle of this valley; and THAT being the road because it was the road five hundred years ago! Imagine

the clumsy carts of five hundred years ago, being used to this hour, and drawn, as they used to be, five

hundred years ago, by oxen, whose ancestors were worn to death five hundred years ago, as their unhappy

descendants are now, in twelve months, by the suffering and agony of this cruel work! Two pair, four pair,

ten pair, twenty pair, to one block, according to its size; down it must come, this way. In their struggling from

stone to stone, with their enormous loads behind them, they die frequently upon the spot; and not they alone;

for their passionate drivers, sometimes tumbling down in their energy, are crushed to death beneath the

wheels. But it was good five hundred years ago, and it must be good now: and a railroad down one of these

When we stood aside, to see one of these cars drawn by only a pair of oxen (for it had but one small block of

marble on it), coming down, I hailed, in my heart, the man who sat upon the heavy yoke, to keep it on the

neck of the poor beasts and who faced backwards: not before him as the very Devil of true despotism. He

had a great rod in his hand, with an iron point; and when they could plough and force their way through the

loose bed of the torrent no longer, and came to a stop, he poked it into their bodies, beat it on their heads,

screwed it round and round in their nostrils, got them on a yard or two, in the madness of intense pain;

repeated all these persuasions, with increased intensity of purpose, when they stopped again; got them on,

once more; forced and goaded them to an abrupter point of the descent; and when their writhing and

smarting, and the weight behind them, bore them plunging down the precipice in a cloud of scattered water,

whirled his rod above his head, and gave a great whoop and hallo, as if he had achieved something, and had

no idea that they might shake him off, and blindly mash his brains upon the road, in the noontide of his

Standing in one of the many studii of Carrara, that afternoon for it is a great workshop, full of

beautifullyfinished copies in marble, of almost every figure, group, and bust, we know it seemed, at first,

so strange to me that those exquisite shapes, replete with grace, and thought, and delicate repose, should grow

out of all this toil, and sweat, and torture! But I soon found a parallel to it, and an explanation of it, in every

virtue that springs up in miserable ground, and every good thing that has its birth in sorrow and distress. And,

looking out of the sculptor's great window, upon the marble mountains, all red and glowing in the decline of

day, but stern and solemn to the last, I thought, my God! how many quarries of human hearts and souls,

capable of far more beautiful results, are left shut up and mouldering away: while pleasuretravellers through

life, avert their faces, as they pass, and shudder at the gloom and ruggedness that conceal them!

The then reigning Duke of Modena, to whom this territory in part belonged, claimed the proud distinction of

being the only sovereign in Europe who had not recognised LouisPhilippe as King of the French! He was

not a wag, but quite in earnest. He was also much opposed to railroads; and if certain lines in contemplation

by other potentates, on either side of him, had been executed, would have probably enjoyed the satisfaction of

having an omnibus plying to and fro across his not very vast dominions, to forward travellers from one

Carrara, shut in by great hills, is very picturesque and bold. Few tourists stay there; and the people are nearly

all connected, in one way or other, with the working of marble. There are also villages among the caves,

where the workmen live. It contains a beautiful little Theatre, newly built; and it is an interesting custom

there, to form the chorus of labourers in the marble quarries, who are selftaught and sing by ear. I heard

them in a comic opera, and in an act of 'Norma;' and they acquitted themselves very well; unlike the common

people of Italy generally, who (with some exceptions among the Neapolitans) sing vilely out of tune, and

From the summit of a lofty hill beyond Carrara, the first view of the fertile plain in which the town of Pisa

lies with Leghorn, a purple spot in the flat distance is enchanting. Nor is it only distance that lends

enchantment to the view; for the fruitful country, and rich woods of olivetrees through which the road

The moon was shining when we approached Pisa, and for a long time we could see, behind the wall, the

leaning Tower, all awry in the uncertain light; the shadowy original of the old pictures in schoolbooks,

setting forth 'The Wonders of the World.' Like most things connected in their first associations with

schoolbooks and schooltimes, it was too small. I felt it keenly. It was nothing like so high above the wall

as I had hoped. It was another of the many deceptions practised by Mr. Harris, Bookseller, at the corner of St.

Paul's Churchyard, London. HIS Tower was a fiction, but this was a reality and, by comparison, a short

reality. Still, it looked very well, and very strange, and was quite as much out of the perpendicular as Harris

had represented it to be. The quiet air of Pisa too; the big guardhouse at the gate, with only two little

soldiers in it; the streets with scarcely any show of people in them; and the Arno, flowing quaintly through

the centre of the town; were excellent. So, I bore no malice in my heart against Mr. Harris (remembering his

good intentions), but forgave him before dinner, and went out, full of confidence, to see the Tower next

I might have known better; but, somehow, I had expected to see it, casting its long shadow on a public street

where people came and went all day. It was a surprise to me to find it in a grave retired place, apart from the

general resort, and carpeted with smooth green turf. But, the group of buildings, clustered on and about this

verdant carpet: comprising the Tower, the Baptistery, the Cathedral, and the Church of the Campo Santo: is

perhaps the most remarkable and beautiful in the whole world; and from being clustered there, together, away

from the ordinary transactions and details of the town, they have a singularly venerable and impressive

character. It is the architectural essence of a rich old city, with all its common life and common habitations

SIMOND compares the Tower to the usual pictorial representations in children's books of the Tower of

Babel. It is a happy simile, and conveys a better idea of the building than chapters of laboured description.

Nothing can exceed the grace and lightness of the structure; nothing can be more remarkable than its general

appearance. In the course of the ascent to the top (which is by an easy staircase), the inclination is not very

apparent; but, at the summit, it becomes so, and gives one the sensation of being in a ship that has heeled

over, through the action of an ebbtide. The effect UPON THE LOW SIDE, so to speak looking over from

the gallery, and seeing the shaft recede to its base is very startling; and I saw a nervous traveller hold on to

the Tower involuntarily, after glancing down, as if he had some idea of propping it up. The view within, from

the ground looking up, as through a slanted tube is also very curious. It certainly inclines as much as the

most sanguine tourist could desire. The natural impulse of ninetynine people out of a hundred, who were

about to recline upon the grass below it, to rest, and contemplate the adjacent buildings, would probably be,

not to take up their position under the leaning side; it is so very much aslant.

The manifold beauties of the Cathedral and Baptistery need no recapitulation from me; though in this case, as

in a hundred others, I find it difficult to separate my own delight in recalling them, from your weariness in

having them recalled. There is a picture of St. Agnes, by Andrea del Sarto, in the former, and there are a

It is, I hope, no breach of my resolution not to be tempted into elaborate descriptions, to remember the

Campo Santo; where grass grown graves are dug in earth brought more than six hundred years ago, from the

Holy Land; and where there are, surrounding them, such cloisters, with such playing lights and shadows

falling through their delicate tracery on the stone pavement, as surely the dullest memory could never forget.

On the walls of this solemn and lovely place, are ancient frescoes, very much obliterated and decayed, but

very curious. As usually happens in almost any collection of paintings, of any sort, in Italy, where there are

many heads, there is, in one of them, a striking accidental likeness of Napoleon. At one time, I used to please

my fancy with the speculation whether these old painters, at their work, had a foreboding knowledge of the

man who would one day arise to wreak such destruction upon art: whose soldiers would make targets of great

pictures, and stable their horses among triumphs of architecture. But the same Corsican face is so plentiful in

some parts of Italy at this day, that a more commonplace solution of the coincidence is unavoidable.

If Pisa be the seventh wonder of the world in right of its Tower, it may claim to be, at least, the second or

third in right of its beggars. They waylay the unhappy visitor at every turn, escort him to every door he enters

at, and lie in wait for him, with strong reinforcements, at every door by which they know he must come out.

The grating of the portal on its hinges is the signal for a general shout, and the moment he appears, he is

hemmed in, and fallen on, by heaps of rags and personal distortions. The beggars seem to embody all the

trade and enterprise of Pisa. Nothing else is stirring, but warm air. Going through the streets, the fronts of the

sleepy houses look like backs. They are all so still and quiet, and unlike houses with people in them, that the

greater part of the city has the appearance of a city at daybreak, or during a general siesta of the population.

Or it is yet more like those backgrounds of houses in common prints, or old engravings, where windows and

doors are squarely indicated, and one figure (a beggar of course) is seen walking off by itself into illimitable

Not so Leghorn (made illustrious by SMOLLETT'S grave), which is a thriving, businesslike, matteroffact

place, where idleness is shouldered out of the way by commerce. The regulations observed there, in reference

to trade and merchants, are very liberal and free; and the town, of course, benefits by them. Leghorn had a

bad name in connection with stabbers, and with some justice it must be allowed; for, not many years ago,

there was an assassination club there, the members of which bore no illwill to anybody in particular, but

stabbed people (quite strangers to them) in the streets at night, for the pleasure and excitement of the

recreation. I think the president of this amiable society was a shoemaker. He was taken, however, and the

club was broken up. It would, probably, have disappeared in the natural course of events, before the railroad

between Leghorn and Pisa, which is a good one, and has already begun to astonish Italy with a precedent of

punctuality, order, plain dealing, and improvement the most dangerous and heretical astonisher of all.

There must have been a slight sensation, as of earthquake, surely, in the Vatican, when the first Italian

Returning to Pisa, and hiring a goodtempered Vetturino, and his four horses, to take us on to Rome, we

travelled through pleasant Tuscan villages and cheerful scenery all day. The roadside crosses in this part of

Italy are numerous and curious. There is seldom a figure on the cross, though there is sometimes a face, but

they are remarkable for being garnished with little models in wood, of every possible object that can be

connected with the Saviour's death. The cock that crowed when Peter had denied his Master thrice, is usually

perched on the tiptop; and an ornithological phenomenon he generally is. Under him, is the inscription.

Then, hung on to the crossbeam, are the spear, the reed with the sponge of vinegar and water at the end, the

coat without seam for which the soldiers cast lots, the dicebox with which they threw for it, the hammer that

drove in the nails, the pincers that pulled them out, the ladder which was set against the cross, the crown of

thorns, the instrument of flagellation, the lanthorn with which Mary went to the tomb (I suppose), and the

sword with which Peter smote the servant of the high priest, a perfect toyshop of little objects, repeated at

On the evening of the second day from Pisa, we reached the beautiful old city of Siena. There was what they

called a Carnival, in progress; but, as its secret lay in a score or two of melancholy people walking up and

down the principal street in common toyshop masks, and being more melancholy, if possible, than the same

sort of people in England, I say no more of it. We went off, betimes next morning, to see the Cathedral,

which is wonderfully picturesque inside and out, especially the latter also the marketplace, or great

Piazza, which is a large square, with a great brokennosed fountain in it: some quaint Gothic houses: and a

high square brick tower; OUTSIDE the top of which a curious feature in such views in Italy hangs an

enormous bell. It is like a bit of Venice, without the water. There are some curious old Palazzi in the town,

which is very ancient; and without having (for me) the interest of Verona, or Genoa, it is very dreamy and

We went on again, as soon as we had seen these things, and going over a rather bleak country (there had been

nothing but vines until now: mere walkingsticks at that season of the year), stopped, as usual, between one

and two hours in the middle of the day, to rest the horses; that being a part of every Vetturino contract. We

then went on again, through a region gradually becoming bleaker and wilder, until it became as bare and

desolate as any Scottish moors. Soon after dark, we halted for the night, at the osteria of La Scala: a perfectly

lone house, where the family were sitting round a great fire in the kitchen, raised on a stone platform three or

four feet high, and big enough for the roasting of an ox. On the upper, and only other floor of this hotel, there

was a great, wild, rambling sala, with one very little window in a bycorner, and four black doors opening

into four black bedrooms in various directions. To say nothing of another large black door, opening into

another large black sala, with the staircase coming abruptly through a kind of trapdoor in the floor, and the

rafters of the roof looming above: a suspicious little press skulking in one obscure corner: and all the knives

in the house lying about in various directions. The fireplace was of the purest Italian architecture, so that it

was perfectly impossible to see it for the smoke. The waitress was like a dramatic brigand's wife, and wore

the same style of dress upon her head. The dogs barked like mad; the echoes returned the compliments

bestowed upon them; there was not another house within twelve miles; and things had a dreary, and rather a

They were not improved by rumours of robbers having come out, strong and boldly, within a few nights; and

of their having stopped the mail very near that place. They were known to have waylaid some travellers not

long before, on Mount Vesuvius itself, and were the talk at all the roadside inns. As they were no business of

ours, however (for we had very little with us to lose), we made ourselves merry on the subject, and were very

soon as comfortable as need be. We had the usual dinner in this solitary house; and a very good dinner it is,

when you are used to it. There is something with a vegetable or some rice in it which is a sort of shorthand or

arbitrary character for soup, and which tastes very well, when you have flavoured it with plenty of grated

cheese, lots of salt, and abundance of pepper. There is the half fowl of which this soup has been made. There

is a stewed pigeon, with the gizzards and livers of himself and other birds stuck all round him. There is a bit

of roast beef, the size of a small French roll. There are a scrap of Parmesan cheese, and five little withered

apples, all huddled together on a small plate, and crowding one upon the other, as if each were trying to save

itself from the chance of being eaten. Then there is coffee; and then there is bed. You don't mind brick floors;

you don't mind yawning doors, nor banging windows; you don't mind your own horses being stabled under

the bed: and so close, that every time a horse coughs or sneezes, he wakes you. If you are goodhumoured to

the people about you, and speak pleasantly, and look cheerful, take my word for it you may be well

entertained in the very worst Italian Inn, and always in the most obliging manner, and may go from one end

of the country to the other (despite all stories to the contrary) without any great trial of your patience

anywhere. Especially, when you get such wine in flasks, as the Orvieto, and the Monte Pulciano.

It was a bad morning when we left this place; and we went, for twelve miles, over a country as barren, as

stony, and as wild, as Cornwall in England, until we came to Radicofani, where there is a ghostly, goblin inn:

once a huntingseat, belonging to the Dukes of Tuscany. It is full of such rambling corridors, and gaunt

rooms, that all the murdering and phantom tales that ever were written might have originated in that one

house. There are some horrible old Palazzi in Genoa: one in particular, not unlike it, outside: but there is a

winding, creaking, wormy, rustling, door opening, footonstaircasefalling character about this

Radicofani Hotel, such as I never saw, anywhere else. The town, such as it is, hangs on a hillside above the

house, and in front of it. The inhabitants are all beggars; and as soon as they see a carriage coming, they

When we got on the mountain pass, which lies beyond this place, the wind (as they had forewarned us at the

inn) was so terrific, that we were obliged to take my other half out of the carriage, lest she should be blown

over, carriage and all, and to hang to it, on the windy side (as well as we could for laughing), to prevent its

going, Heaven knows where. For mere force of wind, this landstorm might have competed with an Atlantic

gale, and had a reasonable chance of coming off victorious. The blast came sweeping down great gullies in a

range of mountains on the right: so that we looked with positive awe at a great morass on the left, and saw

that there was not a bush or twig to hold by. It seemed as if, once blown from our feet, we must be swept out

to sea, or away into space. There was snow, and hail, and rain, and lightning, and thunder; and there were

rolling mists, travelling with incredible velocity. It was dark, awful, and solitary to the last degree; there were

mountains above mountains, veiled in angry clouds; and there was such a wrathful, rapid, violent, tumultuous

It was a relief to get out of it, notwithstanding; and to cross even the dismal, dirty Papal Frontier. After

passing through two little towns; in one of which, Acquapendente, there was also a 'Carnival' in progress:

consisting of one man dressed and masked as a woman, and one woman dressed and masked as a man,

walking ankledeep, through the muddy streets, in a very melancholy manner: we came, at dusk, within sight

of the Lake of Bolsena, on whose bank there is a little town of the same name, much celebrated for malaria.

With the exception of this poor place, there is not a cottage on the banks of the lake, or near it (for nobody

dare sleep there); not a boat upon its waters; not a stick or stake to break the dismal monotony of

sevenandtwenty watery miles. We were late in getting in, the roads being very bad from heavy rains; and,

We entered on a very different, and a finer scene of desolation, next night, at sunset. We had passed through

Montefiaschone (famous for its wine) and Viterbo (for its fountains): and after climbing up a long hill of

eight or ten miles' extent, came suddenly upon the margin of a solitary lake: in one part very beautiful, with a

luxuriant wood; in another, very barren, and shut in by bleak volcanic hills. Where this lake flows, there

stood, of old, a city. It was swallowed up one day; and in its stead, this water rose. There are ancient

traditions (common to many parts of the world) of the ruined city having been seen below, when the water

was clear; but however that may be, from this spot of earth it vanished. The ground came bubbling up above

it; and the water too; and here they stand, like ghosts on whom the other world closed suddenly, and who

have no means of getting back again. They seem to be waiting the course of ages, for the next earthquake in

that place; when they will plunge below the ground, at its first yawning, and be seen no more. The unhappy

city below, is not more lost and dreary, than these firecharred hills and the stagnant water, above. The red

sun looked strangely on them, as with the knowledge that they were made for caverns and darkness; and the

melancholy water oozed and sucked the mud, and crept quietly among the marshy grass and reeds, as if the

overthrow of all the ancient towers and housetops, and the death of all the ancient people born and bred

A short ride from this lake, brought us to Ronciglione; a little town like a large pigsty, where we passed the

As soon as we were out of the pigsty, we entered on the Campagna Romana; an undulating flat (as you

know), where few people can live; and where, for miles and miles, there is nothing to relieve the terrible

monotony and gloom. Of all kinds of country that could, by possibility, lie outside the gates of Rome, this is

the aptest and fittest burialground for the Dead City. So sad, so quiet, so sullen; so secret in its covering up

of great masses of ruin, and hiding them; so like the waste places into which the men possessed with devils

used to go and howl, and rend themselves, in the old days of Jerusalem. We had to traverse thirty miles of

this Campagna; and for twoandtwenty we went on and on, seeing nothing but now and then a lonely house,

or a villainouslooking shepherd: with matted hair all over his face, and himself wrapped to the chin in a

frowsy brown mantle, tending his sheep. At the end of that distance, we stopped to refresh the horses, and to

get some lunch, in a common malariashaken, despondent little publichouse, whose every inch of wall and

beam, inside, was (according to custom) painted and decorated in a way so miserable that every room looked

like the wrong side of another room, and, with its wretched imitation of drapery, and lopsided little daubs of

lyres, seemed to have been plundered from behind the scenes of some travelling circus.

When we were fairly going off again, we began, in a perfect fever, to strain our eyes for Rome; and when,

after another mile or two, the Eternal City appeared, at length, in the distance; it looked like I am half afraid

to write the word like LONDON!!! There it lay, under a thick cloud, with innumerable towers, and steeples,

and roofs of houses, rising up into the sky, and high above them all, one Dome. I swear, that keenly as I felt

the seeming absurdity of the comparison, it was so like London, at that distance, that if you could have shown

WE entered the Eternal City, at about four o'clock in the afternoon, on the thirtieth of January, by the Porta

del Popolo, and came immediately it was a dark, muddy day, and there had been heavy rain on the skirts

of the Carnival. We did not, then, know that we were only looking at the fag end of the masks, who were

driving slowly round and round the Piazza until they could find a promising opportunity for falling into the

stream of carriages, and getting, in good time, into the thick of the festivity; and coming among them so

abruptly, all travelstained and weary, was not coming very well prepared to enjoy the scene.

We had crossed the Tiber by the Ponte Molle two or three miles before. It had looked as yellow as it ought to

look, and hurrying on between its wornaway and miry banks, had a promising aspect of desolation and ruin.

The masquerade dresses on the fringe of the Carnival, did great violence to this promise. There were no great

ruins, no solemn tokens of antiquity, to be seen; they all lie on the other side of the city. There seemed to be

long streets of commonplace shops and houses, such as are to be found in any European town; there were

busy people, equipages, ordinary walkers to and fro; a multitude of chattering strangers. It was no more MY

Rome: the Rome of anybody's fancy, man or boy; degraded and fallen and lying asleep in the sun among a

heap of ruins: than the Place de la Concorde in Paris is. A cloudy sky, a dull cold rain, and muddy streets, I

was prepared for, but not for this: and I confess to having gone to bed, that night, in a very indifferent

Immediately on going out next day, we hurried off to St. Peter's. It looked immense in the distance, but

distinctly and decidedly small, by comparison, on a near approach. The beauty of the Piazza, on which it

stands, with its clusters of exquisite columns, and its gushing fountains so fresh, so broad, and free, and

beautiful nothing can exaggerate. The first burst of the interior, in all its expansive majesty and glory: and,

most of all, the looking up into the Dome: is a sensation never to be forgotten. But, there were preparations

for a Festa; the pillars of stately marble were swathed in some impertinent frippery of red and yellow; the

altar, and entrance to the subterranean chapel: which is before it: in the centre of the church: were like a

goldsmith's shop, or one of the opening scenes in a very lavish pantomime. And though I had as high a sense

of the beauty of the building (I hope) as it is possible to entertain, I felt no very strong emotion. I have been

infinitely more affected in many English cathedrals when the organ has been playing, and in many English

country churches when the congregation have been singing. I had a much greater sense of mystery and

When we came out of the church again (we stood nearly an hour staring up into the dome: and would not

have 'gone over' the Cathedral then, for any money), we said to the coachman, 'Go to the Coliseum.' In a

It is no fiction, but plain, sober, honest Truth, to say: so suggestive and distinct is it at this hour: that, for a

moment actually in passing in they who will, may have the whole great pile before them, as it used to be,

with thousands of eager faces staring down into the arena, and such a whirl of strife, and blood, and dust

going on there, as no language can describe. Its solitude, its awful beauty, and its utter desolation, strike upon

the stranger the next moment, like a softened sorrow; and never in his life, perhaps, will he be so moved and

overcome by any sight, not immediately connected with his own affections and afflictions.

To see it crumbling there, an inch a year; its walls and arches overgrown with green; its corridors open to the

day; the long grass growing in its porches; young trees of yesterday, springing up on its ragged parapets, and

bearing fruit: chance produce of the seeds dropped there by the birds who build their nests within its chinks

and crannies; to see its Pit of Fight filled up with earth, and the peaceful Cross planted in the centre; to climb

into its upper halls, and look down on ruin, ruin, ruin, all about it; the triumphal arches of Constantine,

Septimus Severus, and Titus; the Roman Forum; the Palace of the Caesars; the temples of the old religion,

fallen down and gone; is to see the ghost of old Rome, wicked, wonderful old city, haunting the very ground

on which its people trod. It is the most impressive, the most stately, the most solemn, grand, majestic,

mournful sight, conceivable. Never, in its bloodiest prime, can the sight of the gigantic Coliseum, full and

running over with the lustiest life, have moved one's heart, as it must move all who look upon it now, a ruin.

As it tops the other ruins: standing there, a mountain among graves: so do its ancient influences outlive all

other remnants of the old mythology and old butchery of Rome, in the nature of the fierce and cruel Roman

people. The Italian face changes as the visitor approaches the city; its beauty becomes devilish; and there is

scarcely one countenance in a hundred, among the common people in the streets, that would not be at home

Here was Rome indeed at last; and such a Rome as no one can imagine in its full and awful grandeur! We

wandered out upon the Appian Way, and then went on, through miles of ruined tombs and broken walls, with

here and there a desolate and uninhabited house: past the Circus of Romulus, where the course of the

chariots, the stations of the judges, competitors, and spectators, are yet as plainly to be seen as in old time:

past the tomb of Cecilia Metella: past all inclosure, hedge, or stake, wall or fence: away upon the open

Campagna, where on that side of Rome, nothing is to be beheld but Ruin. Except where the distant

Apennines bound the view upon the left, the whole wide prospect is one field of ruin. Broken aqueducts, left

in the most picturesque and beautiful clusters of arches; broken temples; broken tombs. A desert of decay,

sombre and desolate beyond all expression; and with a history in every stone that strews the ground.

On Sunday, the Pope assisted in the performance of High Mass at St. Peter's. The effect of the Cathedral on

my mind, on that second visit, was exactly what it was at first, and what it remains after many visits. It is not

religiously impressive or affecting. It is an immense edifice, with no one point for the mind to rest upon; and

it tires itself with wandering round and round. The very purpose of the place, is not expressed in anything you

see there, unless you examine its details and all examination of details is incompatible with the place itself.

It might be a Pantheon, or a Senate House, or a great architectural trophy, having no other object than an

architectural triumph. There is a black statue of St. Peter, to be sure, under a red canopy; which is larger than

life and which is constantly having its great toe kissed by good Catholics. You cannot help seeing that: it is so

very prominent and popular. But it does not heighten the effect of the temple, as a work of art; and it is not

A large space behind the altar, was fitted up with boxes, shaped like those at the Italian Opera in England, but

in their decoration much more gaudy. In the centre of the kind of theatre thus railed off, was a canopied dais

with the Pope's chair upon it. The pavement was covered with a carpet of the brightest green; and what with

this green, and the intolerable reds and crimsons, and gold borders of the hangings, the whole concern looked

like a stupendous Bonbon. On either side of the altar, was a large box for lady strangers. These were filled

with ladies in black dresses and black veils. The gentlemen of the Pope's guard, in red coats, leather breeches,

and jackboots, guarded all this reserved space, with drawn swords that were very flashy in every sense; and

from the altar all down the nave, a broad lane was kept clear by the Pope's Swiss guard, who wear a quaint

striped surcoat, and striped tight legs, and carry halberds like those which are usually shouldered by those

theatrical supernumeraries, who never CAN get off the stage fast enough, and who may be generally

observed to linger in the enemy's camp after the open country, held by the opposite forces, has been split up

I got upon the border of the green carpet, in company with a great many other gentlemen, attired in black (no

other passport is necessary), and stood there at my ease, during the performance of Mass. The singers were in

a crib of wirework (like a large meat safe or birdcage) in one corner; and sang most atrociously. All about

the green carpet, there was a slowly moving crowd of people: talking to each other: staring at the Pope

through eyeglasses; defrauding one another, in moments of partial curiosity, out of precarious seats on the

bases of pillars: and grinning hideously at the ladies. Dotted here and there, were little knots of friars

(Francescani, or Cappuccini, in their coarse brown dresses and peaked hoods) making a strange contrast to

the gaudy ecclesiastics of higher degree, and having their humility gratified to the utmost, by being

shouldered about, and elbowed right and left, on all sides. Some of these had muddy sandals and umbrellas,

and stained garments: having trudged in from the country. The faces of the greater part were as coarse and

heavy as their dress; their dogged, stupid, monotonous stare at all the glory and splendour, having something

Upon the green carpet itself, and gathered round the altar, was a perfect army of cardinals and priests, in red,

gold, purple, violet, white, and fine linen. Stragglers from these, went to and fro among the crowd,

conversing two and two, or giving and receiving introductions, and exchanging salutations; other

functionaries in black gowns, and other functionaries in court dresses, were similarly engaged. In the midst

of all these, and stealthy Jesuits creeping in and out, and the extreme restlessness of the Youth of England,

who were perpetually wandering about, some few steady persons in black cassocks, who had knelt down with

their faces to the wall, and were poring over their missals, became, unintentionally, a sort of humane

mantraps, and with their own devout legs, tripped up other people's by the dozen.

There was a great pile of candles lying down on the floor near me, which a very old man in a rusty black

gown with an openwork tippet, like a summer ornament for a fireplace in tissuepaper, made himself very

busy in dispensing to all the ecclesiastics: one apiece. They loitered about with these for some time, under

their arms like walkingsticks, or in their hands like truncheons. At a certain period of the ceremony,

however, each carried his candle up to the Pope, laid it across his two knees to be blessed, took it back again,

and filed off. This was done in a very attenuated procession, as you may suppose, and occupied a long time.

Not because it takes long to bless a candle through and through, but because there were so many candles to be

blessed. At last they were all blessed: and then they were all lighted; and then the Pope was taken up, chair

I must say, that I never saw anything, out of November, so like the popular English commemoration of the

fifth of that month. A bundle of matches and a lantern, would have made it perfect. Nor did the Pope, himself,

at all mar the resemblance, though he has a pleasant and venerable face; for, as this part of the ceremony

makes him giddy and sick, he shuts his eyes when it is performed: and having his eyes shut and a great mitre

on his head, and his head itself wagging to and fro as they shook him in carrying, he looked as if his mask

were going to tumble off. The two immense fans which are always borne, one on either side of him,

accompanied him, of course, on this occasion. As they carried him along, he blessed the people with the

mystic sign; and as he passed them, they kneeled down. When he had made the round of the church, he was

brought back again, and if I am not mistaken, this performance was repeated, in the whole, three times. There

was, certainly nothing solemn or effective in it; and certainly very much that was droll and tawdry. But this

remark applies to the whole ceremony, except the raising of the Host, when every man in the guard dropped

on one knee instantly, and dashed his naked sword on the ground; which had a fine effect.

The next time I saw the cathedral, was some two or three weeks afterwards, when I climbed up into the ball;

and then, the hangings being taken down, and the carpet taken up, but all the framework left, the remnants of

The Friday and Saturday having been solemn Festa days, and Sunday being always a DIES NON in carnival

proceedings, we had looked forward, with some impatience and curiosity, to the beginning of the new week:

On the Monday afternoon at one or two o'clock, there began to be a great rattling of carriages into the

courtyard of the hotel; a hurrying to and fro of all the servants in it; and, now and then, a swift shooting

across some doorway or balcony, of a straggling stranger in a fancy dress: not yet sufficiently well used to the

same, to wear it with confidence, and defy public opinion. All the carriages were open, and had the linings

carefully covered with white cotton or calico, to prevent their proper decorations from being spoiled by the

incessant pelting of sugarplums; and people were packing and cramming into every vehicle as it waited for

its occupants, enormous sacks and baskets full of these confetti, together with such heaps of flowers, tied up

in little nosegays, that some carriages were not only brimful of flowers, but literally running over: scattering,

at every shake and jerk of the springs, some of their abundance on the ground. Not to be behindhand in these

essential particulars, we caused two very respectable sacks of sugarplums (each about three feet high) and a

large clothes basket full of flowers to be conveyed into our hired barouche, with all speed. And from our

place of observation, in one of the upper balconies of the hotel, we contemplated these arrangements with the

liveliest satisfaction. The carriages now beginning to take up their company, and move away, we got into

ours, and drove off too, armed with little wire masks for our faces; the sugarplums, like Falstaff's

The Corso is a street a mile long; a street of shops, and palaces, and private houses, sometimes opening into a

broad piazza. There are verandahs and balconies, of all shapes and sizes, to almost every house not on one

story alone, but often to one room or another on every story put there in general with so little order or

regularity, that if, year after year, and season after season, it had rained balconies, hailed balconies, snowed

balconies, blown balconies, they could scarcely have come into existence in a more disorderly manner.

This is the great fountainhead and focus of the Carnival. But all the streets in which the Carnival is held,

being vigilantly kept by dragoons, it is necessary for carriages, in the first instance, to pass, in line, down

another thoroughfare, and so come into the Corso at the end remote from the Piazza del Popolo; which is one

of its terminations. Accordingly, we fell into the string of coaches, and, for some time, jogged on quietly

enough; now crawling on at a very slow walk; now trotting halfadozen yards; now backing fifty; and now

stopping altogether: as the pressure in front obliged us. If any impetuous carriage dashed out of the rank and

clattered forward, with the wild idea of getting on faster, it was suddenly met, or overtaken, by a trooper on

horseback, who, deaf as his own drawn sword to all remonstrances, immediately escorted it back to the very

end of the row, and made it a dim speck in the remotest perspective. Occasionally, we interchanged a volley

of confetti with the carriage next in front, or the carriage next behind; but as yet, this capturing of stray and

Presently, we came into a narrow street, where, besides one line of carriages going, there was another line of

carriages returning. Here the sugarplums and the nosegays began to fly about, pretty smartly; and I was

fortunate enough to observe one gentleman attired as a Greek warrior, catch a lightwhiskered brigand on the

nose (he was in the very act of tossing up a bouquet to a young lady in a firstfloor window) with a precision

that was much applauded by the bystanders. As this victorious Greek was exchanging a facetious remark with

a stout gentleman in a doorway onehalf black and onehalf white, as if he had been peeled up the middle

who had offered him his congratulations on this achievement, he received an orange from a housetop, full

on his left ear, and was much surprised, not to say discomfited. Especially, as he was standing up at the time;

and in consequence of the carriage moving on suddenly, at the same moment, staggered ignominiously, and

Some quarter of an hour of this sort of progress, brought us to the Corso; and anything so gay, so bright, and

lively as the whole scene there, it would be difficult to imagine. From all the innumerable balconies: from the

remotest and highest, no less than from the lowest and nearest: hangings of bright red, bright green, bright

blue, white and gold, were fluttering in the brilliant sunlight. From windows, and from parapets, and tops of

houses, streamers of the richest colours, and draperies of the gaudiest and most sparkling hues, were floating

out upon the street. The buildings seemed to have been literally turned inside out, and to have all their gaiety

towards the highway. Shopfronts were taken down, and the windows filled with company, like boxes at a

shining theatre; doors were carried off their hinges, and long tapestried groves, hung with garlands of flowers

and evergreens, displayed within; builders' scaffoldings were gorgeous temples, radiant in silver, gold, and

crimson; and in every nook and corner, from the pavement to the chimneytops, where women's eyes could

glisten, there they danced, and laughed, and sparkled, like the light in water. Every sort of bewitching

madness of dress was there. Little preposterous scarlet jackets; quaint old stomachers, more wicked than the

smartest bodices; Polish pelisses, strained and tight as ripe gooseberries; tiny Greek caps, all awry, and

clinging to the dark hair, Heaven knows how; every wild, quaint, bold, shy, pettish, madcap fancy had its

illustration in a dress; and every fancy was as dead forgotten by its owner, in the tumult of merriment, as if

the three old aqueducts that still remain entire had brought Lethe into Rome, upon their sturdy arches, that

The carriages were now three abreast; in broader places four; often stationary for a long time together, always

one close mass of variegated brightness; showing, the whole streetfull, through the storm of flowers, like

flowers of a larger growth themselves. In some, the horses were richly caparisoned in magnificent trappings;

in others they were decked from head to tail, with flowing ribbons. Some were driven by coachmen with

enormous double faces: one face leering at the horses: the other cocking its extraordinary eyes into the

carriage: and both rattling again, under the hail of sugarplums. Other drivers were attired as women,

wearing long ringlets and no bonnets, and looking more ridiculous in any real difficulty with the horses (of

which, in such a concourse, there were a great many) than tongue can tell, or pen describe. Instead of sitting

IN the carriages, upon the seats, the handsome Roman women, to see and to be seen the better, sit in the

heads of the barouches, at this time of general licence, with their feet upon the cushions and oh, the flowing

skirts and dainty waists, the blessed shapes and laughing faces, the free, goodhumoured, gallant figures that

they make! There were great vans, too, full of handsome girls thirty, or more together, perhaps and the

broadsides that were poured into, and poured out of, these fairy fireshops, splashed the air with flowers and

bonbons for ten minutes at a time. Carriages, delayed long in one place, would begin a deliberate

engagement with other carriages, or with people at the lower windows; and the spectators at some upper

balcony or window, joining in the fray, and attacking both parties, would empty down great bags of confetti,

that descended like a cloud, and in an instant made them white as millers. Still, carriages on carriages, dresses

on dresses, colours on colours, crowds upon crowds, without end. Men and boys clinging to the wheels of

coaches, and holding on behind, and following in their wake, and diving in among the horses' feet to pick up

scattered flowers to sell again; maskers on foot (the drollest generally) in fantastic exaggerations of

courtdresses, surveying the throng through enormous eyeglasses, and always transported with an ecstasy

of love, on the discovery of any particularly old lady at a window; long strings of Policinelli, laying about

them with blown bladders at the ends of sticks; a waggonfull of madmen, screaming and tearing to the life;

a coachfull of grave mamelukes, with their horsetail standard set up in the midst; a party of gipsywomen

engaged in terrific conflict with a shipful of sailors; a man monkey on a pole, surrounded by strange animals

with pigs' faces, and lions' tails, carried under their arms, or worn gracefully over their shoulders; carriages on

carriages, dresses on dresses, colours on colours, crowds upon crowds, without end. Not many actual

characters sustained, or represented, perhaps, considering the number dressed, but the main pleasure of the

scene consisting in its perfect good temper; in its bright, and infinite, and flashing variety; and in its entire

abandonment to the mad humour of the time an abandonment so perfect, so contagious, so irresistible, that

the steadiest foreigner fights up to his middle in flowers and sugarplums, like the wildest Roman of them

all, and thinks of nothing else till halfpast four o'clock, when he is suddenly reminded (to his great regret)

that this is not the whole business of his existence, by hearing the trumpets sound, and seeing the dragoons

How it ever IS cleared for the race that takes place at five, or how the horses ever go through the race,

without going over the people, is more than I can say. But the carriages get out into the bystreets, or up into

the Piazza del Popolo, and some people sit in temporary galleries in the latter place, and tens of thousands

line the Corso on both sides, when the horses are brought out into the Piazza to the foot of that same

column which, for centuries, looked down upon the games and chariotraces in the Circus Maximus.

At a given signal they are started off. Down the live lane, the whole length of the Corso, they fly like the

wind: riderless, as all the world knows: with shining ornaments upon their backs, and twisted in their plaited

manes: and with heavy little balls stuck full of spikes, dangling at their sides, to goad them on. The jingling

of these trappings, and the rattling of their hoofs upon the hard stones; the dash and fury of their speed along

the echoing street; nay, the very cannon that are fired these noises are nothing to the roaring of the

multitude: their shouts: the clapping of their hands. But it is soon over almost instantaneously. More

cannon shake the town. The horses have plunged into the carpets put across the street to stop them; the goal is

reached; the prizes are won (they are given, in part, by the poor Jews, as a compromise for not running

But if the scene be bright, and gay, and crowded, on the last day but one, it attains, on the concluding day, to

such a height of glittering colour, swarming life, and frolicsome uproar, that the bare recollection of it makes

me giddy at this moment. The same diversions, greatly heightened and intensified in the ardour with which

they are pursued, go on until the same hour. The race is repeated; the cannon are fired; the shouting and

clapping of hands are renewed; the cannon are fired again; the race is over; and the prizes are won. But the

carriages: ankledeep with sugarplums within, and so beflowered and dusty without, as to be hardly

recognisable for the same vehicles that they were, three hours ago: instead of scampering off in all directions,

throng into the Corso, where they are soon wedged together in a scarcely moving mass. For the diversion of

the Moccoletti, the last gay madness of the Carnival, is now at hand; and sellers of little tapers like what are

called Christmas candles in England, are shouting lustily on every side, 'Moccoli, Moccoli! Ecco Moccoli!'

a new item in the tumult; quite abolishing that other item of ' Ecco Fiori! Ecco Fiorrr!' which has been

As the bright hangings and dresses are all fading into one dull, heavy, uniform colour in the decline of the

day, lights begin flashing, here and there: in the windows, on the housetops, in the balconies, in the carriages,

in the hands of the footpassengers: little by little: gradually, gradually: more and more: until the whole long

street is one great glare and blaze of fire. Then, everybody present has but one engrossing object; that is, to

extinguish other people's candles, and to keep his own alight; and everybody: man, woman, or child,

gentleman or lady, prince or peasant, native or foreigner: yells and screams, and roars incessantly, as a taunt

to the subdued, 'Senza Moccolo, Senza Moccolo!' (Without a light! Without a light!) until nothing is heard

The spectacle, at this time, is one of the most extraordinary that can be imagined. Carriages coming slowly

by, with everybody standing on the seats or on the box, holding up their lights at arms' length, for greater

safety; some in paper shades; some with a bunch of undefended little tapers, kindled altogether; some with

blazing torches; some with feeble little candles; men on foot, creeping along, among the wheels, watching

their opportunity, to make a spring at some particular light, and dash it out; other people climbing up into

carriages, to get hold of them by main force; others, chasing some unlucky wanderer, round and round his

own coach, to blow out the light he has begged or stolen somewhere, before he can ascend to his own

company, and enable them to light their extinguished tapers; others, with their hats off, at a carriagedoor,

humbly beseeching some kindhearted lady to oblige them with a light for a cigar, and when she is in the

fulness of doubt whether to comply or no, blowing out the candle she is guarding so tenderly with her little

hand; other people at the windows, fishing for candles with lines and hooks, or letting down long

willowwands with handkerchiefs at the end, and flapping them out, dexterously, when the bearer is at the

height of his triumph, others, biding their time in corners, with immense extinguishers like halberds, and

suddenly coming down upon glorious torches; others, gathered round one coach, and sticking to it; others,

raining oranges and nosegays at an obdurate little lantern, or regularly storming a pyramid of men, holding up

one man among them, who carries one feeble little wick above his head, with which he defies them all! Senza

Moccolo! Senza Moccolo! Beautiful women, standing up in coaches, pointing in derision at extinguished

lights, and clapping their hands, as they pass on, crying, 'Senza Moccolo! Senza Moccolo!'; low balconies full

of lovely faces and gay dresses, struggling with assailants in the streets; some repressing them as they climb

up, some bending down, some leaning over, some shrinking back delicate arms and bosoms graceful

figures glowing lights, fluttering dresses, Senza Moccolo, Senza Moccoli, Senza Moccoloooo!

when in the wildest enthusiasm of the cry, and fullest ecstasy of the sport, the Ave Maria rings from the

church steeples, and the Carnival is over in an instant put out like a taper, with a breath!

There was a masquerade at the theatre at night, as dull and senseless as a London one, and only remarkable

for the summary way in which the house was cleared at eleven o'clock: which was done by a line of soldiers

forming along the wall, at the back of the stage, and sweeping the whole company out before them, like a

broad broom. The game of the Moccoletti (the word, in the singular, Moccoletto, is the diminutive of

Moccolo, and means a little lamp or candlesnuff) is supposed by some to be a ceremony of burlesque

mourning for the death of the Carnival: candles being indispensable to Catholic grief. But whether it be so, or

be a remnant of the ancient Saturnalia, or an incorporation of both, or have its origin in anything else, I shall

always remember it, and the frolic, as a brilliant and most captivating sight: no less remarkable for the

unbroken goodhumour of all concerned, down to the very lowest (and among those who scaled the

carriages, were many of the commonest men and boys), than for its innocent vivacity. For, odd as it may

seem to say so, of a sport so full of thoughtlessness and personal display, it is as free from any taint of

immodesty as any general mingling of the two sexes can possibly be; and there seems to prevail, during its

progress, a feeling of general, almost childish, simplicity and confidence, which one thinks of with a pang,

Availing ourselves of a part of the quiet interval between the termination of the Carnival and the beginning of

the Holy Week: when everybody had run away from the one, and few people had yet begun to run back again

for the other: we went conscientiously to work, to see Rome. And, by dint of going out early every morning,

and coming back late every evening, and labouring hard all day, I believe we made acquaintance with every

post and pillar in the city, and the country round; and, in particular, explored so many churches, that I

abandoned that part of the enterprise at last, before it was half finished, lest I should never, of my own

accord, go to church again, as long as I lived. But, I managed, almost every day, at one time or other, to get

back to the Coliseum, and out upon the open Campagna, beyond the Tomb of Cecilia Metella.

We often encountered, in these expeditions, a company of English Tourists, with whom I had an ardent, but

ungratified longing, to establish a speaking acquaintance. They were one Mr. Davis, and a small circle of

friends. It was impossible not to know Mrs. Davis's name, from her being always in great request among her

party, and her party being everywhere. During the Holy Week, they were in every part of every scene of

every ceremony. For a fortnight or three weeks before it, they were in every tomb, and every church, and

every ruin, and every Picture Gallery; and I hardly ever observed Mrs. Davis to be silent for a moment. Deep

underground, high up in St. Peter's, out on the Campagna, and stifling in the Jews' quarter, Mrs. Davis turned

up, all the same. I don't think she ever saw anything, or ever looked at anything; and she had always lost

something out of a straw handbasket, and was trying to find it, with all her might and main, among an

immense quantity of English halfpence, which lay, like sands upon the seashore, at the bottom of it. There

was a professional Cicerone always attached to the party (which had been brought over from London, fifteen

or twenty strong, by contract), and if he so much as looked at Mrs. Davis, she invariably cut him short by

saying, 'There, God bless the man, don't worrit me! I don't understand a word you say, and shouldn't if you

was to talk till you was black in the face!' Mr. Davis always had a snuffcoloured greatcoat on, and carried

a great green umbrella in his hand, and had a slow curiosity constantly devouring him, which prompted him

to do extraordinary things, such as taking the covers off urns in tombs, and looking in at the ashes as if they

were pickles and tracing out inscriptions with the ferrule of his umbrella, and saying, with intense

thoughtfulness, 'Here's a B you see, and there's a R, and this is the way we goes on in; is it!' His antiquarian

habits occasioned his being frequently in the rear of the rest; and one of the agonies of Mrs. Davis, and the

party in general, was an everpresent fear that Davis would be lost. This caused them to scream for him, in

the strangest places, and at the most improper seasons. And when he came, slowly emerging out of some

sepulchre or other, like a peaceful Ghoule, saying 'Here I am!' Mrs. Davis invariably replied, 'You'll be buried

Mr. and Mrs. Davis, and their party, had, probably, been brought from London in about nine or ten days.

Eighteen hundred years ago, the Roman legions under Claudius, protested against being led into Mr. and Mrs.

Among what may be called the Cubs or minor Lions of Rome, there was one that amused me mightily. It is

always to be found there; and its den is on the great flight of steps that lead from the Piazza di Spagna, to the

church of Trinita del Monte. In plainer words, these steps are the great place of resort for the artists' 'Models,'

and there they are constantly waiting to be hired. The first time I went up there, I could not conceive why the

faces seemed familiar to me; why they appeared to have beset me, for years, in every possible variety of

action and costume; and how it came to pass that they started up before me, in Rome, in the broad day, like so

many saddled and bridled nightmares. I soon found that we had made acquaintance, and improved it, for

several years, on the walls of various Exhibition Galleries. There is one old gentleman, with long white hair

and an immense beard, who, to my knowledge, has gone half through the catalogue of the Royal Academy.

This is the venerable, or patriarchal model. He carries a long staff; and every knot and twist in that staff I

have seen, faithfully delineated, innumerable times. There is another man in a blue cloak, who always

pretends to be asleep in the sun (when there is any), and who, I need not say, is always very wide awake, and

very attentive to the disposition of his legs. This is the DOLCE FAR' NIENTE model. There is another man

in a brown cloak, who leans against a wall, with his arms folded in his mantle, and looks out of the corners of

his eyes: which are just visible beneath his broad slouched hat. This is the assassin model. There is another

man, who constantly looks over his own shoulder, and is always going away, but never does. This is the

haughty, or scornful model. As to Domestic Happiness, and Holy Families, they should come very cheap, for

there are lumps of them, all up the steps; and the cream of the thing is, that they are all the falsest vagabonds

in the world, especially made up for the purpose, and having no counterparts in Rome or any other part of the

My recent mention of the Carnival, reminds me of its being said to be a mock mourning (in the ceremony

with which it closes), for the gaieties and merrymakings before Lent; and this again reminds me of the real

funerals and mourning processions of Rome, which, like those in most other parts of Italy, are rendered

chiefly remarkable to a Foreigner, by the indifference with which the mere clay is universally regarded, after

life has left it. And this is not from the survivors having had time to dissociate the memory of the dead from

their wellremembered appearance and form on earth; for the interment follows too speedily after death, for

that: almost always taking place within fourandtwenty hours, and, sometimes, within twelve.

At Rome, there is the same arrangement of Pits in a great, bleak, open, dreary space, that I have already

described as existing in Genoa. When I visited it, at noonday, I saw a solitary coffin of plain deal: uncovered

by any shroud or pall, and so slightly made, that the hoof of any wandering mule would have crushed it in:

carelessly tumbled down, all on one side, on the door of one of the pits and there left, by itself, in the wind

and sunshine. 'How does it come to be left here?' I asked the man who showed me the place. 'It was brought

here half an hour ago, Signore,' he said. I remembered to have met the procession, on its return: straggling

away at a good round pace. 'When will it be put in the pit?' I asked him. 'When the cart comes, and it is

opened tonight,' he said. 'How much does it cost to be brought here in this way, instead of coming in the

cart?' I asked him. 'Ten scudi,' he said (about two pounds, twoandsixpence, English). 'The other bodies, for

whom nothing is paid, are taken to the church of the Santa Maria della Consolazione,' he continued, 'and

brought here altogether, in the cart at night.' I stood, a moment, looking at the coffin, which had two initial

letters scrawled upon the top; and turned away, with an expression in my face, I suppose, of not much liking

its exposure in that manner: for he said, shrugging his shoulders with great vivacity, and giving a pleasant

Among the innumerable churches, there is one I must select for separate mention. It is the church of the Ara

Coeli, supposed to be built on the site of the old Temple of Jupiter Feretrius; and approached, on one side, by

a long steep flight of steps, which seem incomplete without some group of bearded soothsayers on the top. It

is remarkable for the possession of a miraculous Bambino, or wooden doll, representing the Infant Saviour;

and I first saw this miraculous Bambino, in legal phrase, in manner following, that is to say:

We had strolled into the church one afternoon, and were looking down its long vista of gloomy pillars (for all

these ancient churches built upon the ruins of old temples, are dark and sad), when the Brave came running

in, with a grin upon his face that stretched it from ear to ear, and implored us to follow him, without a

moment's delay, as they were going to show the Bambino to a select party. We accordingly hurried off to a

sort of chapel, or sacristy, hard by the chief altar, but not in the church itself, where the select party,

consisting of two or three Catholic gentlemen and ladies (not Italians), were already assembled: and where

one hollowcheeked young monk was lighting up divers candles, while another was putting on some clerical

robes over his coarse brown habit. The candles were on a kind of altar, and above it were two delectable

figures, such as you would see at any English fair, representing the Holy Virgin, and Saint Joseph, as I

The hollowcheeked monk, number One, having finished lighting the candles, went down on his knees, in a

corner, before this set piece; and the monk number Two, having put on a pair of highly ornamented and

goldbespattered gloves, lifted down the coffer, with great reverence, and set it on the altar. Then, with many

genuflexions, and muttering certain prayers, he opened it, and let down the front, and took off sundry

coverings of satin and lace from the inside. The ladies had been on their knees from the commencement; and

the gentlemen now dropped down devoutly, as he exposed to view a little wooden doll, in face very like

General Tom Thumb, the American Dwarf: gorgeously dressed in satin and gold lace, and actually blazing

with rich jewels. There was scarcely a spot upon its little breast, or neck, or stomach, but was sparkling with

the costly offerings of the Faithful. Presently, he lifted it out of the box, and carrying it round among the

kneelers, set its face against the forehead of every one, and tendered its clumsy foot to them to kiss a

ceremony which they all performed down to a dirty little ragamuffin of a boy who had walked in from the

street. When this was done, he laid it in the box again: and the company, rising, drew near, and commended

the jewels in whispers. In good time, he replaced the coverings, shut up the box, put it back in its place,

locked up the whole concern (Holy Family and all) behind a pair of foldingdoors; took off his priestly

vestments; and received the customary 'small charge,' while his companion, by means of an extinguisher

fastened to the end of a long stick, put out the lights, one after another. The candles being all extinguished,

I met this same Bambino, in the street a short time afterwards, going, in great state, to the house of some sick

person. It is taken to all parts of Rome for this purpose, constantly; but, I understand that it is not always as

successful as could be wished; for, making its appearance at the bedside of weak and nervous people in

extremity, accompanied by a numerous escort, it not unfrequently frightens them to death. It is most popular

in cases of childbirth, where it has done such wonders, that if a lady be longer than usual in getting through

her difficulties, a messenger is despatched, with all speed, to solicit the immediate attendance of the

Bambino. It is a very valuable property, and much confided in especially by the religious body to whom it

I am happy to know that it is not considered immaculate, by some who are good Catholics, and who are

behind the scenes, from what was told me by the near relation of a Priest, himself a Catholic, and a gentleman

of learning and intelligence. This Priest made my informant promise that he would, on no account, allow the

Bambino to be borne into the bedroom of a sick lady, in whom they were both interested. 'For,' said he, 'if

they (the monks) trouble her with it, and intrude themselves into her room, it will certainly kill her.' My

informant accordingly looked out of the window when it came; and, with many thanks, declined to open the

door. He endeavoured, in another case of which he had no other knowledge than such as he gained as a

passerby at the moment, to prevent its being carried into a small unwholesome chamber, where a poor girl

was dying. But, he strove against it unsuccessfully, and she expired while the crowd were pressing round her

Among the people who drop into St. Peter's at their leisure, to kneel on the pavement, and say a quiet prayer,

there are certain schools and seminaries, priestly and otherwise, that come in, twenty or thirty strong. These

boys always kneel down in single file, one behind the other, with a tall grim master in a black gown, bringing

up the rear: like a pack of cards arranged to be tumbled down at a touch, with a disproportionately large

Knave of clubs at the end. When they have had a minute or so at the chief altar, they scramble up, and filing

off to the chapel of the Madonna, or the sacrament, flop down again in the same order; so that if anybody did

stumble against the master, a general and sudden overthrow of the whole line must inevitably ensue.

The scene in all the churches is the strangest possible. The same monotonous, heartless, drowsy chaunting,

always going on; the same dark building, darker from the brightness of the street without; the same lamps

dimly burning; the selfsame people kneeling here and there; turned towards you, from one altar or other, the

same priest's back, with the same large cross embroidered on it; however different in size, in shape, in wealth,

in architecture, this church is from that, it is the same thing still. There are the same dirty beggars stopping in

their muttered prayers to beg; the same miserable cripples exhibiting their deformity at the doors; the same

blind men, rattling little pots like kitchen pepper castors: their depositories for alms; the same preposterous

crowns of silver stuck upon the painted heads of single saints and Virgins in crowded pictures, so that a little

figure on a mountain has a headdress bigger than the temple in the foreground, or adjacent miles of

landscape; the same favourite shrine or figure, smothered with little silver hearts and crosses, and the like: the

staple trade and show of all the jewellers; the same odd mixture of respect and indecorum, faith and phlegm:

kneeling on the stones, and spitting on them, loudly; getting up from prayers to beg a little, or to pursue some

other worldly matter: and then kneeling down again, to resume the contrite supplication at the point where it

was interrupted. In one church, a kneeling lady got up from her prayer, for a moment, to offer us her card, as

a teacher of Music; and in another, a sedate gentleman with a very thick walkingstaff, arose from his

devotions to belabour his dog, who was growling at another dog: and whose yelps and howls resounded

through the church, as his master quietly relapsed into his former train of meditation keeping his eye upon

Above all, there is always a receptacle for the contributions of the Faithful, in some form or other.

Sometimes, it is a moneybox, set up between the worshipper, and the wooden lifesize figure of the

Redeemer; sometimes, it is a little chest for the maintenance of the Virgin; sometimes, an appeal on behalf of

a popular Bambino; sometimes, a bag at the end of a long stick, thrust among the people here and there, and

vigilantly jingled by an active Sacristan; but there it always is, and, very often, in many shapes in the same

church, and doing pretty well in all. Nor, is it wanting in the open air the streets and roads for, often as

you are walking along, thinking about anything rather than a tin canister, that object pounces out upon you

from a little house by the wayside; and on its top is painted, 'For the Souls in Purgatory;' an appeal which the

bearer repeats a great many times, as he rattles it before you, much as Punch rattles the cracked bell which his

And this reminds me that some Roman altars of peculiar sanctity, bear the inscription, 'Every Mass performed

at this altar frees a soul from Purgatory.' I have never been able to find out the charge for one of these

services, but they should needs be expensive. There are several Crosses in Rome too, the kissing of which,

confers indulgences for varying terms. That in the centre of the Coliseum, is worth a hundred days; and

people may be seen kissing it from morning to night. It is curious that some of these crosses seem to acquire

an arbitrary popularity: this very one among them. In another part of the Coliseum there is a cross upon a

marble slab, with the inscription, 'Who kisses this cross shall be entitled to Two hundred and forty days'

indulgence.' But I saw no one person kiss it, though, day after day, I sat in the arena, and saw scores upon

To single out details from the great dream of Roman Churches, would be the wildest occupation in the world.

But St. Stefano Rotondo, a damp, mildewed vault of an old church in the outskirts of Rome, will always

struggle uppermost in my mind, by reason of the hideous paintings with which its walls are covered. These

represent the martyrdoms of saints and early Christians; and such a panorama of horror and butchery no man

could imagine in his sleep, though he were to eat a whole pig raw, for supper. Greybearded men being

boiled, fried, grilled, crimped, singed, eaten by wild beasts, worried by dogs, buried alive, torn asunder by

horses, chopped up small with hatchets: women having their breasts torn with iron pinchers, their tongues cut

out, their ears screwed off, their jaws broken, their bodies stretched upon the rack, or skinned upon the stake,

or crackled up and melted in the fire: these are among the mildest subjects. So insisted on, and laboured at,

besides, that every sufferer gives you the same occasion for wonder as poor old Duncan awoke, in Lady

There is an upper chamber in the Mamertine prisons, over what is said to have been and very possibly may

have been the dungeon of St. Peter. This chamber is now fitted up as an oratory, dedicated to that saint; and

it lives, as a distinct and separate place, in my recollection, too. It is very small and lowroofed; and the

dread and gloom of the ponderous, obdurate old prison are on it, as if they had come up in a dark mist

through the floor. Hanging on the walls, among the clustered votive offerings, are objects, at once strangely

in keeping, and strangely at variance, with the place rusty daggers, knives, pistols, clubs, divers instruments

of violence and murder, brought here, fresh from use, and hung up to propitiate offended Heaven: as if the

blood upon them would drain off in consecrated air, and have no voice to cry with. It is all so silent and so

close, and tomblike; and the dungeons below are so black and stealthy, and stagnant, and naked; that this

little dark spot becomes a dream within a dream: and in the vision of great churches which come rolling past

me like a sea, it is a small wave by itself, that melts into no other wave, and does not flow on with the rest.

It is an awful thing to think of the enormous caverns that are entered from some Roman churches, and

undermine the city. Many churches have crypts and subterranean chapels of great size, which, in the ancient

time, were baths, and secret chambers of temples, and what not: but I do not speak of them. Beneath the

church of St. Giovanni and St. Paolo, there are the jaws of a terrific range of caverns, hewn out of the rock,

and said to have another outlet underneath the Coliseum tremendous darknesses of vast extent, halfburied

in the earth and unexplorable, where the dull torches, flashed by the attendants, glimmer down long ranges of

distant vaults branching to the right and left, like streets in a city of the dead; and show the cold damp

stealing down the walls, drip drop, dripdrop, to join the pools of water that lie here and there, and never

saw, or never will see, one ray of the sun. Some accounts make these the prisons of the wild beasts destined

for the amphitheatre; some the prisons of the condemned gladiators; some, both. But the legend most

appalling to the fancy is, that in the upper range (for there are two stories of these caves) the Early Christians

destined to be eaten at the Coliseum Shows, heard the wild beasts, hungry for them, roaring down below;

until, upon the night and solitude of their captivity, there burst the sudden noon and life of the vast theatre

Below the church of San Sebastiano, two miles beyond the gate of San Sebastiano, on the Appian Way, is the

entrance to the catacombs of Rome quarries in the old time, but afterwards the hiding places of the

Christians. These ghastly passages have been explored for twenty miles; and form a chain of labyrinths, sixty

A gaunt Franciscan friar, with a wild bright eye, was our only guide, down into this profound and dreadful

place. The narrow ways and openings hither and thither, coupled with the dead and heavy air, soon blotted

out, in all of us, any recollection of the track by which we had come: and I could not help thinking 'Good

Heaven, if, in a sudden fit of madness, he should dash the torches out, or if he should be seized with a fit,

what would become of us!' On we wandered, among martyrs' graves: passing great subterranean vaulted

roads, diverging in all directions, and choked up with heaps of stones, that thieves and murderers may not

take refuge there, and form a population under Rome, even worse than that which lives between it and the

sun. Graves, graves, graves; Graves of men, of women, of their little children, who ran crying to the

persecutors, 'We are Christians! We are Christians!' that they might be murdered with their parents; Graves

with the palm of martyrdom roughly cut into their stone boundaries, and little niches, made to hold a vessel

of the martyrs' blood; Graves of some who lived down here, for years together, ministering to the rest, and

preaching truth, and hope, and comfort, from the rude altars, that bear witness to their fortitude at this hour;

more roomy graves, but far more terrible, where hundreds, being surprised, were hemmed in and walled up:

'The Triumphs of the Faith are not above ground in our splendid churches,' said the friar, looking round upon

us, as we stopped to rest in one of the low passages, with bones and dust surrounding us on every side. 'They

are here! Among the Martyrs' Graves!' He was a gentle, earnest man, and said it from his heart; but when I

thought how Christian men have dealt with one another; how, perverting our most merciful religion, they

have hunted down and tortured, burnt and beheaded, strangled, slaughtered, and oppressed each other; I

pictured to myself an agony surpassing any that this Dust had suffered with the breath of life yet lingering in

it, and how these great and constant hearts would have been shaken how they would have quailed and

drooped if a foreknowledge of the deeds that professing Christians would commit in the Great Name for

which they died, could have rent them with its own unutterable anguish, on the cruel wheel, and bitter cross,

Such are the spots and patches in my dream of churches, that remain apart, and keep their separate identity. I

have a fainter recollection, sometimes of the relics; of the fragments of the pillar of the Temple that was rent

in twain; of the portion of the table that was spread for the Last Supper; of the well at which the woman of

Samaria gave water to Our Saviour; of two columns from the house of Pontius Pilate; of the stone to which

the Sacred hands were bound, when the scourging was performed; of the gridiron of Saint Lawrence, and

the stone below it, marked with the frying of his fat and blood; these set a shadowy mark on some cathedrals,

as an old story, or a fable might, and stop them for an instant, as they flit before me. The rest is a vast

wilderness of consecrated buildings of all shapes and fancies, blending one with another; of battered pillars of

old Pagan temples, dug up from the ground, and forced, like giant captives, to support the roofs of Christian

churches; of pictures, bad, and wonderful, and impious, and ridiculous; of kneeling people, curling incense,

tinkling bells, and sometimes (but not often) of a swelling organ: of Madonne, with their breasts stuck full of

swords, arranged in a halfcircle like a modern fan; of actual skeletons of dead saints, hideously attired in

gaudy satins, silks, and velvets trimmed with gold: their withered crust of skull adorned with precious jewels,

or with chaplets of crushed flowers; sometimes of people gathered round the pulpit, and a monk within it

stretching out the crucifix, and preaching fiercely: the sun just streaming down through some high window on

the sailcloth stretched above him and across the church, to keep his highpitched voice from being lost

among the echoes of the roof. Then my tired memory comes out upon a flight of steps, where knots of people

are asleep, or basking in the light; and strolls away, among the rags, and smells, and palaces, and hovels, of

On one Saturday morning (the eighth of March), a man was beheaded here. Nine or ten months before, he

had waylaid a Bavarian countess, travelling as a pilgrim to Rome alone and on foot, of course and

performing, it is said, that act of piety for the fourth time. He saw her change a piece of gold at Viterbo,

where he lived; followed her; bore her company on her journey for some forty miles or more, on the

treacherous pretext of protecting her; attacked her, in the fulfilment of his unrelenting purpose, on the

Campagna, within a very short distance of Rome, near to what is called (but what is not) the Tomb of Nero;

robbed her; and beat her to death with her own pilgrim's staff. He was newly married, and gave some of her

apparel to his wife: saying that he had bought it at a fair. She, however, who had seen the pilgrimcountess

passing through their town, recognised some trifle as having belonged to her. Her husband then told her what

he had done. She, in confession, told a priest; and the man was taken, within four days after the commission

There are no fixed times for the administration of justice, or its execution, in this unaccountable country; and

he had been in prison ever since. On the Friday, as he was dining with the other prisoners, they came and told

him he was to be beheaded next morning, and took him away. It is very unusual to execute in Lent; but his

crime being a very bad one, it was deemed advisable to make an example of him at that time, when great

numbers of pilgrims were coming towards Rome, from all parts, for the Holy Week. I heard of this on the

Friday evening, and saw the bills up at the churches, calling on the people to pray for the criminal's soul. So, I

The beheading was appointed for fourteen and ahalf o'clock, Roman time: or a quarter before nine in the

forenoon. I had two friends with me; and as we did not know but that the crowd might be very great, we were

on the spot by halfpast seven. The place of execution was near the church of San Giovanni decollato (a

doubtful compliment to Saint John the Baptist) in one of the impassable back streets without any footway, of

which a great part of Rome is composed a street of rotten houses, which do not seem to belong to anybody,

and do not seem to have ever been inhabited, and certainly were never built on any plan, or for any particular

purpose, and have no windowsashes, and are a little like deserted breweries, and might be warehouses but

for having nothing in them. Opposite to one of these, a white house, the scaffold was built. An untidy,

unpainted, uncouth, crazylooking thing of course: some seven feet high, perhaps: with a tall,

gallowsshaped frame rising above it, in which was the knife, charged with a ponderous mass of iron, all

ready to descend, and glittering brightly in the morning sun, whenever it looked out, now and then, from

There were not many people lingering about; and these were kept at a considerable distance from the

scaffold, by parties of the Pope's dragoons. Two or three hundred footsoldiers were under arms, standing at

ease in clusters here and there; and the officers were walking up and down in twos and threes, chatting

At the end of the street, was an open space, where there would be a dustheap, and piles of broken crockery,

and mounds of vegetable refuse, but for such things being thrown anywhere and everywhere in Rome, and

favouring no particular sort of locality. We got into a kind of washhouse, belonging to a dwellinghouse on

this spot; and standing there in an old cart, and on a heap of cartwheels piled against the wall, looked, through

a large grated window, at the scaffold, and straight down the street beyond it until, in consequence of its

turning off abruptly to the left, our perspective was brought to a sudden termination, and had a corpulent

Nine o'clock struck, and ten o'clock struck, and nothing happened. All the bells of all the churches rang as

usual. A little parliament of dogs assembled in the open space, and chased each other, in and out among the

soldiers. Fiercelooking Romans of the lowest class, in blue cloaks, russet cloaks, and rags uncloaked, came

and went, and talked together. Women and children fluttered, on the skirts of the scanty crowd. One large

muddy spot was left quite bare, like a bald place on a man's head. A cigarmerchant, with an earthen pot of

charcoal ashes in one hand, went up and down, crying his wares. A pastrymerchant divided his attention

between the scaffold and his customers. Boys tried to climb up walls, and tumbled down again. Priests and

monks elbowed a passage for themselves among the people, and stood on tiptoe for a sight of the knife: then

went away. Artists, in inconceivable hats of the middleages, and beards (thank Heaven!) of no age at all,

flashed picturesque scowls about them from their stations in the throng. One gentleman (connected with the

fine arts, I presume) went up and down in a pair of Hessianboots, with a red beard hanging down on his

breast, and his long and bright red hair, plaited into two tails, one on either side of his head, which fell over

his shoulders in front of him, very nearly to his waist, and were carefully entwined and braided!

Eleven o'clock struck and still nothing happened. A rumour got about, among the crowd, that the criminal

would not confess; in which case, the priests would keep him until the Ave Maria (sunset); for it is their

merciful custom never finally to turn the crucifix away from a man at that pass, as one refusing to be shriven,

and consequently a sinner abandoned of the Saviour, until then. People began to drop off. The officers

shrugged their shoulders and looked doubtful. The dragoons, who came riding up below our window, every

now and then, to order an unlucky hackney coach or cart away, as soon as it had comfortably established

itself, and was covered with exulting people (but never before), became imperious, and quicktempered. The

bald place hadn't a straggling hair upon it; and the corpulent officer, crowning the perspective, took a world

Suddenly, there was a noise of trumpets. 'Attention!' was among the footsoldiers instantly. They were

marched up to the scaffold and formed round it. The dragoons galloped to their nearer stations too. The

guillotine became the centre of a wood of bristling bayonets and shining sabres. The people closed round

nearer, on the flank of the soldiery. A long straggling stream of men and boys, who had accompanied the

procession from the prison, came pouring into the open space. The bald spot was scarcely distinguishable

from the rest. The cigar and pastrymerchants resigned all thoughts of business, for the moment, and

abandoning themselves wholly to pleasure, got good situations in the crowd. The perspective ended, now, in

a troop of dragoons. And the corpulent officer, sword in hand, looked hard at a church close to him, which he

After a short delay, some monks were seen approaching to the scaffold from this church; and above their

heads, coming on slowly and gloomily, the effigy of Christ upon the cross, canopied with black. This was

carried round the foot of the scaffold, to the front, and turned towards the criminal, that he might see it to the

last. It was hardly in its place, when he appeared on the platform, barefooted; his hands bound; and with the

collar and neck of his shirt cut away, almost to the shoulder. A young man sixandtwenty vigorously

He had refused to confess, it seemed, without first having his wife brought to see him; and they had sent an

He immediately kneeled down, below the knife. His neck fitting into a hole, made for the purpose, in a cross

plank, was shut down, by another plank above; exactly like the pillory. Immediately below him was a

The executioner was holding it by the hair, and walking with it round the scaffold, showing it to the people,

before one quite knew that the knife had fallen heavily, and with a rattling sound.

When it had travelled round the four sides of the scaffold, it was set upon a pole in front a little patch of

black and white, for the long street to stare at, and the flies to settle on. The eyes were turned upward, as if he

had avoided the sight of the leathern bag, and looked to the crucifix. Every tinge and hue of life had left it in

There was a great deal of blood. When we left the window, and went close up to the scaffold, it was very

dirty; one of the two men who were throwing water over it, turning to help the other lift the body into a shell,

picked his way as through mire. A strange appearance was the apparent annihilation of the neck. The head

was taken off so close, that it seemed as if the knife had narrowly escaped crushing the jaw, or shaving off the

Nobody cared, or was at all affected. There was no manifestation of disgust, or pity, or indignation, or

sorrow. My empty pockets were tried, several times, in the crowd immediately below the scaffold, as the

corpse was being put into its coffin. It was an ugly, filthy, careless, sickening spectacle; meaning nothing but

butchery beyond the momentary interest, to the one wretched actor. Yes! Such a sight has one meaning and

one warning. Let me not forget it. The speculators in the lottery, station themselves at favourable points for

counting the gouts of blood that spirt out, here or there; and buy that number. It is pretty sure to have a run

The body was carted away in due time, the knife cleansed, the scaffold taken down, and all the hideous

apparatus removed. The executioner: an outlaw EX OFFICIO (what a satire on the Punishment!) who dare

not, for his life, cross the Bridge of St. Angelo but to do his work: retreated to his lair, and the show was over.

At the head of the collections in the palaces of Rome, the Vatican, of course, with its treasures of art, its

enormous galleries, and staircases, and suites upon suites of immense chambers, ranks highest and stands

foremost. Many most noble statues, and wonderful pictures, are there; nor is it heresy to say that there is a

considerable amount of rubbish there, too. When any old piece of sculpture dug out of the ground, finds a

place in a gallery because it is old, and without any reference to its intrinsic merits: and finds admirers by the

hundred, because it is there, and for no other reason on earth: there will be no lack of objects, very indifferent

in the plain eyesight of any one who employs so vulgar a property, when he may wear the spectacles of Cant

for less than nothing, and establish himself as a man of taste for the mere trouble of putting them on.

I unreservedly confess, for myself, that I cannot leave my natural perception of what is natural and true, at a

palacedoor, in Italy or elsewhere, as I should leave my shoes if I were travelling in the East. I cannot forget

that there are certain expressions of face, natural to certain passions, and as unchangeable in their nature as

the gait of a lion, or the flight of an eagle. I cannot dismiss from my certain knowledge, such commonplace

facts as the ordinary proportion of men's arms, and legs, and heads; and when I meet with performances that

do violence to these experiences and recollections, no matter where they may be, I cannot honestly admire

them, and think it best to say so; in spite of high critical advice that we should sometimes feign an

Therefore, I freely acknowledge that when I see a jolly young Waterman representing a cherubim, or a

Barclay and Perkins's Drayman depicted as an Evangelist, I see nothing to commend or admire in the

performance, however great its reputed Painter. Neither am I partial to libellous Angels, who play on fiddles

and bassoons, for the edification of sprawling monks apparently in liquor. Nor to those Monsieur Tonsons of

galleries, Saint Francis and Saint Sebastian; both of whom I submit should have very uncommon and rare

merits, as works of art, to justify their compound multiplication by Italian Painters.

It seems to me, too, that the indiscriminate and determined raptures in which some critics indulge, is

incompatible with the true appreciation of the really great and transcendent works. I cannot imagine, for

example, how the resolute champion of undeserving pictures can soar to the amazing beauty of Titian's great

picture of the Assumption of the Virgin at Venice; or how the man who is truly affected by the sublimity of

that exquisite production, or who is truly sensible of the beauty of Tintoretto's great picture of the Assembly

of the Blessed in the same place, can discern in Michael Angelo's Last Judgment, in the Sistine chapel, any

general idea, or one pervading thought, in harmony with the stupendous subject. He who will contemplate

Raphael's masterpiece, the Transfiguration, and will go away into another chamber of that same Vatican, and

contemplate another design of Raphael, representing (in incredible caricature) the miraculous stopping of a

great fire by Leo the Fourth and who will say that he admires them both, as works of extraordinary genius

must, as I think, be wanting in his powers of perception in one of the two instances, and, probably, in the high

It is easy to suggest a doubt, but I have a great doubt whether, sometimes, the rules of art are not too strictly

observed, and whether it is quite well or agreeable that we should know beforehand, where this figure will be

turning round, and where that figure will be lying down, and where there will be drapery in folds, and so

forth. When I observe heads inferior to the subject, in pictures of merit, in Italian galleries, I do not attach that

reproach to the Painter, for I have a suspicion that these great men, who were, of necessity, very much in the

hands of monks and priests, painted monks and priests a great deal too often. I frequently see, in pictures of

real power, heads quite below the story and the painter: and I invariably observe that those heads are of the

Convent stamp, and have their counterparts among the Convent inmates of this hour; so, I have settled with

myself that, in such cases, the lameness was not with the painter, but with the vanity and ignorance of certain

The exquisite grace and beauty of Canova's statues; the wonderful gravity and repose of many of the ancient

works in sculpture, both in the Capitol and the Vatican; and the strength and fire of many others; are, in their

different ways, beyond all reach of words. They are especially impressive and delightful, after the works of

Bernini and his disciples, in which the churches of Rome, from St. Peter's downward, abound; and which are,

I verily believe, the most detestable class of productions in the wide world. I would infinitely rather (as mere

works of art) look upon the three deities of the Past, the Present, and the Future, in the Chinese Collection,

than upon the best of these breezy maniacs; whose every fold of drapery is blown insideout; whose smallest

vein, or artery, is as big as an ordinary forefinger; whose hair is like a nest of lively snakes; and whose

attitudes put all other extravagance to shame. Insomuch that I do honestly believe, there can be no place in

the world, where such intolerable abortions, begotten of the sculptor's chisel, are to be found in such

There is a fine collection of Egyptian antiquities, in the Vatican; and the ceilings of the rooms in which they

are arranged, are painted to represent a starlight sky in the Desert. It may seem an odd idea, but it is very

effective. The grim, halfhuman monsters from the temples, look more grim and monstrous underneath the

deep dark blue; it sheds a strange uncertain gloomy air on everything a mystery adapted to the objects; and

In the private palaces, pictures are seen to the best advantage. There are seldom so many in one place that the

attention need become distracted, or the eye confused. You see them very leisurely; and are rarely interrupted

by a crowd of people. There are portraits innumerable, by Titian, and Rembrandt, and Vandyke; heads by

Guido, and Domenichino, and Carlo Dolci; various subjects by Correggio, and Murillo, and Raphael, and

Salvator Rosa, and Spagnoletto many of which it would be difficult, indeed, to praise too highly, or to

praise enough; such is their tenderness and grace; their noble elevation, purity, and beauty.

The portrait of Beatrice di Cenci, in the Palazzo Berberini, is a picture almost impossible to be forgotten.

Through the transcendent sweetness and beauty of the face, there is a something shining out, that haunts me. I

see it now, as I see this paper, or my pen. The head is loosely draped in white; the light hair falling down

below the linen folds. She has turned suddenly towards you; and there is an expression in the eyes although

they are very tender and gentle as if the wildness of a momentary terror, or distraction, had been struggled

with and overcome, that instant; and nothing but a celestial hope, and a beautiful sorrow, and a desolate

earthly helplessness remained. Some stories say that Guido painted it, the night before her execution; some

other stories, that he painted it from memory, after having seen her, on her way to the scaffold. I am willing

to believe that, as you see her on his canvas, so she turned towards him, in the crowd, from the first sight of

the axe, and stamped upon his mind a look which he has stamped on mine as though I had stood beside him

in the concourse. The guilty palace of the Cenci: blighting a whole quarter of the town, as it stands withering

away by grains: had that face, to my fancy, in its dismal porch, and at its black, blind windows, and flitting up

and down its dreary stairs, and growing out of the darkness of the ghostly galleries. The History is written in

the Painting; written, in the dying girl's face, by Nature's own hand. And oh! how in that one touch she puts

to flight (instead of making kin) the puny world that claim to be related to her, in right of poor conventional

I saw in the Palazzo Spada, the statue of Pompey; the statue at whose base Caesar fell. A stern, tremendous

figure! I imagined one of greater finish: of the last refinement: full of delicate touches: losing its distinctness,

in the giddy eyes of one whose blood was ebbing before it, and settling into some such rigid majesty as this,

The excursions in the neighbourhood of Rome are charming, and would be full of interest were it only for the

changing views they afford, of the wild Campagna. But, every inch of ground, in every direction, is rich in

associations, and in natural beauties. There is Albano, with its lovely lake and wooded shore, and with its

wine, that certainly has not improved since the days of Horace, and in these times hardly justifies his

panegyric. There is squalid Tivoli, with the river Anio, diverted from its course, and plunging down,

headlong, some eighty feet in search of it. With its picturesque Temple of the Sibyl, perched high on a crag;

its minor waterfalls glancing and sparkling in the sun; and one good cavern yawning darkly, where the river

takes a fearful plunge and shoots on, low down under beetling rocks. There, too, is the Villa d'Este, deserted

and decaying among groves of melancholy pine and cypress trees, where it seems to lie in state. Then, there

is Frascati, and, on the steep above it, the ruins of Tusculum, where Cicero lived, and wrote, and adorned his

favourite house (some fragments of it may yet be seen there), and where Cato was born. We saw its ruined

amphitheatre on a grey, dull day, when a shrill March wind was blowing, and when the scattered stones of the

old city lay strewn about the lonely eminence, as desolate and dead as the ashes of a long extinguished fire.

One day we walked out, a little party of three, to Albano, fourteen miles distant; possessed by a great desire

to go there by the ancient Appian way, long since ruined and overgrown. We started at halfpast seven in the

morning, and within an hour or so were out upon the open Campagna. For twelve miles we went climbing on,

over an unbroken succession of mounds, and heaps, and hills, of ruin. Tombs and temples, overthrown and

prostrate; small fragments of columns, friezes, pediments; great blocks of granite and marble; mouldering

arches, grassgrown and decayed; ruin enough to build a spacious city from; lay strewn about us. Sometimes,

loose walls, built up from these fragments by the shepherds, came across our path; sometimes, a ditch

between two mounds of broken stones, obstructed our progress; sometimes, the fragments themselves, rolling

from beneath our feet, made it a toilsome matter to advance; but it was always ruin. Now, we tracked a piece

of the old road, above the ground; now traced it, underneath a grassy covering, as if that were its grave; but

all the way was ruin. In the distance, ruined aqueducts went stalking on their giant course along the plain; and

every breath of wind that swept towards us, stirred early flowers and grasses, springing up, spontaneously, on

miles of ruin. The unseen larks above us, who alone disturbed the awful silence, had their nests in ruin; and

the fierce herdsmen, clad in sheepskins, who now and then scowled out upon us from their sleeping nooks,

were housed in ruin. The aspect of the desolate Campagna in one direction, where it was most level,

reminded me of an American prairie; but what is the solitude of a region where men have never dwelt, to that

of a Desert, where a mighty race have left their footprints in the earth from which they have vanished; where

the restingplaces of their Dead, have fallen like their Dead; and the broken hourglass of Time is but a heap

of idle dust! Returning, by the road, at sunset! and looking, from the distance, on the course we had taken in

the morning, I almost feel (as I had felt when I first saw it, at that hour) as if the sun would never rise again,

To come again on Rome, by moonlight, after such an expedition, is a fitting close to such a day. The narrow

streets, devoid of foot ways, and choked, in every obscure corner, by heaps of dunghill rubbish, contrast so

strongly, in their cramped dimensions, and their filth, and darkness, with the broad square before some

haughty church: in the centre of which, a hieroglyphiccovered obelisk, brought from Egypt in the days of

the Emperors, looks strangely on the foreign scene about it; or perhaps an ancient pillar, with its honoured

statue overthrown, supports a Christian saint: Marcus Aurelius giving place to Paul, and Trajan to St. Peter.

Then, there are the ponderous buildings reared from the spoliation of the Coliseum, shutting out the moon,

like mountains: while here and there, are broken arches and rent walls, through which it gushes freely, as the

life comes pouring from a wound. The little town of miserable houses, walled, and shut in by barred gates, is

the quarter where the Jews are locked up nightly, when the clock strikes eight a miserable place, densely

populated, and reeking with bad odours, but where the people are industrious and moneygetting. In the

daytime, as you make your way along the narrow streets, you see them all at work: upon the pavement,

oftener than in their dark and frouzy shops: furbishing old clothes, and driving bargains.

Crossing from these patches of thick darkness, out into the moon once more, the fountain of Trevi, welling

from a hundred jets, and rolling over mimic rocks, is silvery to the eye and ear. In the narrow little throat of

street, beyond, a booth, dressed out with flaring lamps, and boughs of trees, attracts a group of sulky Romans

round its smoky coppers of hot broth, and cauliflower stew; its trays of fried fish, and its flasks of wine. As

you rattle round the sharplytwisting corner, a lumbering sound is heard. The coachman stops abruptly, and

uncovers, as a van comes slowly by, preceded by a man who bears a large cross; by a torchbearer; and a

priest: the latter chaunting as he goes. It is the Dead Cart, with the bodies of the poor, on their way to burial

in the Sacred Field outside the walls, where they will be thrown into the pit that will be covered with a stone

But whether, in this ride, you pass by obelisks, or columns ancient temples, theatres, houses, porticoes, or

forums: it is strange to see, how every fragment, whenever it is possible, has been blended into some modern

structure, and made to serve some modern purpose a wall, a dwellingplace, a granary, a stable some use

for which it never was designed, and associated with which it cannot otherwise than lamely assort. It is

stranger still, to see how many ruins of the old mythology: how many fragments of obsolete legend and

observance: have been incorporated into the worship of Christian altars here; and how, in numberless

From one part of the city, looking out beyond the walls, a squat and stunted pyramid (the burialplace of

Caius Cestius) makes an opaque triangle in the moonlight. But, to an English traveller, it serves to mark the

grave of Shelley too, whose ashes lie beneath a little garden near it. Nearer still, almost within its shadow, lie

the bones of Keats, 'whose name is writ in water,' that shines brightly in the landscape of a calm Italian night.

The Holy Week in Rome is supposed to offer great attractions to all visitors; but, saving for the sights of

Easter Sunday, I would counsel those who go to Rome for its own interest, to avoid it at that time. The

ceremonies, in general, are of the most tedious and wearisome kind; the heat and crowd at every one of them,

painfully oppressive; the noise, hubbub, and confusion, quite distracting. We abandoned the pursuit of these

shows, very early in the proceedings, and betook ourselves to the Ruins again. But, we plunged into the

crowd for a share of the best of the sights; and what we saw, I will describe to you.

At the Sistine chapel, on the Wednesday, we saw very little, for by the time we reached it (though we were

early) the besieging crowd had filled it to the door, and overflowed into the adjoining hall, where they were

struggling, and squeezing, and mutually expostulating, and making great rushes every time a lady was

brought out faint, as if at least fifty people could be accommodated in her vacant standingroom. Hanging in

the doorway of the chapel, was a heavy curtain, and this curtain, some twenty people nearest to it, in their

anxiety to hear the chaunting of the Miserere, were continually plucking at, in opposition to each other, that it

might not fall down and stifle the sound of the voices. The consequence was, that it occasioned the most

extraordinary confusion, and seemed to wind itself about the unwary, like a Serpent. Now, a lady was

wrapped up in it, and couldn't be unwound. Now, the voice of a stifling gentleman was heard inside it,

beseeching to be let out. Now, two muffled arms, no man could say of which sex, struggled in it as in a sack.

Now, it was carried by a rush, bodily overhead into the chapel, like an awning. Now, it came out the other

way, and blinded one of the Pope's Swiss Guard, who had arrived, that moment, to set things to rights.

Being seated at a little distance, among two or three of the Pope's gentlemen, who were very weary and

counting the minutes as perhaps his Holiness was too we had better opportunities of observing this

eccentric entertainment, than of hearing the Miserere. Sometimes, there was a swell of mournful voices that

sounded very pathetic and sad, and died away, into a low strain again; but that was all we heard.

At another time, there was the Exhibition of Relics in St. Peter's, which took place at between six and seven

o'clock in the evening, and was striking from the cathedral being dark and gloomy, and having a great many

people in it. The place into which the relics were brought, one by one, by a party of three priests, was a high

balcony near the chief altar. This was the only lighted part of the church. There are always a hundred and

twelve lamps burning near the altar, and there were two tall tapers, besides, near the black statue of St. Peter;

but these were nothing in such an immense edifice. The gloom, and the general upturning of faces to the

balcony, and the prostration of true believers on the pavement, as shining objects, like pictures or

lookingglasses, were brought out and shown, had something effective in it, despite the very preposterous

manner in which they were held up for the general edification, and the great elevation at which they were

displayed; which one would think rather calculated to diminish the comfort derivable from a full conviction

On the Thursday, we went to see the Pope convey the Sacrament from the Sistine chapel, to deposit it in the

Capella Paolina, another chapel in the Vatican; a ceremony emblematical of the entombment of the Saviour

before His Resurrection. We waited in a great gallery with a great crowd of people (threefourths of them

English) for an hour or so, while they were chaunting the Miserere, in the Sistine chapel again. Both chapels

opened out of the gallery; and the general attention was concentrated on the occasional opening and shutting

of the door of the one for which the Pope was ultimately bound. None of these openings disclosed anything

more tremendous than a man on a ladder, lighting a great quantity of candles; but at each and every opening,

there was a terrific rush made at this ladder and this man, something like (I should think) a charge of the

heavy British cavalry at Waterloo. The man was never brought down, however, nor the ladder; for it

performed the strangest antics in the world among the crowd where it was carried by the man, when the

candles were all lighted; and finally it was stuck up against the gallery wall, in a very disorderly manner, just

before the opening of the other chapel, and the commencement of a new chaunt, announced the approach of

his Holiness. At this crisis, the soldiers of the guard, who had been poking the crowd into all sorts of shapes,

formed down the gallery: and the procession came up, between the two lines they made.

There were a few choristers, and then a great many priests, walking two and two, and carrying the

goodlooking priests at least their lighted tapers, so as to throw the light with a good effect upon their

faces: for the room was darkened. Those who were not handsome, or who had not long beards, carried

THEIR tapers anyhow, and abandoned themselves to spiritual contemplation. Meanwhile, the chaunting was

very monotonous and dreary. The procession passed on, slowly, into the chapel, and the drone of voices went

on, and came on, with it, until the Pope himself appeared, walking under a white satin canopy, and bearing

the covered Sacrament in both hands; cardinals and canons clustered round him, making a brilliant show. The

soldiers of the guard knelt down as he passed; all the bystanders bowed; and so he passed on into the chapel:

the white satin canopy being removed from over him at the door, and a white satin parasol hoisted over his

poor old head, in place of it. A few more couples brought up the rear, and passed into the chapel also. Then,

the chapel door was shut; and it was all over; and everybody hurried off headlong, as for life or death, to see

I think the most popular and most crowded sight (excepting those of Easter Sunday and Monday, which are

open to all classes of people) was the Pope washing the feet of Thirteen men, representing the twelve

apostles, and Judas Iscariot. The place in which this pious office is performed, is one of the chapels of St.

Peter's, which is gaily decorated for the occasion; the thirteen sitting, 'all of a row,' on a very high bench, and

looking particularly uncomfortable, with the eyes of Heaven knows how many English, French, Americans,

Swiss, Germans, Russians, Swedes, Norwegians, and other foreigners, nailed to their faces all the time. They

are robed in white; and on their heads they wear a stiff white cap, like a large English porterpot, without a

handle. Each carries in his hand, a nosegay, of the size of a fine cauliflower; and two of them, on this

occasion, wore spectacles; which, remembering the characters they sustained, I thought a droll appendage to

the costume. There was a great eye to character. St. John was represented by a goodlooking young man. St.

Peter, by a gravelooking old gentleman, with a flowing brown beard; and Judas Iscariot by such an

enormous hypocrite (I could not make out, though, whether the expression of his face was real or assumed)

that if he had acted the part to the death and had gone away and hanged himself, he would have left nothing

As the two large boxes, appropriated to ladies at this sight, were full to the throat, and getting near was

hopeless, we posted off, along with a great crowd, to be in time at the Table, where the Pope, in person, waits

on these Thirteen; and after a prodigious struggle at the Vatican staircase, and several personal conflicts with

the Swiss guard, the whole crowd swept into the room. It was a long gallery hung with drapery of white and

red, with another great box for ladies (who are obliged to dress in black at these ceremonies, and to wear

black veils), a royal box for the King of Naples and his party; and the table itself, which, set out like a ball

supper, and ornamented with golden figures of the real apostles, was arranged on an elevated platform on one

side of the gallery. The counterfeit apostles' knives and forks were laid out on that side of the table which was

nearest to the wall, so that they might be stared at again, without let or hindrance.

The body of the room was full of male strangers; the crowd immense; the heat very great; and the pressure

sometimes frightful. It was at its height, when the stream came pouring in, from the feet washing; and then

there were such shrieks and outcries, that a party of Piedmontese dragoons went to the rescue of the Swiss

The ladies were particularly ferocious, in their struggles for places. One lady of my acquaintance was seized

round the waist, in the ladies' box, by a strong matron, and hoisted out of her place; and there was another

lady (in a back row in the same box) who improved her position by sticking a large pin into the ladies before

The gentlemen about me were remarkably anxious to see what was on the table; and one Englishman seemed

to have embarked the whole energy of his nature in the determination to discover whether there was any

mustard. 'By Jupiter there's vinegar!' I heard him say to his friend, after he had stood on tiptoe an immense

time, and had been crushed and beaten on all sides. 'And there's oil! I saw them distinctly, in cruets! Can any

gentleman, in front there, see mustard on the table? Sir, will you oblige me! DO you see a MustardPot?'

The apostles and Judas appearing on the platform, after much expectation, were marshalled, in line, in front

of the table, with Peter at the top; and a good long stare was taken at them by the company, while twelve of

them took a long smell at their nosegays, and Judas moving his lips very obtrusively engaged in inward

prayer. Then, the Pope, clad in a scarlet robe, and wearing on his head a skullcap of white satin, appeared in

the midst of a crowd of Cardinals and other dignitaries, and took in his hand a little golden ewer, from which

he poured a little water over one of Peter's hands, while one attendant held a golden basin; a second, a fine

cloth; a third, Peter's nosegay, which was taken from him during the operation. This his Holiness performed,

with considerable expedition, on every man in the line (Judas, I observed, to be particularly overcome by his

condescension); and then the whole Thirteen sat down to dinner. Grace said by the Pope. Peter in the chair.

There was white wine, and red wine: and the dinner looked very good. The courses appeared in portions, one

for each apostle: and these being presented to the Pope, by Cardinals upon their knees, were by him handed to

the Thirteen. The manner in which Judas grew more whitelivered over his victuals, and languished, with his

head on one side, as if he had no appetite, defies all description. Peter was a good, sound, old man, and went

in, as the saying is, 'to win;' eating everything that was given him (he got the best: being first in the row) and

saying nothing to anybody. The dishes appeared to be chiefly composed of fish and vegetables. The Pope

helped the Thirteen to wine also; and, during the whole dinner, somebody read something aloud, out of a

large book the Bible, I presume which nobody could hear, and to which nobody paid the least attention.

The Cardinals, and other attendants, smiled to each other, from time to time, as if the thing were a great farce;

and if they thought so, there is little doubt they were perfectly right. His Holiness did what he had to do, as a

sensible man gets through a troublesome ceremony, and seemed very glad when it was all over.

The Pilgrims' Suppers: where lords and ladies waited on the Pilgrims, in token of humility, and dried their

feet when they had been well washed by deputy: were very attractive. But, of all the many spectacles of

dangerous reliance on outward observances, in themselves mere empty forms, none struck me half so much

as the Scala Santa, or Holy Staircase, which I saw several times, but to the greatest advantage, or

This holy staircase is composed of eightandtwenty steps, said to have belonged to Pontius Pilate's house

and to be the identical stair on which Our Saviour trod, in coming down from the judgment seat. Pilgrims

ascend it, only on their knees. It is steep; and, at the summit, is a chapel, reported to be full of relics; into

which they peep through some iron bars, and then come down again, by one of two side staircases, which are

On Good Friday, there were, on a moderate computation, a hundred people, slowly shuffling up these stairs,

on their knees, at one time; while others, who were going up, or had come down and a few who had done

both, and were going up again for the second time stood loitering in the porch below, where an old

gentleman in a sort of watchbox, rattled a tin canister, with a slit in the top, incessantly, to remind them that

he took the money. The majority were countrypeople, male and female. There were four or five Jesuit

priests, however, and some halfdozen welldressed women. A whole school of boys, twenty at least, were

about halfway up evidently enjoying it very much. They were all wedged together, pretty closely; but the

rest of the company gave the boys as wide a berth as possible, in consequence of their betraying some

I never, in my life, saw anything at once so ridiculous, and so unpleasant, as this sight ridiculous in the

absurd incidents inseparable from it; and unpleasant in its senseless and unmeaning degradation. There are

two steps to begin with, and then a rather broad landing. The more rigid climbers went along this landing on

their knees, as well as up the stairs; and the figures they cut, in their shuffling progress over the level surface,

no description can paint. Then, to see them watch their opportunity from the porch, and cut in where there

was a place next the wall! And to see one man with an umbrella (brought on purpose, for it was a fine day)

hoisting himself, unlawfully, from stair to stair! And to observe a demure lady of fiftyfive or so, looking

back, every now and then, to assure herself that her legs were properly disposed!

There were such odd differences in the speed of different people, too. Some got on as if they were doing a

match against time; others stopped to say a prayer on every step. This man touched every stair with his

forehead, and kissed it; that man scratched his head all the way. The boys got on brilliantly, and were up and

down again before the old lady had accomplished her halfdozen stairs. But most of the penitents came

down, very sprightly and fresh, as having done a real good substantial deed which it would take a good deal

of sin to counterbalance; and the old gentleman in the watchbox was down upon them with his canister

As if such a progress were not in its nature inevitably droll enough, there lay, on the top of the stairs, a

wooden figure on a crucifix, resting on a sort of great iron saucer: so rickety and unsteady, that whenever an

enthusiastic person kissed the figure, with more than usual devotion, or threw a coin into the saucer, with

more than common readiness (for it served in this respect as a second or supplementary canister), it gave a

great leap and rattle, and nearly shook the attendant lamp out: horribly frightening the people further down,

On Easter Sunday, as well as on the preceding Thursday, the Pope bestows his benediction on the people,

from the balcony in front of St. Peter's. This Easter Sunday was a day so bright and blue: so cloudless, balmy,

wonderfully bright: that all the previous bad weather vanished from the recollection in a moment. I had seen

the Thursday's Benediction dropping damply on some hundreds of umbrellas, but there was not a sparkle

then, in all the hundred fountains of Rome such fountains as they are! and on this Sunday morning they

were running diamonds. The miles of miserable streets through which we drove (compelled to a certain

course by the Pope's dragoons: the Roman police on such occasions) were so full of colour, that nothing in

them was capable of wearing a faded aspect. The common people came out in their gayest dresses; the richer

people in their smartest vehicles; Cardinals rattled to the church of the Poor Fishermen in their state carriages;

shabby magnificence flaunted its threadbare liveries and tarnished cocked hats, in the sun; and every coach

One hundred and fifty thousand people were there at least! Yet there was ample room. How many carriages

were there, I don't know; yet there was room for them too, and to spare. The great steps of the church were

densely crowded. There were many of the Contadini, from Albano (who delight in red), in that part of the

square, and the mingling of bright colours in the crowd was beautiful. Below the steps the troops were

ranged. In the magnificent proportions of the place they looked like a bed of flowers. Sulky Romans, lively

peasants from the neighbouring country, groups of pilgrims from distant parts of Italy, sightseeing

foreigners of all nations, made a murmur in the clear air, like so many insects; and high above them all,

plashing and bubbling, and making rainbow colours in the light, the two delicious fountains welled and

A kind of bright carpet was hung over the front of the balcony; and the sides of the great window were

bedecked with crimson drapery. An awning was stretched, too, over the top, to screen the old man from the

hot rays of the sun. As noon approached, all eyes were turned up to this window. In due time, the chair was

seen approaching to the front, with the gigantic fans of peacock's feathers, close behind. The doll within it

(for the balcony is very high) then rose up, and stretched out its tiny arms, while all the male spectators in the

square uncovered, and some, but not by any means the greater part, kneeled down. The guns upon the

ramparts of the Castle of St. Angelo proclaimed, next moment, that the benediction was given; drums beat;

trumpets sounded; arms clashed; and the great mass below, suddenly breaking into smaller heaps, and

What a bright noon it was, as we rode away! The Tiber was no longer yellow, but blue. There was a blush on

the old bridges, that made them fresh and hale again. The Pantheon, with its majestic front, all seamed and

furrowed like an old face, had summer light upon its battered walls. Every squalid and desolate hut in the

Eternal City (bear witness every grim old palace, to the filth and misery of the plebeian neighbour that elbows

it, as certain as Time has laid its grip on its patrician head!) was fresh and new with some ray of the sun. The

very prison in the crowded street, a whirl of carriages and people, had some stray sense of the day, dropping

through its chinks and crevices: and dismal prisoners who could not wind their faces round the barricading of

the blockedup windows, stretched out their hands, and clinging to the rusty bars, turned THEM towards the

overflowing street: as if it were a cheerful fire, and could be shared in, that way.

But, when the night came on, without a cloud to dim the full moon, what a sight it was to see the Great

Square full once more, and the whole church, from the cross to the ground, lighted with innumerable lanterns,

tracing out the architecture, and winking and shining all round the colonnade of the piazza! And what a sense

of exultation, joy, delight, it was, when the great bell struck half past seven on the instant to behold one

bright red mass of fire, soar gallantly from the top of the cupola to the extremest summit of the cross, and the

moment it leaped into its place, become the signal of a bursting out of countless lights, as great, and red, and

blazing as itself, from every part of the gigantic church; so that every cornice, capital, and smallest ornament

of stone, expressed itself in fire: and the black, solid groundwork of the enormous dome seemed to grow

A train of gunpowder, an electric chain nothing could be fired, more suddenly and swiftly, than this second

illumination; and when we had got away, and gone upon a distant height, and looked towards it two hours

afterwards, there it still stood, shining and glittering in the calm night like a jewel! Not a line of its

The next night Easter Monday there was a great display of fireworks from the Castle of St. Angelo. We

hired a room in an opposite house, and made our way, to our places, in good time, through a dense mob of

people choking up the square in front, and all the avenues leading to it; and so loading the bridge by which

the castle is approached, that it seemed ready to sink into the rapid Tiber below. There are statues on this

bridge (execrable works), and, among them, great vessels full of burning tow were placed: glaring strangely

on the faces of the crowd, and not less strangely on the stone counterfeits above them.

The show began with a tremendous discharge of cannon; and then, for twenty minutes or half an hour, the

whole castle was one incessant sheet of fire, and labyrinth of blazing wheels of every colour, size, and speed:

while rockets streamed into the sky, not by ones or twos, or scores, but hundreds at a time. The concluding

burst the Girandola was like the blowing up into the air of the whole massive castle, without smoke or

In half an hour afterwards, the immense concourse had dispersed; the moon was looking calmly down upon

her wrinkled image in the river; and halfadozen men and boys, with bits of lighted candle in their hands:

moving here and there, in search of anything worth having, that might have been dropped in the press: had

By way of contrast we rode out into old ruined Rome, after all this firing and booming, to take our leave of

the Coliseum. I had seen it by moonlight before (I could never get through a day without going back to it),

but its tremendous solitude that night is past all telling. The ghostly pillars in the Forum; the Triumphal

Arches of Old Emperors; those enormous masses of ruins which were once their palaces; the grassgrown

mounds that mark the graves of ruined temples; the stones of the Via Sacra, smooth with the tread of feet in

ancient Rome; even these were dimmed, in their transcendent melancholy, by the dark ghost of its bloody

holidays, erect and grim; haunting the old scene; despoiled by pillaging Popes and fighting Princes, but not

laid; wringing wild hands of weed, and grass, and bramble; and lamenting to the night in every gap and

As we lay down on the grass of the Campagna, next day, on our way to Florence, hearing the larks sing, we

saw that a little wooden cross had been erected on the spot where the poor Pilgrim Countess was murdered.

So, we piled some loose stones about it, as the beginning of a mound to her memory, and wondered if we

WE are bound for Naples! And we cross the threshold of the Eternal City at yonder gate, the Gate of San

Giovanni Laterano, where the two last objects that attract the notice of a departing visitor, and the two first

objects that attract the notice of an arriving one, are a proud church and a decaying ruin good emblems of

Our way lies over the Campagna, which looks more solemn on a bright blue day like this, than beneath a

darker sky; the great extent of ruin being plainer to the eye: and the sunshine through the arches of the broken

aqueducts, showing other broken arches shining through them in the melancholy distance. When we have

traversed it, and look back from Albano, its dark, undulating surface lies below us like a stagnant lake, or like

a broad, dull Lethe flowing round the walls of Rome, and separating it from all the world! How often have

the Legions, in triumphant march, gone glittering across that purple waste, so silent and unpeopled now! How

often has the train of captives looked, with sinking hearts, upon the distant city, and beheld its population

pouring out, to hail the return of their conqueror! What riot, sensuality and murder, have run mad in the vast

palaces now heaps of brick and shattered marble! What glare of fires, and roar of popular tumult, and wail of

pestilence and famine, have come sweeping over the wild plain where nothing is now heard but the wind, and

The train of winecarts going into Rome, each driven by a shaggy peasant reclining beneath a little

gipsyfashioned canopy of sheep skin, is ended now, and we go toiling up into a higher country where there

are trees. The next day brings us on the Pontine Marshes, wearily flat and lonesome, and overgrown with

brushwood, and swamped with water, but with a fine road made across them, shaded by a long, long avenue.

Here and there, we pass a solitary guardhouse; here and there a hovel, deserted, and walled up. Some

herdsmen loiter on the banks of the stream beside the road, and sometimes a flatbottomed boat, towed by a

man, comes rippling idly along it. A horseman passes occasionally, carrying a long gun crosswise on the

saddle before him, and attended by fierce dogs; but there is nothing else astir save the wind and the shadows,

How blue and bright the sea, rolling below the windows of the inn so famous in robber stories! How

picturesque the great crags and points of rock overhanging tomorrow's narrow road, where galley slaves

are working in the quarries above, and the sentinels who guard them lounge on the seashore! All night there

is the murmur of the sea beneath the stars; and, in the morning, just at daybreak, the prospect suddenly

becoming expanded, as if by a miracle, reveals in the far distance, across the sea there! Naples with its

islands, and Vesuvius spouting fire! Within a quarter of an hour, the whole is gone as if it were a vision in the

The Neapolitan frontier crossed, after two hours' travelling; and the hungriest of soldiers and customhouse

officers with difficulty appeased; we enter, by a gateless portal, into the first Neapolitan town Fondi. Take

A filthy channel of mud and refuse meanders down the centre of the miserable streets, fed by obscene rivulets

that trickle from the abject houses. There is not a door, a window, or a shutter; not a roof, a wall, a post, or a

pillar, in all Fondi, but is decayed, and crazy, and rotting away. The wretched history of the town, with all its

sieges and pillages by Barbarossa and the rest, might have been acted last year. How the gaunt dogs that

sneak about the miserable streets, come to be alive, and undevoured by the people, is one of the enigmas of

A hollowcheeked and scowling people they are! All beggars; but that's nothing. Look at them as they gather

round. Some, are too indolent to come downstairs, or are too wisely mistrustful of the stairs, perhaps, to

venture: so stretch out their lean hands from upper windows, and howl; others, come flocking about us,

fighting and jostling one another, and demanding, incessantly, charity for the love of God, charity for the love

of the Blessed Virgin, charity for the love of all the Saints. A group of miserable children, almost naked,

screaming forth the same petition, discover that they can see themselves reflected in the varnish of the

carriage, and begin to dance and make grimaces, that they may have the pleasure of seeing their antics

repeated in this mirror. A crippled idiot, in the act of striking one of them who drowns his clamorous demand

for charity, observes his angry counterpart in the panel, stops short, and thrusting out his tongue, begins to

wag his head and chatter. The shrill cry raised at this, awakens halfa dozen wild creatures wrapped in

frowsy brown cloaks, who are lying on the churchsteps with pots and pans for sale. These, scrambling up,

approach, and beg defiantly. 'I am hungry. Give me something. Listen to me, Signor. I am hungry!' Then, a

ghastly old woman, fearful of being too late, comes hobbling down the street, stretching out one hand, and

scratching herself all the way with the other, and screaming, long before she can be heard, 'Charity, charity!

I'll go and pray for you directly, beautiful lady, if you'll give me charity!' Lastly, the members of a

brotherhood for burying the dead: hideously masked, and attired in shabby black robes, white at the skirts,

with the splashes of many muddy winters: escorted by a dirty priest, and a congenial crossbearer: come

hurrying past. Surrounded by this motley concourse, we move out of Fondi: bad bright eyes glaring at us, out

of the darkness of every crazy tenement, like glistening fragments of its filth and putrefaction.

A noble mountainpass, with the ruins of a fort on a strong eminence, traditionally called the Fort of Fra

Diavolo; the old town of Itri, like a device in pastry, built up, almost perpendicularly, on a hill, and

approached by long steep flights of steps; beautiful Mola di Gaeta, whose wines, like those of Albano, have

degenerated since the days of Horace, or his taste for wine was bad: which is not likely of one who enjoyed it

so much, and extolled it so well; another night upon the road at St. Agatha; a rest next day at Capua, which is

picturesque, but hardly so seductive to a traveller now, as the soldiers of Praetorian Rome were wont to find

the ancient city of that name; a flat road among vines festooned and looped from tree to tree; and Mount

Vesuvius close at hand at last! its cone and summit whitened with snow; and its smoke hanging over it, in

the heavy atmosphere of the day, like a dense cloud. So we go, rattling down hill, into Naples.

A funeral is coming up the street, towards us. The body, on an open bier, borne on a kind of palanquin,

covered with a gay cloth of crimson and gold. The mourners, in white gowns and masks. If there be death

abroad, life is well represented too, for all Naples would seem to be out of doors, and tearing to and fro in

carriages. Some of these, the common Vetturino vehicles, are drawn by three horses abreast, decked with

smart trappings and great abundance of brazen ornament, and always going very fast. Not that their loads are

light; for the smallest of them has at least six people inside, four in front, four or five more hanging on

behind, and two or three more, in a net or bag below the axletree, where they lie halfsuffocated with mud

and dust. Exhibitors of Punch, buffo singers with guitars, reciters of poetry, reciters of stories, a row of cheap

exhibitions with clowns and showmen, drums, and trumpets, painted cloths representing the wonders within,

and admiring crowds assembled without, assist the whirl and bustle. Ragged lazzaroni lie asleep in doorways,

archways, and kennels; the gentry, gaily dressed, are dashing up and down in carriages on the Chiaji, or

walking in the Public Gardens; and quiet letterwriters, perched behind their little desks and inkstands under

the Portico of the Great Theatre of San Carlo, in the public street, are waiting for clients.

Here is a galleyslave in chains, who wants a letter written to a friend. He approaches a clerklylooking man,

sitting under the corner arch, and makes his bargain. He has obtained permission of the sentinel who guards

him: who stands near, leaning against the wall and cracking nuts. The galleyslave dictates in the ear of the

letterwriter, what he desires to say; and as he can't read writing, looks intently in his face, to read there

whether he sets down faithfully what he is told. After a time, the galleyslave becomes discursive

incoherent. The secretary pauses and rubs his chin. The galleyslave is voluble and energetic. The secretary,

at length, catches the idea, and with the air of a man who knows how to word it, sets it down; stopping, now

and then, to glance back at his text admiringly. The galleyslave is silent. The soldier stoically cracks his

nuts. Is there anything more to say? inquires the letterwriter. No more. Then listen, friend of mine. He reads

it through. The galleyslave is quite enchanted. It is folded, and addressed, and given to him, and he pays the

fee. The secretary falls back indolently in his chair, and takes a book. The galleyslave gathers up an empty

sack. The sentinel throws away a handful of nutshells, shoulders his musket, and away they go together.

Why do the beggars rap their chins constantly, with their right hands, when you look at them? Everything is

done in pantomime in Naples, and that is the conventional sign for hunger. A man who is quarrelling with

another, yonder, lays the palm of his right hand on the back of his left, and shakes the two thumbs

expressive of a donkey's ears whereat his adversary is goaded to desperation. Two people bargaining for

fish, the buyer empties an imaginary waistcoat pocket when he is told the price, and walks away without a

word: having thoroughly conveyed to the seller that he considers it too dear. Two people in carriages,

meeting, one touches his lips, twice or thrice, holding up the five fingers of his right hand, and gives a

horizontal cut in the air with the palm. The other nods briskly, and goes his way. He has been invited to a

All over Italy, a peculiar shake of the right hand from the wrist, with the forefinger stretched out, expresses a

negative the only negative beggars will ever understand. But, in Naples, those five fingers are a copious

All this, and every other kind of outdoor life and stir, and macaronieating at sunset, and flowerselling all

day long, and begging and stealing everywhere and at all hours, you see upon the bright seashore, where the

waves of the bay sparkle merrily. But, lovers and hunters of the picturesque, let us not keep too studiously out

of view the miserable depravity, degradation, and wretchedness, with which this gay Neapolitan life is

inseparably associated! It is not well to find Saint Giles's so repulsive, and the Porta Capuana so attractive. A

pair of naked legs and a ragged red scarf, do not make ALL the difference between what is interesting and

what is coarse and odious? Painting and poetising for ever, if you will, the beauties of this most beautiful and

lovely spot of earth, let us, as our duty, try to associate a new picturesque with some faint recognition of

man's destiny and capabilities; more hopeful, I believe, among the ice and snow of the North Pole, than in the

Capri once made odious by the deified beast Tiberius Ischia, Procida, and the thousand distant beauties of

the Bay, lie in the blue sea yonder, changing in the mist and sunshine twenty times a day: now close at hand,

now far off, now unseen. The fairest country in the world, is spread about us. Whether we turn towards the

Miseno shore of the splendid watery amphitheatre, and go by the Grotto of Posilipo to the Grotto del Cane

and away to Baiae: or take the other way, towards Vesuvius and Sorrento, it is one succession of delights. In

the lastnamed direction, where, over doors and archways, there are countless little images of San Gennaro,

with his Canute's hand stretched out, to check the fury of the Burning Mountain, we are carried pleasantly, by

a railroad on the beautiful Sea Beach, past the town of Torre del Greco, built upon the ashes of the former

town destroyed by an eruption of Vesuvius, within a hundred years; and past the flatroofed houses,

granaries, and macaroni manufactories; to CastelaMare, with its ruined castle, now inhabited by fishermen,

standing in the sea upon a heap of rocks. Here, the railroad terminates; but, hence we may ride on, by an

unbroken succession of enchanting bays, and beautiful scenery, sloping from the highest summit of Saint

Angelo, the highest neighbouring mountain, down to the water's edge among vineyards, olivetrees,

gardens of oranges and lemons, orchards, heapedup rocks, green gorges in the hills and by the bases of

snowcovered heights, and through small towns with handsome, dark haired women at the doors and pass

delicious summer villas to Sorrento, where the Poet Tasso drew his inspiration from the beauty surrounding

him. Returning, we may climb the heights above Castel aMare, and looking down among the boughs and

leaves, see the crisp water glistening in the sun; and clusters of white houses in distant Naples, dwindling, in

the great extent of prospect, down to dice. The coming back to the city, by the beach again, at sunset: with the

glowing sea on one side, and the darkening mountain, with its smoke and flame, upon the other: is a sublime

That church by the Porta Capuana near the old fishermarket in the dirtiest quarter of dirty Naples, where

the revolt of Masaniello began is memorable for having been the scene of one of his earliest proclamations

to the people, and is particularly remarkable for nothing else, unless it be its waxen and bejewelled Saint in a

glass case, with two odd hands; or the enormous number of beggars who are constantly rapping their chins

there, like a battery of castanets. The cathedral with the beautiful door, and the columns of African and

Egyptian granite that once ornamented the temple of Apollo, contains the famous sacred blood of San

Gennaro or Januarius: which is preserved in two phials in a silver tabernacle, and miraculously liquefies three

times ayear, to the great admiration of the people. At the same moment, the stone (distant some miles)

where the Saint suffered martyrdom, becomes faintly red. It is said that the officiating priests turn faintly red

The old, old men who live in hovels at the entrance of these ancient catacombs, and who, in their age and

infirmity, seem waiting here, to be buried themselves, are members of a curious body, called the Royal

Hospital, who are the official attendants at funerals. Two of these old spectres totter away, with lighted

tapers, to show the caverns of death as unconcerned as if they were immortal. They were used as

buryingplaces for three hundred years; and, in one part, is a large pit full of skulls and bones, said to be the

sad remains of a great mortality occasioned by a plague. In the rest there is nothing but dust. They consist,

chiefly, of great wide corridors and labyrinths, hewn out of the rock. At the end of some of these long

passages, are unexpected glimpses of the daylight, shining down from above. It looks as ghastly and as

strange; among the torches, and the dust, and the dark vaults: as if it, too, were dead and buried.

The present burialplace lies out yonder, on a hill between the city and Vesuvius. The old Campo Santo with

its three hundred and sixtyfive pits, is only used for those who die in hospitals, and prisons, and are

unclaimed by their friends. The graceful new cemetery, at no great distance from it, though yet unfinished,

has already many graves among its shrubs and flowers, and airy colonnades. It might be reasonably objected

elsewhere, that some of the tombs are meretricious and too fanciful; but the general brightness seems to

justify it here; and Mount Vesuvius, separated from them by a lovely slope of ground, exalts and saddens the

If it be solemn to behold from this new City of the Dead, with its dark smoke hanging in the clear sky, how

much more awful and impressive is it, viewed from the ghostly ruins of Herculaneum and Pompeii!

Stand at the bottom of the great marketplace of Pompeii, and look up the silent streets, through the ruined

temples of Jupiter and Isis, over the broken houses with their inmost sanctuaries open to the day, away to

Mount Vesuvius, bright and snowy in the peaceful distance; and lose all count of time, and heed of other

things, in the strange and melancholy sensation of seeing the Destroyed and the Destroyer making this quiet

picture in the sun. Then, ramble on, and see, at every turn, the little familiar tokens of human habitation and

everyday pursuits; the chafing of the bucketrope in the stone rim of the exhausted well; the track of

carriage wheels in the pavement of the street; the marks of drinkingvessels on the stone counter of the

wineshop; the amphorae in private cellars, stored away so many hundred years ago, and undisturbed to this

hour all rendering the solitude and deadly lonesomeness of the place, ten thousand times more solemn, than

if the volcano, in its fury, had swept the city from the earth, and sunk it in the bottom of the sea.

After it was shaken by the earthquake which preceded the eruption, workmen were employed in shaping out,

in stone, new ornaments for temples and other buildings that had suffered. Here lies their work, outside the

In the cellar of Diomede's house, where certain skeletons were found huddled together, close to the door, the

impression of their bodies on the ashes, hardened with the ashes, and became stamped and fixed there, after

they had shrunk, inside, to scanty bones. So, in the theatre of Herculaneum, a comic mask, floating on the

stream when it was hot and liquid, stamped its mimic features in it as it hardened into stone; and now, it turns

upon the stranger the fantastic look it turned upon the audiences in that same theatre two thousand years ago.

Next to the wonder of going up and down the streets, and in and out of the houses, and traversing the secret

chambers of the temples of a religion that has vanished from the earth, and finding so many fresh traces of

remote antiquity: as if the course of Time had been stopped after this desolation, and there had been no nights

and days, months, years, and centuries, since: nothing is more impressive and terrible than the many

evidences of the searching nature of the ashes, as bespeaking their irresistible power, and the impossibility of

escaping them. In the winecellars, they forced their way into the earthen vessels: displacing the wine and

choking them, to the brim, with dust. In the tombs, they forced the ashes of the dead from the funeral urns,

and rained new ruin even into them. The mouths, and eyes, and skulls of all the skeletons, were stuffed with

this terrible hail. In Herculaneum, where the flood was of a different and a heavier kind, it rolled in, like a

sea. Imagine a deluge of water turned to marble, at its height and that is what is called 'the lava' here.

Some workmen were digging the gloomy well on the brink of which we now stand, looking down, when they

came on some of the stone benches of the theatre those steps (for such they seem) at the bottom of the

excavation and found the buried city of Herculaneum. Presently going down, with lighted torches, we are

perplexed by great walls of monstrous thickness, rising up between the benches, shutting out the stage,

obtruding their shapeless forms in absurd places, confusing the whole plan, and making it a disordered dream.

We cannot, at first, believe, or picture to ourselves, that THIS came rolling in, and drowned the city; and that

all that is not here, has been cut away, by the axe, like solid stone. But this perceived and understood, the

Many of the paintings on the walls in the roofless chambers of both cities, or carefully removed to the

museum at Naples, are as fresh and plain, as if they had been executed yesterday. Here are subjects of still

life, as provisions, dead game, bottles, glasses, and the like; familiar classical stories, or mythological fables,

always forcibly and plainly told; conceits of cupids, quarrelling, sporting, working at trades; theatrical

rehearsals; poets reading their productions to their friends; inscriptions chalked upon the walls; political

squibs, advertisements, rough drawings by schoolboys; everything to people and restore the ancient cities, in

the fancy of their wondering visitor. Furniture, too, you see, of every kind lamps, tables, couches; vessels

for eating, drinking, and cooking; workmen's tools, surgical instruments, tickets for the theatre, pieces of

money, personal ornaments, bunches of keys found clenched in the grasp of skeletons, helmets of guards and

The least among these objects, lends its aid to swell the interest of Vesuvius, and invest it with a perfect

fascination. The looking, from either ruined city, into the neighbouring grounds overgrown with beautiful

vines and luxuriant trees; and remembering that house upon house, temple on temple, building after building,

and street after street, are still lying underneath the roots of all the quiet cultivation, waiting to be turned up to

the light of day; is something so wonderful, so full of mystery, so captivating to the imagination, that one

would think it would be paramount, and yield to nothing else. To nothing but Vesuvius; but the mountain is

the genius of the scene. From every indication of the ruin it has worked, we look, again, with an absorbing

interest to where its smoke is rising up into the sky. It is beyond us, as we thread the ruined streets: above us,

as we stand upon the ruined walls, we follow it through every vista of broken columns, as we wander through

the empty courtyards of the houses; and through the garlandings and interlacings of every wanton vine.

Turning away to Paestum yonder, to see the awful structures built, the least aged of them, hundreds of years

before the birth of Christ, and standing yet, erect in lonely majesty, upon the wild, malariablighted plain

we watch Vesuvius as it disappears from the prospect, and watch for it again, on our return, with the same

thrill of interest: as the doom and destiny of all this beautiful country, biding its terrible time.

It is very warm in the sun, on this early springday, when we return from Paestum, but very cold in the

shade: insomuch, that although we may lunch, pleasantly, at noon, in the open air, by the gate of Pompeii, the

neighbouring rivulet supplies thick ice for our wine. But, the sun is shining brightly; there is not a cloud or

speck of vapour in the whole blue sky, looking down upon the bay of Naples; and the moon will be at the full

tonight. No matter that the snow and ice lie thick upon the summit of Vesuvius, or that we have been on

foot all day at Pompeii, or that croakers maintain that strangers should not be on the mountain by night, in

such an unusual season. Let us take advantage of the fine weather; make the best of our way to Resina, the

little village at the foot of the mountain; prepare ourselves, as well as we can, on so short a notice, at the

guide's house; ascend at once, and have sunset halfway up, moonlight at the top, and midnight to come

At four o'clock in the afternoon, there is a terrible uproar in the little stableyard of Signior Salvatore, the

recognised headguide, with the gold band round his cap; and thirty underguides who are all scuffling and

screaming at once, are preparing halfadozen saddled ponies, three litters, and some stout staves, for the

journey. Every one of the thirty, quarrels with the other twenty nine, and frightens the six ponies; and as

much of the village as can possibly squeeze itself into the little stableyard, participates in the tumult, and

After much violent skirmishing, and more noise than would suffice for the storming of Naples, the procession

starts. The headguide, who is liberally paid for all the attendants, rides a little in advance of the party; the

other thirty guides proceed on foot. Eight go forward with the litters that are to be used byandby; and the

We ascend, gradually, by stony lanes like rough broad flights of stairs, for some time. At length, we leave

these, and the vineyards on either side of them, and emerge upon a bleak bare region where the lava lies

confusedly, in enormous rusty masses; as if the earth had been ploughed up by burning thunderbolts. And

now, we halt to see the sun set. The change that falls upon the dreary region, and on the whole mountain, as

its red light fades, and the night comes on and the unutterable solemnity and dreariness that reign around,

It is dark, when after winding, for some time, over the broken ground, we arrive at the foot of the cone: which

is extremely steep, and seems to rise, almost perpendicularly, from the spot where we dismount. The only

light is reflected from the snow, deep, hard, and white, with which the cone is covered. It is now intensely

cold, and the air is piercing. The thirtyone have brought no torches, knowing that the moon will rise before

we reach the top. Two of the litters are devoted to the two ladies; the third, to a rather heavy gentleman from

Naples, whose hospitality and goodnature have attached him to the expedition, and determined him to assist

in doing the honours of the mountain. The rather heavy gentleman is carried by fifteen men; each of the

ladies by halfadozen. We who walk, make the best use of our staves; and so the whole party begin to

labour upward over the snow, as if they were toiling to the summit of an antediluvian Twelfthcake.

We are a long time toiling up; and the headguide looks oddly about him when one of the company not an

Italian, though an habitue of the mountain for many years: whom we will call, for our present purpose, Mr.

Pickle of Portici suggests that, as it is freezing hard, and the usual footing of ashes is covered by the snow

and ice, it will surely be difficult to descend. But the sight of the litters above, tilting up and down, and

jerking from this side to that, as the bearers continually slip and tumble, diverts our attention; more especially

as the whole length of the rather heavy gentleman is, at that moment, presented to us alarmingly

The rising of the moon soon afterwards, revives the flagging spirits of the bearers. Stimulating each other

with their usual watchword, 'Courage, friend! It is to eat macaroni!' they press on, gallantly, for the summit.

From tingeing the top of the snow above us, with a band of light, and pouring it in a stream through the valley

below, while we have been ascending in the dark, the moon soon lights the whole white mountainside, and

the broad sea down below, and tiny Naples in the distance, and every village in the country round. The whole

prospect is in this lovely state, when we come upon the platform on the mountaintop the region of Fire

an exhausted crater formed of great masses of gigantic cinders, like blocks of stone from some tremendous

waterfall, burnt up; from every chink and crevice of which, hot, sulphurous smoke is pouring out: while, from

another conicalshaped hill, the present crater, rising abruptly from this platform at the end, great sheets of

fire are streaming forth: reddening the night with flame, blackening it with smoke, and spotting it with

redhot stones and cinders, that fly up into the air like feathers, and fall down like lead. What words can paint

The broken ground; the smoke; the sense of suffocation from the sulphur: the fear of falling down through the

crevices in the yawning ground; the stopping, every now and then, for somebody who is missing in the dark

(for the dense smoke now obscures the moon); the intolerable noise of the thirty; and the hoarse roaring of the

mountain; make it a scene of such confusion, at the same time, that we reel again. But, dragging the ladies

through it, and across another exhausted crater to the foot of the present Volcano, we approach close to it on

the windy side, and then sit down among the hot ashes at its foot, and look up in silence; faintly estimating

the action that is going on within, from its being full a hundred feet higher, at this minute, than it was six

There is something in the fire and roar, that generates an irresistible desire to get nearer to it. We cannot rest

long, without starting off, two of us, on our hands and knees, accompanied by the headguide, to climb to the

brim of the flaming crater, and try to look in. Meanwhile, the thirty yell, as with one voice, that it is a

dangerous proceeding, and call to us to come back; frightening the rest of the party out of their wits.

What with their noise, and what with the trembling of the thin crust of ground, that seems about to open

underneath our feet and plunge us in the burning gulf below (which is the real danger, if there be any); and

what with the flashing of the fire in our faces, and the shower of redhot ashes that is raining down, and the

choking smoke and sulphur; we may well feel giddy and irrational, like drunken men. But, we contrive to

climb up to the brim, and look down, for a moment, into the Hell of boiling fire below. Then, we all three

come rolling down; blackened, and singed, and scorched, and hot, and giddy: and each with his dress alight in

You have read, a thousand times, that the usual way of descending, is, by sliding down the ashes: which,

forming a gradually increasing ledge below the feet, prevent too rapid a descent. But, when we have crossed

the two exhausted craters on our way back and are come to this precipitous place, there is (as Mr. Pickle has

foretold) no vestige of ashes to be seen; the whole being a smooth sheet of ice.

In this dilemma, ten or a dozen of the guides cautiously join hands, and make a chain of men; of whom the

foremost beat, as well as they can, a rough track with their sticks, down which we prepare to follow. The way

being fearfully steep, and none of the party: even of the thirty: being able to keep their feet for six paces

together, the ladies are taken out of their litters, and placed, each between two careful persons; while others of

the thirty hold by their skirts, to prevent their falling forward a necessary precaution, tending to the

immediate and hopeless dilapidation of their apparel. The rather heavy gentleman is abjured to leave his litter

too, and be escorted in a similar manner; but he resolves to be brought down as he was brought up, on the

principle that his fifteen bearers are not likely to tumble all at once, and that he is safer so, than trusting to his

In this order, we begin the descent: sometimes on foot, sometimes shuffling on the ice: always proceeding

much more quietly and slowly, than on our upward way: and constantly alarmed by the falling among us of

somebody from behind, who endangers the footing of the whole party, and clings pertinaciously to anybody's

ankles. It is impossible for the litter to be in advance, too, as the track has to be made; and its appearance

behind us, overhead with some one or other of the bearers always down, and the rather heavy gentleman

with his legs always in the air is very threatening and frightful. We have gone on thus, a very little way,

painfully and anxiously, but quite merrily, and regarding it as a great success and have all fallen several

times, and have all been stopped, somehow or other, as we were sliding away when Mr. Pickle of Portici, in

the act of remarking on these uncommon circumstances as quite beyond his experience, stumbles, falls,

disengages himself, with quick presence of mind, from those about him, plunges away head foremost, and

Sickening as it is to look, and be so powerless to help him, I see him there, in the moonlight I have had

such a dream often skimming over the white ice, like a cannonball. Almost at the same moment, there is a

cry from behind; and a man who has carried a light basket of spare cloaks on his head, comes rolling past, at

the same frightful speed, closely followed by a boy. At this climax of the chapter of accidents, the remaining

eightandtwenty vociferate to that degree, that a pack of wolves would be music to them!

Giddy, and bloody, and a mere bundle of rags, is Pickle of Portici when we reach the place where we

dismounted, and where the horses are waiting; but, thank God, sound in limb! And never are we likely to be

more glad to see a man alive and on his feet, than to see him now making light of it too, though sorely

bruised and in great pain. The boy is brought into the Hermitage on the Mountain, while we are at supper,

with his head tied up; and the man is heard of, some hours afterwards. He too is bruised and stunned, but has

broken no bones; the snow having, fortunately, covered all the larger blocks of rock and stone, and rendered

After a cheerful meal, and a good rest before a blazing fire, we again take horse, and continue our descent to

Salvatore's house very slowly, by reason of our bruised friend being hardly able to keep the saddle, or

endure the pain of motion. Though it is so late at night, or early in the morning, all the people of the village

are waiting about the little stableyard when we arrive, and looking up the road by which we are expected.

Our appearance is hailed with a great clamour of tongues, and a general sensation for which in our modesty

we are somewhat at a loss to account, until, turning into the yard, we find that one of a party of French

gentlemen who were on the mountain at the same time is lying on some straw in the stable, with a broken

limb: looking like Death, and suffering great torture; and that we were confidently supposed to have

So 'well returned, and Heaven be praised!' as the cheerful Vetturino, who has borne us company all the way

from Pisa, says, with all his heart! And away with his ready horses, into sleeping Naples!

It wakes again to Policinelli and pickpockets, buffo singers and beggars, rags, puppets, flowers, brightness,

dirt, and universal degradation; airing its Harlequin suit in the sunshine, next day and every day; singing,

starving, dancing, gaming, on the sea shore; and leaving all labour to the burning mountain, which is ever at

Our English dilettanti would be very pathetic on the subject of the national taste, if they could hear an Italian

opera half as badly sung in England as we may hear the Foscari performed, tonight, in the splendid theatre

of San Carlo. But, for astonishing truth and spirit in seizing and embodying the real life about it, the shabby

little San Carlino Theatre the rickety house one story high, with a staring picture outside: down among the

drums and trumpets, and the tumblers, and the lady conjurer is without a rival anywhere.

There is one extraordinary feature in the real life of Naples, at which we may take a glance before we go

They prevail in most parts of Italy, but are particularly obvious, in their effects and influences, here. They are

drawn every Saturday. They bring an immense revenue to the Government; and diffuse a taste for gambling

among the poorest of the poor, which is very comfortable to the coffers of the State, and very ruinous to

themselves. The lowest stake is one grain; less than a farthing. One hundred numbers from one to a

hundred, inclusive are put into a box. Five are drawn. Those are the prizes. I buy three numbers. If one of

them come up, I win a small prize. If two, some hundreds of times my stake. If three, three thousand five

hundred times my stake. I stake (or play as they call it) what I can upon my numbers, and buy what numbers I

please. The amount I play, I pay at the lottery office, where I purchase the ticket; and it is stated on the ticket

Every lottery office keeps a printed book, an Universal Lottery Diviner, where every possible accident and

circumstance is provided for, and has a number against it. For instance, let us take two carlini about

sevenpence. On our way to the lottery office, we run against a black man. When we get there, we say gravely,

'The Diviner.' It is handed over the counter, as a serious matter of business. We look at black man. Such a

number. 'Give us that.' We look at running against a person in the street. 'Give us that. ' We look at the name

If the roof of the theatre of San Carlo were to fall in, so many people would play upon the numbers attached

to such an accident in the Diviner, that the Government would soon close those numbers, and decline to run

the risk of losing any more upon them. This often happens. Not long ago, when there was a fire in the King's

Palace, there was such a desperate run on fire, and king, and palace, that further stakes on the numbers

attached to those words in the Golden Book were forbidden. Every accident or event, is supposed, by the

ignorant populace, to be a revelation to the beholder, or party concerned, in connection with the lottery.

Certain people who have a talent for dreaming fortunately, are much sought after; and there are some priests

I heard of a horse running away with a man, and dashing him down, dead, at the corner of a street. Pursuing

the horse with incredible speed, was another man, who ran so fast, that he came up, immediately after the

accident. He threw himself upon his knees beside the unfortunate rider, and clasped his hand with an

expression of the wildest grief. 'If you have life,' he said, 'speak one word to me! If you have one gasp of

breath left, mention your age for Heaven's sake, that I may play that number in the lottery.'

It is four o'clock in the afternoon, and we may go to see our lottery drawn. The ceremony takes place every

Saturday, in the Tribunale, or Court of Justice this singular, earthysmelling room, or gallery, as mouldy as

an old cellar, and as damp as a dungeon. At the upper end is a platform, with a large horseshoe table upon it;

and a President and Council sitting round all judges of the Law. The man on the little stool behind the

President, is the Capo Lazzarone, a kind of tribune of the people, appointed on their behalf to see that all is

fairly conducted: attended by a few personal friends. A ragged, swarthy fellow he is: with long matted hair

hanging down all over his face: and covered, from head to foot, with most unquestionably genuine dirt. All

the body of the room is filled with the commonest of the Neapolitan people: and between them and the

platform, guarding the steps leading to the latter, is a small body of soldiers.

There is some delay in the arrival of the necessary number of judges; during which, the box, in which the

numbers are being placed, is a source of the deepest interest. When the box is full, the boy who is to draw the

numbers out of it becomes the prominent feature of the proceedings. He is already dressed for his part, in a

tight brown Holland coat, with only one (the left) sleeve to it, which leaves his right arm bared to the

During the hush and whisper that pervade the room, all eyes are turned on this young minister of fortune.

People begin to inquire his age, with a view to the next lottery; and the number of his brothers and sisters;

and the age of his father and mother; and whether he has any moles or pimples upon him; and where, and

how many; when the arrival of the last judge but one (a little old man, universally dreaded as possessing the

Evil Eye) makes a slight diversion, and would occasion a greater one, but that he is immediately deposed, as

a source of interest, by the officiating priest, who advances gravely to his place, followed by a very dirty little

Here is the last judge come at last, and now he takes his place at the horseshoe table.

There is a murmur of irrepressible agitation. In the midst of it, the priest puts his head into the sacred

vestments, and pulls the same over his shoulders. Then he says a silent prayer; and dipping a brush into the

pot of Holy Water, sprinkles it over the box and over the boy, and gives them a doublebarrelled blessing,

which the box and the boy are both hoisted on the table to receive. The boy remaining on the table, the box is

now carried round the front of the platform, by an attendant, who holds it up and shakes it lustily all the time;

seeming to say, like the conjurer, 'There is no deception, ladies and gentlemen; keep your eyes upon me, if

At last, the box is set before the boy; and the boy, first holding up his naked arm and open hand, dives down

into the hole (it is made like a ballotbox) and pulls out a number, which is rolled up, round something hard,

like a bonbon. This he hands to the judge next him, who unrolls a little bit, and hands it to the President, next

to whom he sits. The President unrolls it, very slowly. The Capo Lazzarone leans over his shoulder. The

President holds it up, unrolled, to the Capo Lazzarone. The Capo Lazzarone, looking at it eagerly, cries out,

in a shrill, loud voice, 'Sessantadue!' (sixty two), expressing the two upon his fingers, as he calls it out.

Alas! the Capo Lazzarone himself has not staked on sixtytwo. His face is very long, and his eyes roll wildly.

As it happens to be a favourite number, however, it is pretty well received, which is not always the case.

They are all drawn with the same ceremony, omitting the blessing. One blessing is enough for the whole

multiplicationtable. The only new incident in the proceedings, is the gradually deepening intensity of the

change in the Cape Lazzarone, who has, evidently, speculated to the very utmost extent of his means; and

who, when he sees the last number, and finds that it is not one of his, clasps his hands, and raises his eyes to

the ceiling before proclaiming it, as though remonstrating, in a secret agony, with his patron saint, for having

committed so gross a breach of confidence. I hope the Capo Lazzarone may not desert him for some other

Where the winners may be, nobody knows. They certainly are not present; the general disappointment filling

one with pity for the poor people. They look: when we stand aside, observing them, in their passage through

the courtyard down below: as miserable as the prisoners in the gaol (it forms a part of the building), who are

peeping down upon them, from between their bars; or, as the fragments of human heads which are still

dangling in chains outside, in memory of the good old times, when their owners were strung up there, for the

Away from Naples in a glorious sunrise, by the road to Capua, and then on a three days' journey along

byroads, that we may see, on the way, the monastery of Monte Cassino, which is perched on the steep and

lofty hill above the little town of San Germano, and is lost on a misty morning in the clouds.

So much the better, for the deep sounding of its bell, which, as we go winding up, on mules, towards the

convent, is heard mysteriously in the still air, while nothing is seen but the grey mist, moving solemnly and

slowly, like a funeral procession. Behold, at length the shadowy pile of building close before us: its grey

walls and towers dimly seen, though so near and so vast: and the raw vapour rolling through its cloisters

There are two black shadows walking to and fro in the quadrangle, near the statues of the Patron Saint and his

sister; and hopping on behind them, in and out of the old arches, is a raven, croaking in answer to the bell,

and uttering, at intervals, the purest Tuscan. How like a Jesuit he looks! There never was a sly and stealthy

fellow so at home as is this raven, standing now at the refectory door, with his head on one side, and

pretending to glance another way, while he is scrutinizing the visitors keenly, and listening with fixed

'He speaks like us!' says the porter: 'quite as plainly.' Quite as plainly, Porter. Nothing could be more

expressive than his reception of the peasants who are entering the gate with baskets and burdens. There is a

roll in his eye, and a chuckle in his throat, which should qualify him to be chosen Superior of an Order of

Ravens. He knows all about it. 'It's all right,' he says. 'We know what we know. Come along, good people.

Glad to see you!' How was this extraordinary structure ever built in such a situation, where the labour of

conveying the stone, and iron, and marble, so great a height, must have been prodigious? 'Caw!' says the

raven, welcoming the peasants. How, being despoiled by plunder, fire and earthquake, has it risen from its

ruins, and been again made what we now see it, with its church so sumptuous and magnificent? 'Caw!' says

the raven, welcoming the peasants. These people have a miserable appearance, and (as usual) are densely

ignorant, and all beg, while the monks are chaunting in the chapel. 'Caw!' says the raven, 'Cuckoo!'

So we leave him, chuckling and rolling his eye at the convent gate, and wind slowly down again through the

cloud. At last emerging from it, we come in sight of the village far below, and the flat green country

intersected by rivulets; which is pleasant and fresh to see after the obscurity and haze of the convent no

Away we go again, by muddy roads, and through the most shattered and tattered of villages, where there is

not a whole window among all the houses, or a whole garment among all the peasants, or the least appearance

of anything to eat, in any of the wretched hucksters' shops. The women wear a bright red bodice laced before

and behind, a white skirt, and the Neapolitan headdress of square folds of linen, primitively meant to carry

loads on. The men and children wear anything they can get. The soldiers are as dirty and rapacious as the

dogs. The inns are such hobgoblin places, that they are infinitely more attractive and amusing than the best

hotels in Paris. Here is one near Valmontone (that is Valmontone the round, walled town on the mount

opposite), which is approached by a quagmire almost kneedeep. There is a wild colonnade below, and a

dark yard full of empty stables and lofts, and a great long kitchen with a great long bench and a great long

form, where a party of travellers, with two priests among them, are crowding round the fire while their supper

is cooking. Above stairs, is a rough brick gallery to sit in, with very little windows with very small patches of

knotty glass in them, and all the doors that open from it (a dozen or two) off their hinges, and a bare board on

tressels for a table, at which thirty people might dine easily, and a fireplace large enough in itself for a

breakfastparlour, where, as the faggots blaze and crackle, they illuminate the ugliest and grimmest of faces,

drawn in charcoal on the whitewashed chimney sides by previous travellers. There is a flaring country lamp

on the table; and, hovering about it, scratching her thick black hair continually, a yellow dwarf of a woman,

who stands on tiptoe to arrange the hatchet knives, and takes a flying leap to look into the waterjug. The

beds in the adjoining rooms are of the liveliest kind. There is not a solitary scrap of lookingglass in the

house, and the washing apparatus is identical with the cooking utensils. But the yellow dwarf sets on the table

a good flask of excellent wine, holding a quart at least; and produces, among half adozen other dishes,

twothirds of a roasted kid, smoking hot. She is as goodhumoured, too, as dirty, which is saying a great

deal. So here's long life to her, in the flask of wine, and prosperity to the establishment.

Rome gained and left behind, and with it the Pilgrims who are now repairing to their own homes again each

with his scallop shell and staff, and soliciting alms for the love of God we come, by a fair country, to the

Falls of Terni, where the whole Velino river dashes, headlong, from a rocky height, amidst shining spray and

rainbows. Perugia, strongly fortified by art and nature, on a lofty eminence, rising abruptly from the plain

where purple mountains mingle with the distant sky, is glowing, on its market day, with radiant colours.

They set off its sombre but rich Gothic buildings admirably. The pavement of its marketplace is strewn with

country goods. All along the steep hill leading from the town, under the town wall, there is a noisy fair of

calves, lambs, pigs, horses, mules, and oxen. Fowls, geese, and turkeys, flutter vigorously among their very

hoofs; and buyers, sellers, and spectators, clustering everywhere, block up the road as we come shouting

Suddenly, there is a ringing sound among our horses. The driver stops them. Sinking in his saddle, and

casting up his eyes to Heaven, he delivers this apostrophe, 'Oh Jove Omnipotent! here is a horse has lost his

Notwithstanding the tremendous nature of this accident, and the utterly forlorn look and gesture (impossible

in any one but an Italian Vetturino) with which it is announced, it is not long in being repaired by a mortal

Farrier, by whose assistance we reach Castiglione the same night, and Arezzo next day. Mass is, of course,

performing in its fine cathedral, where the sun shines in among the clustered pillars, through rich

stainedglass windows: half revealing, half concealing the kneeling figures on the pavement, and striking out

But, how much beauty of another kind is here, when, on a fair clear morning, we look, from the summit of a

hill, on Florence! See where it lies before us in a sunlighted valley, bright with the winding Arno, and shut

in by swelling hills; its domes, and towers, and palaces, rising from the rich country in a glittering heap, and

Magnificently stern and sombre are the streets of beautiful Florence; and the strong old piles of building

make such heaps of shadow, on the ground and in the river, that there is another and a different city of rich

forms and fancies, always lying at our feet. Prodigious palaces, constructed for defence, with small distrustful

windows heavily barred, and walls of great thickness formed of huge masses of rough stone, frown, in their

old sulky state, on every street. In the midst of the city in the Piazza of the Grand Duke, adorned with

beautiful statues and the Fountain of Neptune rises the Palazzo Vecchio, with its enormous overhanging

battlements, and the Great Tower that watches over the whole town. In its courtyard worthy of the Castle

of Otranto in its ponderous gloom is a massive staircase that the heaviest waggon and the stoutest team of

horses might be driven up. Within it, is a Great Saloon, faded and tarnished in its stately decorations, and

mouldering by grains, but recording yet, in pictures on its walls, the triumphs of the Medici and the wars of

the old Florentine people. The prison is hard by, in an adjacent courtyard of the building a foul and dismal

place, where some men are shut up close, in small cells like ovens; and where others look through bars and

beg; where some are playing draughts, and some are talking to their friends, who smoke, the while, to purify

the air; and some are buying wine and fruit of womenvendors; and all are squalid, dirty, and vile to look at.

'They are merry enough, Signore,' says the jailer. 'They are all bloodstained here,' he adds, indicating, with

his hand, threefourths of the whole building. Before the hour is out, an old man, eighty years of age,

quarrelling over a bargain with a young girl of seventeen, stabs her dead, in the marketplace full of bright

Among the four old bridges that span the river, the Ponte Vecchio that bridge which is covered with the

shops of Jewellers and Goldsmiths is a most enchanting feature in the scene. The space of one house, in the

centre, being left open, the view beyond is shown as in a frame; and that precious glimpse of sky, and water,

and rich buildings, shining so quietly among the huddled roofs and gables on the bridge, is exquisite. Above

it, the Gallery of the Grand Duke crosses the river. It was built to connect the two Great Palaces by a secret

passage; and it takes its jealous course among the streets and houses, with true despotism: going where it

The Grand Duke has a worthier secret passage through the streets, in his black robe and hood, as a member of

the Compagnia della Misericordia, which brotherhood includes all ranks of men. If an accident take place,

their office is, to raise the sufferer, and bear him tenderly to the Hospital. If a fire break out, it is one of their

functions to repair to the spot, and render their assistance and protection. It is, also, among their commonest

offices, to attend and console the sick; and they neither receive money, nor eat, nor drink, in any house they

visit for this purpose. Those who are on duty for the time, are all called together, on a moment's notice, by the

tolling of the great bell of the Tower; and it is said that the Grand Duke has been seen, at this sound, to rise

In this other large Piazza, where an irregular kind of market is held, and stores of old iron and other small

merchandise are set out on stalls, or scattered on the pavement, are grouped together, the Cathedral with its

great Dome, the beautiful Italian Gothic Tower the Campanile, and the Baptistery with its wrought bronze

doors. And here, a small untrodden square in the pavement, is 'the Stone of DANTE,' where (so runs the

story) he was used to bring his stool, and sit in contemplation. I wonder was he ever, in his bitter exile,

withheld from cursing the very stones in the streets of Florence the ungrateful, by any kind remembrance of

this old musingplace, and its association with gentle thoughts of little Beatrice!

The chapel of the Medici, the Good and Bad Angels, of Florence; the church of Santa Croce where Michael

Angelo lies buried, and where every stone in the cloisters is eloquent on great men's deaths; innumerable

churches, often masses of unfinished heavy brickwork externally, but solemn and serene within; arrest our

In keeping with the tombs among the cloisters, is the Museum of Natural History, famous through the world

for its preparations in wax; beginning with models of leaves, seeds, plants, inferior animals; and gradually

ascending, through separate organs of the human frame, up to the whole structure of that wonderful creation,

exquisitely presented, as in recent death. Few admonitions of our frail mortality can be more solemn and

more sad, or strike so home upon the heart, as the counterfeits of Youth and Beauty that are lying there, upon

Beyond the walls, the whole sweet Valley of the Arno, the convent at Fiesole, the Tower of Galileo,

BOCCACCIO'S house, old villas and retreats; innumerable spots of interest, all glowing in a landscape of

surpassing beauty steeped in the richest light; are spread before us. Returning from so much brightness, how

solemn and how grand the streets again, with their great, dark, mournful palaces, and many legends: not of

siege, and war, and might, and Iron Hand alone, but of the triumphant growth of peaceful Arts and Sciences.

What light is shed upon the world, at this day, from amidst these rugged Palaces of Florence! Here, open to

all comers, in their beautiful and calm retreats, the ancient Sculptors are immortal, side by side with Michael

Angelo, Canova, Titian, Rembrandt, Raphael, Poets, Historians, Philosophers those illustrious men of

history, beside whom its crowned heads and harnessed warriors show so poor and small, and are so soon

forgotten. Here, the imperishable part of noble minds survives, placid and equal, when strongholds of assault

and defence are overthrown; when the tyranny of the many, or the few, or both, is but a tale; when Pride and

Power are so much cloistered dust. The fire within the stern streets, and among the massive Palaces and

Towers, kindled by rays from Heaven, is still burning brightly, when the flickering of war is extinguished and

the household fires of generations have decayed; as thousands upon thousands of faces, rigid with the strife

and passion of the hour, have faded out of the old Squares and public haunts, while the nameless Florentine

Lady, preserved from oblivion by a Painter's hand, yet lives on, in enduring grace and youth.

Let us look back on Florence while we may, and when its shining Dome is seen no more, go travelling

through cheerful Tuscany, with a bright remembrance of it; for Italy will be the fairer for the recollection.

The summertime being come: and Genoa, and Milan, and the Lake of Como lying far behind us: and we

resting at Faido, a Swiss village, near the awful rocks and mountains, the everlasting snows and roaring

cataracts, of the Great Saint Gothard: hearing the Italian tongue for the last time on this journey: let us part

from Italy, with all its miseries and wrongs, affectionately, in our admiration of the beauties, natural and

artificial, of which it is full to overflowing, and in our tenderness towards a people, naturally welldisposed,

and patient, and sweettempered. Years of neglect, oppression, and misrule, have been at work, to change

their nature and reduce their spirit; miserable jealousies, fomented by petty Princes to whom union was

destruction, and division strength, have been a canker at their root of nationality, and have barbarized their

language; but the good that was in them ever, is in them yet, and a noble people may be, one day, raised up

from these ashes. Let us entertain that hope! And let us not remember Italy the less regardfully, because, in

every fragment of her fallen Temples, and every stone of her deserted palaces and prisons, she helps to

inculcate the lesson that the wheel of Time is rolling for an end, and that the world is, in all great essentials,

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