SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY AND GREECE

 BY JOHN ADDINGTON SYMONDS

 AUTHOR OF "RENAISSANCE IN ITALY", "STUDIES OF THE GREEK POETS, " ETC

 FIRST SERIES

 NEW EDITION

 LONDON JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET, W. 1914

PREFATORY NOTE

In preparing this new edition of the late J. A. Symonds's three volumesof travels, 'Sketches in Italy and Greece, ' 'Sketches and Studiesin Italy, ' and 'Italian Byways, ' nothing has been changed except theorder of the Essays. For the convenience of travellers a topographicalarrangement has been adopted. This implied a new title to cover thecontents of all three volumes, and 'Sketches and Studies in Italyand Greece' has been chosen as departing least from the author's ownphraseology. 

HORATIO F. BROWN. Venice: _June_ 1898. 

 CONTENTS

 THE LOVE OF THE ALPS

 WINTER NIGHTS AT DAVOS

 BACCHUS IN GRAUBÜNDEN

 OLD TOWNS OF PROVENCE

 THE CORNICE

 AJACCIO

 MONTE GENEROSO

 LOMBARD VIGNETTES

 COMO AND IL MEDEGHINO

 BERGAMO AND BARTOLOMMEO COLLEONI

 CREMA AND THE CRUCIFIX

 CHERUBINO AT THE SCALA THEATRE

 A VENETIAN MEDLEY

 THE GONDOLIER'S WEDDING

 A CINQUE CENTO BRUTUS

 TWO DRAMATISTS OF THE LAST CENTURY

 SKETCHES AND STUDIES

 IN

 ITALY AND GREECE

_THE LOVE OF THE ALPS_[1]

Of all the joys in life, none is greater than the joy of arriving onthe outskirts of Switzerland at the end of a long dusty day's journeyfrom Paris. The true epicure in refined pleasures will never travelto Basle by night. He courts the heat of the sun and the monotonyof French plains, --their sluggish streams and never-ending poplartrees--for the sake of the evening coolness and the gradual approachto the great Alps, which await him at the close of the day. It isabout Mulhausen that he begins to feel a change in the landscape. The fields broaden into rolling downs, watered by clear and runningstreams; the green Swiss thistle grows by riverside and cowshed; pinesbegin to tuft the slopes of gently rising hills; and now the sun hasset, the stars come out, first Hesper, then the troop of lesser lights;and he feels--yes, indeed, there is now no mistake--the well-known, well-loved magical fresh air, that never fails to blow from snowymountains and meadows watered by perennial streams. The last hour isone of exquisite enjoyment, and when he reaches Basle, he scarcelysleeps all night for hearing the swift Rhine beneath the balconies, and knowing that the moon is shining on its waters, through the town, beneath the bridges, between pasture-lands and copses, up the stillmountain-girdled valleys to the ice-caves where the water springs. There is nothing in all experience of travelling like this. We maygreet the Mediterranean at Marseilles with enthusiasm; on enteringRome by the Porta del Popolo, we may reflect with pride that wehave reached the goal of our pilgrimage, and are at last amongworld-shaking memories. But neither Rome nor the Riviera wins ourhearts like Switzerland. We do not lie awake in London thinking ofthem; we do not long so intensely, as the year comes round, to revisitthem. Our affection is less a passion than that which we cherish forSwitzerland. 

Why, then, is this? What, after all, is the love of the Alps, and whenand where did it begin? It is easier to ask these questions than toanswer them. The classic nations hated mountains. Greek and Romanpoets talk of them with disgust and dread. Nothing could have beenmore depressing to a courtier of Augustus than residence at Aosta, even though he found his theatres and triumphal arches there. Whereverclassical feeling has predominated, this has been the case. Cellini'sMemoirs, written in the height of pagan Renaissance, well expressthe aversion which a Florentine or Roman felt for the inhospitablewildernesses of Switzerland. [2] Dryden, in his dedication to 'TheIndian Emperor, ' says, 'High objects, it is true, attract the sight;but it looks up with pain on craggy rocks and barren mountains, andcontinues not intent on any object which is wanting in shades andgreen to entertain it. ' Addison and Gray had no better epithets than'rugged, ' 'horrid, ' and the like for Alpine landscape. The classicspirit was adverse to enthusiasm for mere nature. Humanity was tooprominent, and city life absorbed all interests, --not to speak of whatperhaps is the weightiest reason--that solitude, indifferentaccommodation, and imperfect means of travelling, rendered mountainouscountries peculiarly disagreeable. It is impossible to enjoy art ornature while suffering from fatigue and cold, dreading the attacks ofrobbers, and wondering whether you will find food and shelter at theend of your day's journey. Nor was it different in the Middle Ages. Then individuals had either no leisure from war or strife with theelements, or else they devoted themselves to the salvation of theirsouls. But when the ideas of the Middle Ages had decayed, whenimproved arts of life had freed men from servile subjection to dailyneeds, when the bondage of religious tyranny had been thrown off andpolitical liberty allowed the full development of tastes andinstincts, when, moreover, the classical traditions had lost theirpower, and courts and coteries became too narrow for the activity ofman, --then suddenly it was discovered that Nature in herself possessedtranscendent charms. It may seem absurd to class them all together;yet there is no doubt that the French Revolution, the criticism of theBible, Pantheistic forms of religious feeling, landscape-painting, Alpine travelling, and the poetry of Nature, are all signs of the samemovement--of a new Renaissance. Limitations of every sort have beenshaken off during the last century; all forms have been destroyed, allquestions asked. The classical spirit loved to arrange, model, preserve traditions, obey laws. We are intolerant of everything thatis not simple, unbiassed by prescription, liberal as the wind, andnatural as the mountain crags. We go to feed this spirit of freedomamong the Alps. What the virgin forests of America are to theAmericans, the Alps are to us. What there is in these huge blocks andwalls of granite crowned with ice that fascinates us, it is hard toanalyse. Why, seeing that we find them so attractive, they should haverepelled our ancestors of the fourth generation and all the worldbefore them, is another mystery. We cannot explain what rapport thereis between our human souls and these inequalities in the surface ofthe earth which we call Alps. Tennyson speaks of

 Some vague emotion of delight In gazing up an Alpine height, and its vagueness eludes definition. The interest which physicalscience has created for natural objects has something to do with it. Curiosity and the charm of novelty increase this interest. No towns, no cultivated tracts of Europe however beautiful, form such a contrastto our London life as Switzerland. Then there is the health and joythat comes from exercise in open air; the senses freshened by goodsleep; the blood quickened by a lighter and rarer atmosphere. Ourmodes of life, the breaking down of class privileges, the extension ofeducation, which contribute to make the individual greater and societyless, render the solitude of mountains refreshing. Facilities oftravelling and improved accommodation leave us free to enjoy thenatural beauty which we seek. Our minds, too, are prepared tosympathise with the inanimate world; we have learned to look on theuniverse as a whole, and ourselves as a part of it, related by closeties of friendship to all its other members Shelley's, Wordsworth's, Goethe's poetry has taught us this; we are all more or lessPantheists, worshippers of 'God in Nature, ' convinced of theomnipresence of the informing mind. 

Thus, when we admire the Alps, we are after all but children ofthe century. We follow its inspiration blindly; and while we thinkourselves spontaneous in our ecstasy, perform the part for which wehave been trained from childhood by the atmosphere in which we live. It is this very unconsciousness and universality of the impulse weobey which makes it hard to analyse. Contemporary history is difficultto write; to define the spirit of the age in which we live is stillmore difficult; to account for 'impressions which owe all their forceto their identity with themselves' is most difficult of all. We mustbe content to feel, and not to analyse. 

Rousseau has the credit of having invented the love of Nature. Perhapshe first expressed, in literature, the pleasures of open life amongthe mountains, of walking tours, of the '_école buissonnière_, 'away from courts, and schools, and cities, which it is the fashion nowto love. His bourgeois birth and tastes, his peculiar religiousand social views, his intense self-engrossment, --all favoured thedevelopment of Nature-worship. But Rousseau was not alone, nor yetcreative, in this instance. He was but one of the earliest to seizeand express a new idea of growing humanity. For those who seem to bethe most original in their inauguration of periods are only suchas have been favourably placed by birth and education to imbibe thefloating creeds of the whole race. They resemble the first cases of anepidemic, which become the centres of infection and propagate disease. At the time of Rousseau's greatness the French people were initiative. In politics, in literature, in fashions, and in philosophy, they hadfor some time led the taste of Europe. But the sentiment which firstreceived a clear and powerful expression in the works of Rousseau, soon declared itself in the arts and literature of other nations. Goethe, Wordsworth, and the earlier landscape-painters, proved thatGermany and England were not far behind the French. In England thislove of Nature for its own sake is indigenous, and has at all timesbeen peculiarly characteristic of our genius. Therefore it is notsurprising that our life and literature and art have been foremostin developing the sentiment of which we are speaking. Our poets, painters, and prose writers gave the tone to European thought in thisrespect. Our travellers in search of the adventurous and picturesque, our Alpine Club, have made of Switzerland an English playground. 

The greatest period in our history was but a foreshadowing of this. To return to Nature-worship was but to reassume the habits of theElizabethan age, altered indeed by all the changes of religion, politics, society, and science which the last three centuries havewrought, yet still, in its original love of free open life among thefields and woods, and on the sea, the same. Now the French nationalgenius is classical. It reverts to the age of Louis XIV. , andRousseauism in their literature is as true an innovation andparenthesis as Pope-and-Drydenism was in ours. As in the age of theReformation, so in this, the German element of the modern characterpredominates. During the two centuries from which we have emerged, theLatin element had the upper hand. Our love of the Alps is a Gothic, aTeutonic, instinct; sympathetic with all that is vague, infinite, andinsubordinate to rules, at war with all that is defined and systematicin our genius. This we may perceive in individuals as well as in thebroader aspects of arts and literatures. The classically minded man, the reader of Latin poets, the lover of brilliant conversation, the frequenter of clubs and drawing-rooms, nice in his personalrequirements, scrupulous in his choice of words, averse to unnecessaryphysical exertion, preferring town to country life, _cannot_deeply feel the charm of the Alps. Such a man will dislike German art, and however much he may strive to be Catholic in his tastes, will findas he grows older that his liking for Gothic architecture and modernpainting diminish almost to aversion before an increasing admirationfor Greek peristyles and the Medicean Venus. If in respect ofspeculation all men are either Platonists or Aristotelians, in respectof taste all men are either Greek or German. 

At present the German, the indefinite, the natural, commands; theGreek, the finite, the cultivated, is in abeyance. We who talk somuch about the feeling of the Alps, are creatures, not creators of our_cultus_, --a strange reflection, proving how much greater man isthan men, the common reason of the age in which we live than our ownreasons, its constituents and subjects. 

Perhaps it is our modern tendency to 'individualism' which makes theAlps so much to us. Society is there reduced to a vanishing point--noclaims are made on human sympathies--there is no need to toil inyoke-service with our fellows. We may be alone, dream our owndreams, and sound the depths of personality without the reproach ofselfishness, without a restless wish to join in action or money-makingor the pursuit of fame. To habitual residents among the Alps thisabsence of social duties and advantages may be barbarising, evenbrutalising. But to men wearied with too much civilisation, and deafened by the noise of great cities, it is beyond measurerefreshing. Then, again, among the mountains history finds no place. The Alps have no past nor present nor future. The human beings wholive upon their sides are at odds with nature, clinging on for bareexistence to the soil, sheltering themselves beneath protecting rocksfrom avalanches, damming up destructive streams, all but annihilatedevery spring. Man, who is paramount in the plain, is nothing here. Hisarts and sciences, and dynasties, and modes of life, and mighty works, and conquests and decays, demand our whole attention in Italy orEgypt. But here the mountains, immemorially the same, which were, which are, and which are to be, present a theatre on which the soulbreathes freely and feels herself alone. Around her on all sides isGod, and Nature, who is here the face of God and not the slave of man. The spirit of the world hath here not yet grown old. She is as youngas on the first day; and the Alps are a symbol of the self-creating, self-sufficing, self-enjoying universe which lives for its own ends. For why do the slopes gleam with flowers, and the hillsides deckthemselves with grass, and the inaccessible ledges of black rock beartheir tufts of crimson primroses and flaunting tiger-lilies? Why, morning after morning, does the red dawn flush the pinnacles of MonteRosa above cloud and mist unheeded? Why does the torrent shout, theavalanche reply in thunder to the music of the sun, the trees androcks and meadows cry their 'Holy, Holy, Holy'? Surely not for us. We are an accident here, and even the few men whose eyes are fixedhabitually upon these things are dead to them--the peasants do noteven know the names of their own flowers, and sigh with envy when youtell them of the plains of Lincolnshire or Russian steppes. 

But indeed there is something awful in the Alpine elevation abovehuman things. We do not love Switzerland merely because we associateits thought with recollections of holidays and joyfulness. Some ofthe most solemn moments of life are spent high up above among themountains, on the barren tops of rocky passes, where the soul hasseemed to hear in solitude a low controlling voice. It is almostnecessary for the development of our deepest affections that some sadand sombre moments should be interchanged with hours of merriment andelasticity. It is this variety in the woof of daily life which endearsour home to us; and perhaps none have fully loved the Alps who havenot spent some days of meditation, or it may be of sorrow, among theirsolitudes. Splendid scenery, like music, has the power to make 'ofgrief itself a fiery chariot for mounting above the sources of grief, 'to ennoble and refine our passions, and to teach us that our livesare merely moments in the years of the eternal Being. There are many, perhaps, who, within sight of some great scene among the Alps, uponthe height of the Stelvio or the slopes of Mürren, or at night inthe valley of Courmayeur, have felt themselves raised above caresand doubts and miseries by the mere recognition of unchangeablemagnificence; have found a deep peace in the sense of their ownnothingness. It is not granted to us everyday to stand upon thesepinnacles of rest and faith above the world. But having once stoodthere, how can we forget the station? How can we fail, amid thetumult of our common cares, to feel at times the hush of that far-offtranquillity? When our life is most commonplace, when we are ill orweary in city streets, we can remember the clouds upon the mountainswe have seen, the sound of innumerable waterfalls, and the scent ofcountless flowers. A photograph of Bisson's or of Braun's, the name ofsome well-known valley, the picture of some Alpine plant, rouses thesacred hunger in our souls, and stirs again the faith in beauty andin rest beyond ourselves which no man can take from us. We owe adeep debt of gratitude to everything which enables us to rise abovedepressing and enslaving circumstances, which brings us nearer in someway or other to what is eternal in the universe, and which makes usknow that, whether we live or die, suffer or enjoy, life and gladnessare still strong in the world. On this account, the proper attitudeof the soul among the Alps is one of silence. It is almost impossiblewithout a kind of impiety to frame in words the feelings they inspire. Yet there are some sayings, hallowed by long usage, which throngthe mind through a whole summer's day, and seem in harmony with itsemotions--some portions of the Psalms or lines of greatest poets, inarticulate hymns of Beethoven and Mendelssohn, waifs and strays notalways apposite, but linked by strong and subtle chains of feelingwith the grandeur of the mountains. This reverential feeling forthe Alps is connected with the Pantheistic form of our religioussentiments to which I have before alluded. It is a trite remark, thateven devout men of the present generation prefer temples _not_made with hands to churches, and worship God in the fields morecontentedly than in their pews. What Mr. Ruskin calls 'the instinctivesense of the divine presence not formed into distinct belief' lies atthe root of our profound veneration for the nobler aspects of mountainscenery. This instinctive sense has been very variously expressed byGoethe in Faust's celebrated confession of faith, by Shelley in thestanzas of 'Adonais, ' which begin 'He is made one with nature, ' byWordsworth in the lines on Tintern Abbey, and lately by Mr. Roden Noelin his noble poems of Pantheism. It is more or less strongly felt byall who have recognised the indubitable fact that religious belief isundergoing a sure process of change from the dogmatic distinctness ofthe past to some at present dimly descried creed of the future. Suchperiods of transition are of necessity full of discomfort, doubt, andanxiety, vague, variable, and unsatisfying. The men in whose spiritsthe fermentation of the change is felt, who have abandoned theirold moorings, and have not yet reached the haven for which they aresteering, cannot but be indistinct and undecided in their faith. Theuniverse of which they form a part becomes important to them in itsinfinite immensity. The principles of beauty, goodness, order and law, no longer connected in their minds with definite articles of faith, find symbols in the outer world. They are glad to fly at certainmoments from mankind and its oppressive problems, for which religionno longer provides a satisfactory solution, to Nature, where theyvaguely localise the spirit that broods over us controlling all ourbeing. To such men Goethe's hymn is a form of faith, and born of sucha mood are the following far humbler verses:--

 At Mürren let the morning lead thee out To walk upon the cold and cloven hills, To hear the congregated mountains shout Their pæan of a thousand foaming rills. Raimented with intolerable light The snow-peaks stand above thee, row on row Arising, each a seraph in his might; An organ each of varied stop doth blow. Heaven's azure dome trembles through all her spheres, Feeling that music vibrate; and the sun Raises his tenor as he upward steers, And all the glory-coated mists that run Below him in the valley, hear his voice, And cry unto the dewy fields, Rejoice!

There is a profound sympathy between music and fine scenery: they bothaffect us in the same way, stirring strong but undefined emotions, which express themselves in 'idle tears, ' or evoking thoughts 'whichlie, ' as Wordsworth says, 'too deep for tears, ' beyond the reachof any words. How little we know what multitudes of minglingreminiscences, held in solution by the mind, and colouring its fancywith the iridescence of variable hues, go to make up the sentimentswhich music or which mountains stir! It is the very vagueness, changefulness, and dreamlike indistinctness of these feelings whichcause their charm; they harmonise with the haziness of our beliefs andseem to make our very doubts melodious. For this reason it is obviousthat unrestrained indulgence in the pleasures of music or of scenerymay tend to destroy habits of clear thinking, sentimentalise the mind, and render it more apt to entertain embryonic fancies than to bringideas to definite perfection. 

If hours of thoughtfulness and seclusion are necessary to thedevelopment of a true love for the Alps, it is no less essential to aright understanding of their beauty that we should pass some wet andgloomy days among the mountains. The unclouded sunsets and sunriseswhich often follow one another in September in the Alps, havesomething terrible. They produce a satiety of splendour, and oppressthe mind with a sense of perpetuity. I remember spending such a seasonin one of the Oberland valleys, high up above the pine-trees, ina little châlet. Morning after morning I awoke to see the sunbeamsglittering on the Eiger and the Jungfrau; noon after noon thesnow-fields blazed beneath a steady fire; evening after evening theyshone like beacons in the red light of the setting sun. Then peak bypeak they lost the glow; the soul passed from them, and they stoodpale yet weirdly garish against the darkened sky. The stars came out, the moon shone, but not a cloud sailed over the untroubled heavens. Thus day after day for several weeks there was no change, till I wasseized with an overpowering horror of unbroken calm. I left the valleyfor a time; and when I returned to it in wind and rain, I found thatthe partial veiling of the mountain heights restored the charm whichI had lost and made me feel once more at home. The landscape takes agraver tone beneath the mist that hides the higher peaks, andcomes drifting, creeping, feeling, through the pines upon theirslopes--white, silent, blinding vapour-wreaths around the sablespires. Sometimes the cloud descends and blots out everything. Againit lifts a little, showing cottages and distant Alps beneath itsskirts. Then it sweeps over the whole valley like a veil, just brokenhere and there above a lonely châlet or a thread of distant danglingtorrent foam. Sounds, too, beneath the mist are more strange. Thetorrent seems to have a hoarser voice and grinds the stones morepassionately against its boulders. The cry of shepherds through thefog suggests the loneliness and danger of the hills. The bleatingof penned sheep or goats, and the tinkling of the cowbells, aremysteriously distant and yet distinct in the dull dead air. Then, again, how immeasurably high above our heads appear the domes andpeaks of snow revealed through chasms in the drifting cloud; howdesolate the glaciers and the avalanches in gleams of light thatstruggle through the mist! There is a leaden glare peculiar to clouds, which makes the snow and ice more lurid. Not far from the house whereI am writing, the avalanche that swept away the bridge last winter islying now, dripping away, dank and dirty, like a rotting whale. I cansee it from my window, green beech-boughs nodding over it, forlornlarches bending their tattered branches by its side, splinters ofbroken pine protruding from its muddy caves, the boulders on itsflank, and the hoarse hungry torrent tossing up its tongues to lickthe ragged edge of snow. Close by, the meadows, spangled with yellowflowers and red and blue, look even more brilliant than if the sunwere shining on them. Every cup and blade of grass is drinking. Butthe scene changes; the mist has turned into rain-clouds, and thesteady rain drips down, incessant, blotting out the view. Then, too, what a joy it is if the clouds break towards evening with a northwind, and a rainbow in the valley gives promise of a bright to-morrow!We look up to the cliffs above our heads, and see that they have justbeen powdered with the snow that is a sign of better weather. 

Such rainy days ought to be spent in places like Seelisberg andMürren, at the edge of precipices, in front of mountains, or above alake. The cloud-masses crawl and tumble about the valleys like a broodof dragons; now creeping along the ledges of the rock with sinuousself-adjustment to its turns and twists; now launching out intothe deep, repelled by battling winds, or driven onward in a coil oftwisted and contorted serpent curls. In the midst of summer these wetseasons often end in a heavy fall of snow. You wake some morning tosee the meadows which last night were gay with July flowers huddledup in snow a foot in depth. But fair weather does not tarry long toreappear. You put on your thickest boots and sally forth to find thegreat cups of the gentians full of snow, and to watch the rising ofthe cloud-wreaths under the hot sun. Bad dreams or sickly thoughts, dissipated by returning daylight or a friend's face, do not fly awaymore rapidly and pleasantly than those swift glory-coated mists thatlose themselves we know not where in the blue depths of the sky. 

In contrast with these rainy days nothing can be more perfect thanclear moonlight nights. There is a terrace upon the roof of the inn atCourmayeur where one may spend hours in the silent watches, when allthe world has gone to sleep beneath. The Mont Chétif and the Montde la Saxe form a gigantic portal not unworthy of the pile that liesbeyond. For Mont Blanc resembles a vast cathedral; its countlessspires are scattered over a mass like that of the Duomo at Milan, rising into one tower at the end. By night the glaciers glitter in thesteady moon; domes, pinnacles, and buttresses stand clear of clouds. Needles of every height and most fantastic shapes rise from thecentral ridge, some solitary, like sharp arrows shot against the sky, some clustering into sheaves. On every horn of snow and bank of grassyhill stars sparkle, rising, setting, rolling round through the longsilent night. Moonlight simplifies and softens the landscape. Coloursbecome scarcely distinguishable, and forms, deprived of half theirdetail, gain in majesty and size. The mountains seem greater far bynight than day--higher heights and deeper depths, more snowy pyramids, more beetling crags, softer meadows, and darker pines. The wholevalley is hushed, but for the torrent and the chirping grasshopper andthe striking of the village clocks. The black tower and the houses ofCourmayeur in the foreground gleam beneath the moon until she reachesthe edge of the Cramont, and then sinks quietly away, once moreto reappear among the pines, then finally to leave the valley darkbeneath the shadow of the mountain's bulk. Meanwhile the heights ofsnow still glitter in the steady light: they, too, will soon be dark, until the dawn breaks, tinging them with rose. 

But it is not fair to dwell exclusively upon the more sombre aspect ofSwiss beauty when there are so many lively scenes of which to speak. The sunlight and the freshness and the flowers of Alpine meadows formmore than half the charm of Switzerland. The other day we walked to apasture called the Col de Checruit, high up the valley of Courmayeur, where the spring was still in its first freshness. Gradually weclimbed, by dusty roads and through hot fields where the grass hadjust been mown, beneath the fierce light of the morning sun. Not abreath of air was stirring, and the heavy pines hung overhead upontheir crags, as if to fence the gorge from every wandering breeze. There is nothing more oppressive than these scorching sides of narrowrifts, shut in by woods and precipices. But suddenly the valleybroadened, the pines and larches disappeared, and we found ourselvesupon a wide green semicircle of the softest meadows. Little rills ofwater went rushing through them, rippling over pebbles, rustling underdock leaves, and eddying against their wooden barriers. Far and wide'you scarce could see the grass for flowers, ' while on every sidethe tinkling of cow-bells, and the voices of shepherds calling to oneanother from the Alps, or singing at their work, were borne across thefields. As we climbed we came into still fresher pastures, where thesnow had scarcely melted. There the goats and cattle were collected, and the shepherds sat among them, fondling the kids and calling themby name. When they called, the creatures came, expecting salt andbread. It was pretty to see them lying near their masters, playing andbutting at them with their horns, or bleating for the sweet rye-bread. The women knitted stockings, laughing among themselves, and singingall the while. As soon as we reached them, they gathered round totalk. An old herdsman, who was clearly the patriarch of this Arcadia, asked us many questions in a slow deliberate voice. We told him whowe were, and tried to interest him in the cattle-plague, which heappeared to regard as an evil very unreal and far away--like themurrain upon Pharaoh's herds which one reads about in Exodus. Buthe was courteous and polite, doing the honours of his pasture withsimplicity and ease. He took us to his châlet and gave us bowls ofpure cold milk. It was a funny little wooden house, clean and dark. The sky peeped through its tiles, and if shepherds were not in thehabit of sleeping soundly all night long, they might count the settingand rising stars without lifting their heads from the pillow. He toldus how far pleasanter they found the summer season than the long coldwinter which they have to spend in gloomy houses in Courmayeur. This, indeed, is the true pastoral life which poets have described--a happysummer holiday among the flowers, well occupied with simple cares, andharassed by 'no enemy but winter and rough weather. '

Very much of the charm of Switzerland belongs to simple things--togreetings from the herdsmen, the 'Guten Morgen, ' and 'Guten Abend, 'that are invariably given and taken upon mountain paths; to the tamecreatures, with their large dark eyes, who raise their heads onemoment from the pasture while you pass; and to the plants that growbeneath your feet. The latter end of May is the time when springbegins in the high Alps. Wherever sunlight smiles away a patch ofsnow, the brown turf soon becomes green velvet, and the velvet starsitself with red and white and gold and blue. You almost see the grassand lilies grow. First come pale crocuses and lilac soldanellas. Thesebreak the last dissolving clods of snow, and stand upon an island, with the cold wall they have thawed all round them. It is the fateof these poor flowers to spring and flourish on the very skirtsof retreating winter; they soon wither--the frilled chalice of thesoldanella shrivels up and the crocus fades away before the grasshas grown; the sun, which is bringing all the other plants to life, scorches their tender petals. Often when summer has fairly come, you still may see their pearly cups and lilac bells by the side ofavalanches, between the chill snow and the fiery sun, blooming andfading hour by hour. They have as it were but a Pisgah view of thepromised land, of the spring which they are foremost to proclaim. Nextcome the clumsy gentians and yellow anemones, covered with softdown like fledgling birds. These are among the earliest and hardiestblossoms that embroider the high meadows with a diaper of blue andgold. About the same time primroses and auriculas begin to tuft thedripping rocks, while frail white fleur-de-lis, like flakes ofsnow forgotten by the sun, and golden-balled ranunculuses join withforget-me-nots and cranesbill in a never-ending dance upon the grassyfloor. Happy, too, is he who finds the lilies-of-the-valley clusteringabout the chestnut boles upon the Colma, or in the beechwood bythe stream at Macugnaga, mixed with garnet-coloured columbines andfragrant white narcissus, which the people of the villages call'Angiolini. ' There, too, is Solomon's seal, with waxen bells andleaves expanded like the wings of hovering butterflies. But theselists of flowers are tiresome and cold; it would be better to drawthe portrait of one which is particularly fascinating. I think thatbotanists have called it _Saxifraga cotyledon_; yet, in spiteof its long name, it is beautiful and poetic. London-pride is thecommonest of all the saxifrages; but the one of which I speak is asdifferent from London-pride as a Plantagenet upon his throne from thatlast Plantagenet who died obscure and penniless some years ago. It isa great majestic flower, which plumes the granite rocks of Monte Rosain the spring. At other times of the year you see a little tuft offleshy leaves set like a cushion on cold ledges and dark places ofdripping cliffs. You take it for a stonecrop--one of those weedsdoomed to obscurity, and safe from being picked because they are souninviting--and you pass it by incuriously. But about June it putsforth its power, and from the cushion of pale leaves there springs astrong pink stem, which rises upward for a while, and then curvesdown and breaks into a shower of snow-white blossoms. Far away thesplendour gleams, hanging like a plume of ostrich-feathers from theroof of rock, waving to the wind, or stooping down to touch the waterof the mountain stream that dashes it with dew. The snow at evening, glowing with a sunset flush, is not more rosy-pure than this cascadeof pendent blossoms. It loves to be alone--inaccessible ledges, chasmswhere winds combat, or moist caverns overarched near thundering falls, are the places that it seeks. I will not compare it to a spirit of themountains or to a proud lonely soul, for such comparisons desecratethe simplicity of nature, and no simile can add a glory to the flower. It seems to have a conscious life of its own, so large and gloriousit is, so sensitive to every breath of air, so nobly placed upon itsbending stem, so royal in its solitude. I first saw it years ago onthe Simplon, feathering the drizzling crags above Isella. Then wefound it near Baveno, in a crack of sombre cliff beneath the mines. The other day we cut an armful opposite Varallo, by the Sesia, andthen felt like murderers; it was so sad to hold in our hands thetriumph of those many patient months, the full expansive life ofthe flower, the splendour visible from valleys and hillsides, thedefenceless creature which had done its best to make the gloomy placesof the Alps most beautiful. 

After passing many weeks among the high Alps it is a pleasure todescend into the plains. The sunset, and sunrise, and the stars ofLombardy, its level horizons and vague misty distances, are a sourceof absolute relief after the narrow skies and embarrassed prospects ofa mountain valley. Nor are the Alps themselves ever more imposing thanwhen seen from Milan or the church-tower of Chivasso or the terraceof Novara, with a foreground of Italian cornfields and old city towersand rice-ground, golden-green beneath a Lombard sun. Half veiledby clouds, the mountains rise like visionary fortress walls of acelestial city--unapproachable, beyond the range of mortal feet. But those who know by old experience what friendly châlets, and coolmeadows, and clear streams are hidden in their folds and valleys, send forth fond thoughts and messages, like carrier-pigeons, from themarble parapets of Milan, crying, 'Before another sun has set, I tooshall rest beneath the shadow of their pines!' It is in truth not morethan a day's journey from Milan to the brink of snow at Macugnaga. Butvery sad it is to _leave_ the Alps, to stand upon the terracesof Berne and waft ineffectual farewells. The unsympathising Aarrushes beneath; and the snow-peaks, whom we love like friends, abideuntroubled by the coming and the going of the world. The clouds driftover them--the sunset warms them with a fiery kiss. Night comes, andwe are hurried far away to wake beside the Seine, remembering, with apang of jealous passion, that the flowers on Alpine meadows are stillblooming, and the rivulets still flowing with a ceaseless song, whileParis shops are all we see, and all we hear is the dull clatter of aParis crowd. 

_THE ALPS IN WINTER_

The gradual approach of winter is very lovely in the high Alps. Thevalley of Davos, where I am writing, more than five thousand feetabove the sea, is not beautiful, as Alpine valleys go, though it hasscenery both picturesque and grand within easy reach. But when summeris passing into autumn, even the bare slopes of the least romanticglen are glorified. Golden lights and crimson are cast over thegrey-green world by the fading of innumerable plants. Then the larchesbegin to put on sallow tints that deepen into orange, burning againstthe solid blue sky like amber. The frosts are severe at night, and themeadow grass turns dry and wan. The last lilac crocuses die upon thefields. Icicles, hanging from watercourse or mill-wheel, glitter inthe noonday sunlight. The wind blows keenly from the north, and nowthe snow begins to fall and thaw and freeze, and fall and thaw again. The seasons are confused; wonderful days of flawless purity areintermingled with storm and gloom. At last the time comes when a greatsnowfall has to be expected. There is hard frost in the early morning, and at nine o'clock the thermometer stands at 2°. The sky is clear, but it clouds rapidly with films of cirrus and of stratus in the southand west. Soon it is covered over with grey vapour in a level sheet, all the hill-tops standing hard against the steely heavens. The coldwind from the west freezes the moustache to one's pipe-stem. By noonthe air is thick with a coagulated mist; the temperature meanwhile hasrisen, and a little snow falls at intervals. The valleys are filledwith a curious opaque blue, from which the peaks rise, phantom-likeand pallid, into the grey air, scarcely distinguishable from theirbackground. The pine-forests on the mountain-sides are of darkestindigo. There is an indescribable stillness and a sense of incubation. The wind has fallen. Later on, the snow-flakes flutter silently andsparely through the lifeless air. The most distant landscape is quiteblotted out. After sunset the clouds have settled down upon the hills, and the snow comes in thick, impenetrable fleeces. At night our haircrackles and sparkles when we brush it. Next morning there is a footand a half of finely powdered snow, and still the snow is falling. Strangely loom the châlets through the semi-solid whiteness. Yet theair is now dry and singularly soothing. The pines are heavy with theirwadded coverings; now and again one shakes himself in silence, and hisburden falls in a white cloud, to leave a black-green patch upon thehillside, whitening again as the imperturbable fall continues. Thestakes by the roadside are almost buried. No sound is audible. Nothingis seen but the snow-plough, a long raft of planks with a heavy stoneat its stem and a sharp prow, drawn by four strong horses, and drivenby a young man erect upon the stem. 

So we live through two days and nights, and on the third a north windblows. The snow-clouds break and hang upon the hills in scatteredfleeces; glimpses of blue sky shine through, and sunlight glints alongthe heavy masses. The blues of the shadows are everywhere intense. Asthe clouds disperse, they form in moulded domes, tawny like sunburnedmarble in the distant south lands. Every châlet is a miracle offantastic curves, built by the heavy hanging snow. Snow lies moundedon the roads and fields, writhed into loveliest wreaths, or outspreadin the softest undulations. All the irregularities of the hills aresoftened into swelling billows like the mouldings of Titanic statuary. 

It happened once or twice last winter that such a clearing aftersnowfall took place at full moon. Then the moon rose in a swirl offleecy vapour--clouds above, beneath, and all around. The sky wasblue as steel, and infinitely deep with mist-entangled stars. The hornabove which she first appears stood carved of solid black, and throughthe valley's length from end to end yawned chasms and clefts of liquiddarkness. As the moon rose, the clouds were conquered, and massed intorolling waves upon the ridges of the hills. The spaces of open skygrew still more blue. At last the silver light came flooding over all, and here and there the fresh snow glistened on the crags. There ismovement, palpitation, life of light through earth and sky. To walkout on such a night, when the perturbation of storm is over and theheavens are free, is one of the greatest pleasures offered by thiswinter life. It is so light that you can read the smallest print withease. The upper sky looks quite black, shading by violet and sapphireinto turquoise upon the horizon. There is the colour of ivory uponthe nearest snow-fields, and the distant peaks sparkle like silver, crystals glitter in all directions on the surface of the snow, white, yellow, and pale blue. The stars are exceedingly keen, but only a fewcan shine in the intensity of moonlight. The air is perfectly still, and though icicles may be hanging from beard and moustache to the fursbeneath one's chin, there is no sensation of extreme cold. 

During the earlier frosts of the season, after the first snows havefallen, but when there is still plenty of moisture in the ground, the loveliest fern-fronds of pure rime may be found in myriads on themeadows. They are fashioned like perfect vegetable structures, openingfan-shaped upon crystal stems, and catching the sunbeams with thebrilliancy of diamonds. Taken at certain angles, they decompose lightinto iridescent colours, appearing now like emeralds, rubies, ortopazes, and now like Labrador spar, blending all hues in a wondroussheen. When the lake freezes for the first time, its surface is ofcourse quite black, and so transparent that it is easy to see thefishes swimming in the deep beneath; but here and there, where rimehas fallen, there sparkle these fantastic flowers and ferns and mossesmade of purest frost. Nothing, indeed, can be more fascinating thanthe new world revealed by frost. In shaded places of the valley youmay walk through larches and leafless alder thickets by silent farms, all silvered over with hoar spangles--fairy forests, where the flowersand foliage are rime. The streams are flowing half-frozen over rockssheeted with opaque green ice. Here it is strange to watch the swirlof water freeing itself from these frost-shackles, and to see iteddying beneath the overhanging eaves of frailest crystal-frostedsnow. All is so silent, still, and weird in this white world, that onemarvels when the spirit of winter will appear, or what shrill voicesin the air will make his unimaginable magic audible. Nothing happens, however, to disturb the charm, save when a sunbeam cuts the chain ofdiamonds on an alder bough, and down they drift in a thin cloud ofdust. It may be also that the air is full of floating crystals, like tiniest most restless fire-flies rising and falling and passingcrosswise in the sun-illumined shade of tree or mountain-side. 

It is not easy to describe these beauties of the winter-world; and yetone word must be said about the sunsets. Let us walk out, therefore, towards the lake at four o'clock in mid-December. The thermometer isstanding at 3°, and there is neither breath of wind nor cloud. Venusis just visible in rose and sapphire, and the thin young moon isbeside her. To east and south the snowy ranges burn with yellow fire, deepening to orange and crimson hues, which die away and leave agreenish pallor. At last, the higher snows alone are livid with a lastfaint tinge of light, and all beneath is quite white. But the tideof glory turns. While the west grows momently more pale, the easternheavens flush with afterglow, suffuse their spaces with pink andviolet. Daffodil and tenderest emerald intermingle; and these coloursspread until the west again has rose and primrose and sapphirewonderfully blent, and from the burning skies a light is cast upon thevalley--a phantom light, less real, more like the hues of moltengems, than were the stationary flames of sunset. Venus and the moonmeanwhile are silvery clear. Then the whole illumination fades likemagic. 

All the charms of which I have been writing are combined in asledge-drive. With an arrowy gliding motion one passes through thesnow-world as through a dream. In the sunlight the snow surfacesparkles with its myriad stars of crystals. In the shadow it ceasesto glitter, and assumes a blueness scarcely less blue than the sky. So the journey is like sailing through alternate tracts of lightirradiate heavens, and interstellar spaces of the clearest and mostflawless ether. The air is like the keen air of the highest glaciers. As we go, the bells keep up a drowsy tinkling at the horse's head. The whole landscape is transfigured--lifted high up out ofcommonplaceness. The little hills are Monte Rosas and Mont Blancs. Scale is annihilated, and nothing tells but form. There is hardlyany colour except the blue of sky and shadow. Everything is traced invanishing tints, passing from the almost amber of the distant sunlightthrough glowing white into pale greys and brighter blues and deepethereal azure. The pines stand in black platoons upon the hillsides, with a tinge of red or orange on their sable. Some carry masses ofsnow. Others have shaken their plumes free. The châlets are like fairyhouses or toys, waist-deep in stores of winter fuel. With their mellowtones of madder and umber on the weather-beaten woodwork relievedagainst the white, with fantastic icicles and folds of snow dependingfrom their eaves, or curled like coverlids from roof and window-sill, they are far more picturesque than in the summer. Colour, wherever itis found, whether in these cottages or in a block of serpentine bythe roadside, or in the golden bulrush blades by the lake shore, takesmore than double value. It is shed upon the landscape like a spiritualand transparent veil. Most beautiful of all are the sweeping lines ofpure untroubled snow, fold over fold of undulating softness, billowingalong the skirts of the peaked hills. There is no conveying thecharm of immaterial, aërial, lucid beauty, the feeling of purity andaloofness from sordid things, conveyed by the fine touch on all oursenses of light, colour, form, and air, and motion, and rare tinklingsound. The magic is like a spirit mood of Shelley's lyric verse. And, what is perhaps most wonderful, this delicate delight may be enjoyedwithout fear in the coldest weather. It does not matter how low thetemperature may be, if the sun is shining, the air dry, and the windasleep. 

Leaving the horse-sledges on the verge of some high hill-road, andtrusting oneself to the little hand-sledge which the people of theGrisons use, and which the English have christened by the Canadianterm 'toboggan, ' the excitement becomes far greater. The hand-sledgeis about three feet long, fifteen inches wide, and half a foot abovethe ground, on runners shod with iron. Seated firmly at the back, and guiding with the feet in front, the rider skims down precipitousslopes and round perilous corners with a rapidity that beats a horse'space. Winding through sombre pine-forests, where the torrent roarsfitfully among caverns of barbed ice, and the glistening mountainstower above in their glory of sun-smitten snow, darting round thefrozen ledges at the turnings of the road, silently gliding at a speedthat seems incredible, it is so smooth, he traverses two or threemiles without fatigue, carried onward by the mere momentum of hisweight. It is a strange and great joy. The toboggan, under theseconditions, might be compared to an enchanted boat shooting the rapidsof a river; and what adds to its fascination is the entire lonelinessin which the rider passes through those weird and ever-shifting scenesof winter radiance. Sometimes, when the snow is drifting up the pass, and the world is blank behind, before, and all around, it seems likeplunging into chaos. The muffled pines loom fantastically throughthe drift as we rush past them, and the wind, ever and anon, detachesgreat masses of snow in clouds from their bent branches. Or again atnight, when the moon is shining, and the sky is full of flamingstars, and the snow, frozen to the hardness of marble, sparkles withinnumerable crystals, a new sense of strangeness and of joy is givento the solitude, the swiftness, and the silence of the exercise. No other circumstances invest the poetry of rapid motion with morefascination. Shelley, who so loved the fancy of a boat inspired withits own instinct of life, would have delighted in the game, and wouldprobably have pursued it recklessly. At the same time, as practisedon a humbler scale nearer home, in company, and on a run selected forconvenience rather than for picturesqueness, tobogganing is a veryBohemian amusement. No one who indulges in it can count on avoidinghard blows and violent upsets, nor will his efforts to maintain hisequilibrium at the dangerous corners be invariably graceful. 

Nothing, it might be imagined, could be more monotonous than an Alpinevalley covered up with snow. And yet to one who has passed many monthsin that seclusion Nature herself presents no monotony; for the changesconstantly wrought by light and cloud and alternations of weatheron this landscape are infinitely various. The very simplicity of theconditions seems to assist the supreme artist. One day is wonderfulbecause of its unsullied purity; not a cloud visible, and the pinesclothed in velvet of rich green beneath a faultless canopy of light. The next presents a fretwork of fine film, wrought by the south windover the whole sky, iridescent with delicate rainbow tints within theinfluences of the sun, and ever-changing shape. On another, when theturbulent Föhn is blowing, streamers of snow may be seen flying fromthe higher ridges against a pallid background of slaty cloud, whilethe gaunt ribs of the hills glisten below with fitful gleams of luridlight. At sunrise, one morning, stealthy and mysterious vapours clothethe mountains from their basement to the waist, while the peaks areglistening serenely in clear daylight. Another opens with silentlyfalling snow. A third is rosy through the length and breadth of thedawn-smitten valley. It is, however, impossible to catalogue theindescribable variety of those beauties, which those who love naturemay enjoy by simply waiting on the changes of the winter in a singlestation of the Alps. 

 * * * * *

_WINTER NIGHTS AT DAVOS_

I

Light, marvellously soft yet penetrating, everywhere diffused, everywhere reflected without radiance, poured from the moon high aboveour heads in a sky tinted through all shades and modulations of blue, from turquoise on the horizon to opaque sapphire at the zenith--_dolcecolor_. (It is difficult to use the word _colour_ for this scenewithout suggesting an exaggeration. The blue is almost indefinable, yet felt. But if possible, the total effect of the night landscapeshould be rendered by careful exclusion of tints from theword-palette. The art of the etcher is more needed than that of thepainter. ) Heaven overhead is set with stars, shooting intensely, smouldering with dull red in Aldeboran, sparkling diamond-like inSirius, changing from orange to crimson and green in the swart fire ofyonder double star. On the snow this moonlight falls tenderly, not inhard white light and strong black shadow, but in tones of cream andivory, rounding the curves of drift. The mountain peaks alone glistenas though they were built of silver burnished by an agate. Far awaythey rise diminished in stature by the all-pervading dimness of brightlight, that erases the distinctions of daytime. On the path before ourfeet lie crystals of many hues, the splinters of a thousand gems. Inthe wood there are caverns of darkness, alternating with spaces ofstar-twinkled sky, or windows opened between russet stems and solidbranches for the moony sheen. The green of the pines is felt, althoughinvisible, so soft in substance that it seems less like velvet thansome materialised depth of dark green shadow. 

II

Snow falling noiseless and unseen. One only knows that it is fallingby the blinking of our eyes as the flakes settle on their lids andmelt. The cottage windows shine red, and moving lanterns of belatedwayfarers define the void around them. Yet the night is far from dark. The forests and the mountain-bulk beyond the valley loom softly largeand just distinguishable through a pearly haze. The path is puresttrackless whiteness, almost dazzling though it has no light. This waswhat Dante felt when he reached the lunar sphere:

 Parova a me, che nube ne coprisse Lucida, spessa, solida e pulita. 

Walking silent, with insensible footfall, slowly, for the snow is deepabove our ankles, we wonder what the world would be like if this wereall. Could the human race be acclimatised to this monotony (we say)perhaps emotion would be rarer, yet more poignant, suspended broodingon itself, and wakening by flashes to a quintessential mood. Thenfancy changes, and the thought occurs that even so must be a planet, not yet wholly made, nor called to take her place among the sisterhoodof light and song. 

III

Sunset was fading out upon the Rhætikon and still reflected from theSeehorn on the lake, when we entered the gorge of the Fluela--densepines on either hand, a mounting drift of snow in front, and faintpeaks, paling from rose to saffron, far above, beyond. There wasno sound but a tinkling stream and the continual jingle of oursledge-bells. We drove at a foot's pace, our horse finding his ownpath. When we left the forest, the light had all gone except for somealmost imperceptible touches of primrose on the eastern horns. It wasa moonless night, but the sky was alive with stars, and now and thenone fell. The last house in the valley was soon passed, and we enteredthose bleak gorges where the wind, fine, noiseless, penetrating likean edge of steel, poured slantwise on us from the north. As we rose, the stars to west seemed far beneath us, and the Great Bear sprawledupon the ridges of the lower hills outspread. We kept slowly movingonward, upward, into what seemed like a thin impalpable mist, butwas immeasurable tracts of snow. The last cembras were left behind, immovable upon dark granite boulders on our right. We entered aformless and unbillowed sea of greyness, from which there rose dimmountain-flanks that lost themselves in air. Up, ever up, andstill below us westward sank the stars. We were now 7500 feet abovesea-level, and the December night was rigid with intensity of frost. The cold, and movement, and solemnity of space, drowsed every sense. 

IV

The memory of things seen and done in moonlight is like the memory ofdreams. It is as a dream that I recall the night of our tobogganing toKlosters, though it was full enough of active energy. The moon was inher second quarter, slightly filmed with very high thin clouds, thatdisappeared as night advanced, leaving the sky and stars in all theirlustre. A sharp frost, sinking to three degrees above zero Fahrenheit, with a fine pure wind, such wind as here they call 'the mountainbreath. ' We drove to Wolfgang in a two-horse sledge, four of usinside, and our two Christians on the box. Up there, where the Alps ofDeath descend to join the Lakehorn Alps, above the Wolfswalk, thereis a world of whiteness--frozen ridges, engraved like cameos of aërialonyx upon the dark, star-tremulous sky; sculptured buttresses of snow, enclosing hollows filled with diaphanous shadow, and sweeping aloftinto the upland fields of pure clear drift. Then came the swiftdescent, the plunge into the pines, moon-silvered on their frostedtops. The battalions of spruce that climb those hills defined thedazzling snow from which they sprang, like the black tufts upon anermine robe. At the proper moment we left our sledge, and the bigChristian took his reins in hand to follow us. Furs and greatcoatswere abandoned. Each stood forth tightly accoutred, with short coat, and clinging cap, and gaitered legs for the toboggan. Off we startedin line, with but brief interval between, at first slowly, thenglidingly, and when the impetus was gained, with darting, bounding, almost savage swiftness--sweeping round corners, cutting the hardsnow-path with keen runners, avoiding the deep ruts, trusting tochance, taking advantage of smooth places, till the rush and swing anddownward swoop became mechanical. Space was devoured. Into the massyshadows of the forest, where the pines joined overhead, we piercedwithout a sound, and felt far more than saw the great rocks with theiricicles; and out again, emerging into moonlight, met the valley spreadbeneath our feet, the mighty peaks of the Silvretta and the vast bluesky. On, on, hurrying, delaying not, the woods and hills rushed by. Crystals upon the snow-banks glittered to the stars. Our souls wouldfain have stayed to drink these marvels of the moon-world, but ourlimbs refused. The magic of movement was upon us, and eight minutesswallowed the varying impressions of two musical miles. The villagelights drew near and nearer, then the sombre village huts, and soonthe speed grew less, and soon we glided to our rest into the sleepingvillage street. 

V

It was just past midnight. The moon had fallen to the western horns. Orion's belt lay bar-like on the opening of the pass, and Sirius shotflame on the Seehorn. A more crystalline night, more full of fulgentstars, was never seen, stars everywhere, but mostly scattered in largesparkles on the snow. Big Christian went in front, tugging toboggansby their strings, as Gulliver, in some old woodcut, drew the fleetsof Lilliput. Through the brown wood-châlets of Selfrangr, up to theundulating meadows, where the snow slept pure and crisp, he led us. There we sat awhile and drank the clear air, cooled to zero, butinnocent and mild as mother Nature's milk. Then in an instant, down, down through the hamlet, with its châlets, stables, pumps, and logs, the slumbrous hamlet, where one dog barked, and darkness dwelt uponthe path of ice, down with the tempest of a dreadful speed, thatshot each rider upward in the air, and made the frame of the toboggantremble--down over hillocks of hard frozen snow, dashing and bounding, to the river and the bridge. No bones were broken, though the race wasthrice renewed, and men were spilt upon the roadside by some furiousplunge. This amusement has the charm of peril and the unforeseen. Inno wise else can colder, keener air be drunken at such furious speed. The joy, too, of the engine-driver and the steeplechaser is upon us. Alas, that it should be so short! If only roads were better made forthe purpose, there would be no end to it; for the toboggan cannot losehis wind. But the good thing fails at last, and from the silence ofthe moon we pass into the silence of the fields of sleep. 

VI

The new stable is a huge wooden building, with raftered lofts to stowthe hay, and stalls for many cows and horses. It stands snugly in anangle of the pine-wood, bordering upon the great horse-meadow. Hereat night the air is warm and tepid with the breath of kine. Returningfrom my forest walk, I spy one window yellow in the moonlight with alamp. I lift the latch. The hound knows me, and does not bark. I enterthe stable, where six horses are munching their last meal. Upon thecorn-bin sits a knecht. We light our pipes and talk. He tells me ofthe valley of Arosa (a hawk's flight westward over yonder hills), howdeep in grass its summer lawns, how crystal-clear its stream, how blueits little lakes, how pure, without a taint of mist, 'too beautiful topaint, ' its sky in winter! This knecht is an Ardüser, and the valleyof Arosa lifts itself to heaven above his Langwies home. It is hisduty now to harness a sleigh for some night-work. We shake hands andpart--I to sleep, he for the snow. 

VII

The lake has frozen late this year, and there are places in it wherethe ice is not yet firm. Little snow has fallen since it froze--aboutthree inches at the deepest, driven by winds and wrinkled like theribbed sea-sand. Here and there the ice-floor is quite black andclear, reflecting stars, and dark as heaven's own depths. Elsewhere itis of a suspicious whiteness, blurred in surface, with jagged cracksand chasms, treacherously mended by the hand of frost. Moving slowly, the snow cries beneath our feet, and the big crystals tinkle. Theseare shaped like fern-fronds, growing fan-wise from a point, and setat various angles, so that the moonlight takes them with capricioustouch. They flash, and are quenched, and flash again, light darting tolight along the level surface, while the sailing planets and the starslook down complacent at this mimicry of heaven. Everything above, around, beneath, is very beautiful--the slumbrous woods, the snowyfells, and the far distance painted in faint blue upon the tenderbackground of the sky. Everything is placid and beautiful; and yet theplace is terrible. For, as we walk, the lake groans, with throttledsobs, and sudden cracklings of its joints, and sighs that shiver, undulating from afar, and pass beneath our feet, and die away indistance when they reach the shore. And now and then an upper crustof ice gives way; and will the gulfs then drag us down? We are inthe very centre of the lake. There is no use in thinking or in takingheed. Enjoy the moment, then, and march. Enjoy the contrast betweenthis circumambient serenity and sweetness, and the dreadful sense ofinsecurity beneath. Is not, indeed, our whole life of this nature?A passage over perilous deeps, roofed by infinity and sempiternalthings, surrounded too with evanescent forms, that like thesecrystals, trodden underfoot, or melted by the Föhn-wind into dew, flash, in some lucky moment, with a light that mimics stars! But toallegorise and sermonise is out of place here. It is but the expedientof those who cannot etch sensation by the burin of their art of words. 

VIII

It is ten o'clock upon Sylvester Abend, or New Year's Eve. Herr Buolsits with his wife at the head of his long table. His family andserving folk are round him. There is his mother, with little Ursula, his child, upon her knee. The old lady is the mother of four comelydaughters and nine stalwart sons, the eldest of whom is now a grizzledman. Besides our host, four of the brothers are here to-night; thehandsome melancholy Georg, who is so gentle in his speech; Simeon, with his diplomatic face; Florian, the student of medicine; andmy friend, colossal-breasted Christian. Palmy came a little later, worried with many cares, but happy to his heart's core. No optimistwas ever more convinced of his philosophy than Palmy. After them, below the salt, were ranged the knechts and porters, the marmitonfrom the kitchen, and innumerable maids. The board was tesselated withplates of birnen-brod and eier-brod, küchli and cheese and butter; andGeorg stirred grampampuli in a mighty metal bowl. For the uninitiated, it may be needful to explain these Davos delicacies. Birnen-brodis what the Scotch would call a 'bun, ' or massive cake, composed ofsliced pears, almonds, spices, and a little flour. Eier-brod is asaffron-coloured sweet bread, made with eggs; and küchli is a kindof pastry, crisp and flimsy, fashioned into various devices of cross, star, and scroll. Grampampuli is simply brandy burnt with sugar, themost unsophisticated punch I ever drank from tumblers. The frugalpeople of Davos, who live on bread and cheese and dried meat all theyear, indulge themselves but once with these unwonted dainties in thewinter. 

The occasion was cheerful, and yet a little solemn. The scene wasfeudal. For these Buols are the scions of a warrior race:

 A race illustrious for heroic deeds; Humbled, but not degraded. 

During the six centuries through which they have lived nobles inDavos, they have sent forth scores of fighting men to foreign lands, ambassadors to France and Venice and the Milanese, governors toChiavenna and Bregaglia and the much-contested Valtelline. Members oftheir house are Counts of Buol-Schauenstein in Austria, Freiherrs ofMuhlingen and Berenberg in the now German Empire. They keep the patentof nobility conferred on them by Henri IV. Their ancient coat--partedper pale azure and argent, with a dame of the fourteenth centurybearing in her hand a rose, all counterchanged--is carved in wood andmonumental marble on the churches and old houses hereabouts. And fromimmemorial antiquity the Buol of Davos has sat thus on Sylvester Abendwith family and folk around him, summoned from alp and snowy field todrink grampampuli and break the birnen-brod. 

These rites performed, the men and maids began to sing--brown armslounging on the table, and red hands folded in white aprons--seriousat first in hymn-like cadences, then breaking into wilder measureswith a jodel at the close. There is a measured solemnity in theperformance, which strikes the stranger as somewhat comic. But thesinging was good; the voices strong and clear in tone, no hesitationand no shirking of the melody. It was clear that the singers enjoyedthe music for its own sake, with half-shut eyes, as they take dancing, solidly, with deep-drawn breath, sustained and indefatigable. Buteleven struck; and the two Christians, my old friend, and Palmy, saidwe should be late for church. They had promised to take me with themto see bell-ringing in the tower. All the young men of the villagemeet, and draw lots in the Stube of the Rathhaus. One party tolls theold year out; the other rings the new year in. He who comes last issconced three litres of Veltliner for the company. This jovial finewas ours to pay to-night. 

When we came into the air, we found a bitter frost; the whole skyclouded over; a north wind whirling snow from alp and forest throughthe murky gloom. The benches and broad walnut tables of the Bathhauswere crowded with men, in shaggy homespun of brown and grey frieze. Its low wooden roof and walls enclosed an atmosphere of smoke, denserthan the external snow-drift. But our welcome was hearty, and we founda score of friends. Titanic Fopp, whose limbs are Michelangelesque inlength; spectacled Morosani; the little tailor Kramer, with a Frenchhorn on his knees; the puckered forehead of the Baumeister; theTroll-shaped postman; peasants and woodmen, known on far excursionsupon pass and upland valley. Not one but carried on his face thememory of winter strife with avalanche and snow-drift, of horsesstruggling through Fluela whirlwinds, and wine-casks tugged acrossBernina, and haystacks guided down precipitous gullies at thunderingspeed 'twixt pine and pine, and larches felled in distant glens besidethe frozen watercourses. Here we were, all met together for one hourfrom our several homes and occupations, to welcome in the year withclinked glasses and cries of _Prosit Neujahr!_

The tolling bells above us stopped. Our turn had come. Out into thesnowy air we tumbled, beneath the row of wolves' heads that adorn thepent-house roof. A few steps brought us to the still God's acre, where the snow lay deep and cold upon high-mounded graves of manygenerations. We crossed it silently, bent our heads to the low Gothicarch, and stood within the tower. It was thick darkness there. Butfar above, the bells began again to clash and jangle confusedly, withvolleys of demonic joy. Successive flights of ladders, each ending ina giddy platform hung across the gloom, climb to the height of somehundred and fifty feet; and all their rungs were crusted with frozensnow, deposited by trampling boots. For up and down these stairs, ascending and descending, moved other than angels--the friezejacketedBürschen, Grisons bears, rejoicing in their exercise, exhilarated withthe tingling noise of beaten metal. We reached the first room safely, guided by firm-footed Christian, whose one candle just defined therough walls and the slippery steps. There we found a band of boys, pulling ropes that set the bells in motion. But our destinationwas not reached. One more aërial ladder, perpendicular in darkness, brought us swiftly to the home of sound. It is a small square chamber, where the bells are hung, filled with the interlacement of enormousbeams, and pierced to north and south by open windows, from whoseparapets I saw the village and the valley spread beneath. The fiercewind hurried through it, charged with snow, and its narrow space wasthronged with men. Men on the platform, men on the window-sills, men grappling the bells with iron arms, men brushing by to reach thestairs, crossing, recrossing, shouldering their mates, drinkingred wine from gigantic beakers, exploding crackers, firing squibs, shouting and yelling in corybantic chorus. They yelled and shouted, one could see it by their open mouths and glittering eyes; but nota sound from human lungs could reach our ears. The overwhelmingincessant thunder of the bells drowned all. It thrilled the tympanum, ran through the marrow of the spine, vibrated in the inmost entrails. Yet the brain was only steadied and excited by this sea of brazennoise. After a few moments I knew the place and felt at home in it. Then I enjoyed a spectacle which sculptors might have envied. For theyring the bells in Davos after this fashion:--The lads below set themgoing with ropes. The men above climb in pairs on ladders to the beamsfrom which they are suspended. Two mighty pine-trees, roughly squaredand built into the walls, extend from side to side across the belfry. Another from which the bells hang, connects these massive trunksat right angles. Just where the central beam is wedged into thetwo parallel supports, the ladders reach them from each side of thebelfry, so that, bending from the higher rung of the ladder, andleaning over, stayed upon the lateral beam, each pair of men can keepone bell in movement with their hands. Each comrade plants one legupon the ladder, and sets the other knee firmly athwart the horizontalpine. Then round each other's waist they twine left arm and right. Thetwo have thus become one man. Right arm and left are free to grasp thebell's horns, sprouting at its crest beneath the beam. With a graverhythmic motion, bending sideward in a close embrace, swaying andreturning to their centre from the well-knit loins, they drive theforce of each strong muscle into the vexed bell. The impact is earnestat first, but soon it becomes frantic. The men take something fromeach other of exalted enthusiasm. This efflux of their combinedenergies inspires them and exasperates the mighty resonance of metalwhich they rule. They are lost in a trance of what approximates todervish passion--so thrilling is the surge of sound, so potent are therhythms they obey. Men come and tug them by the heels. One graspsthe starting thews upon their calves. Another is impatient for theirplace. But they strain still, locked together, and forgetful of theworld. At length they have enough: then slowly, clingingly unclasp, turn round with gazing eyes, and are resumed, sedately, into thediurnal round of common life. Another pair is in their room upon thebeam. 

The Englishman who saw these things stood looking up, enveloped in hisulster with the grey cowl thrust upon his forehead, like a monk. Onecandle cast a grotesque shadow of him on the plastered wall. And whenhis chance came, though he was but a weakling, he too climbed and forsome moments hugged the beam, and felt the madness of the swingingbell. Descending, he wondered long and strangely whether heascribed too much of feeling to the men he watched. But no, that wasimpossible. There are emotions deeply seated in the joy of exercise, when the body is brought into play, and masses move in concert, ofwhich the subject is but half conscious. Music and dance, and thedelirium of battle or the chase, act thus upon spontaneous natures. The mystery of rhythm and associated energy and blood tinglingin sympathy is here. It lies at the root of man's most tyrannousinstinctive impulses. 

It was past one when we reached home, and now a meditative man mightwell have gone to bed. But no one thinks of sleeping on SylvesterAbend. So there followed bowls of punch in one friend's room, whereEnglish, French, and Germans blent together in convivial Babel; andflasks of old Montagner in another. Palmy, at this period, wore anarchdeacon's hat, and smoked a churchwarden's pipe; and neither werehis own, nor did he derive anything ecclesiastical or Anglican fromthe association. Late in the morning we must sally forth, they said, and roam the town. For it is the custom here on New Year's night togreet acquaintances, and ask for hospitality, and no one maydeny these self-invited guests. We turned out again into the greysnow-swept gloom, a curious Comus--not at all like Greeks, for we hadneither torches in our hands nor rose-wreaths to suspend upon a lady'sdoor-posts. And yet I could not refrain, at this supreme momentof jollity, in the zero temperature, amid my Grisons friends, fromhumming to myself verses from the Greek Anthology:--

 The die is cast! Nay, light the torch! I'll take the road! Up, courage, ho! Why linger pondering in the porch? Upon Love's revel we will go!

 Shake off those fumes of wine! Hang care And caution! What has Love to do With prudence? Let the torches flare! Quick, drown the doubts that hampered you!

 Cast weary wisdom to the wind! One thing, but one alone, I know: Love bent e'en Jove and made him blind Upon Love's revel we will go!

And then again:--

 I've drunk sheer madness! Not with wine, But old fantastic tales, I'll arm My heart in heedlessness divine, And dare the road, nor dream of harm!

 I'll join Love's rout! Let thunder break, Let lightning blast me by the way! Invulnerable Love shall shake His ægis o'er my head to-day. 

This last epigram was not inappropriate to an invalid about to beginthe fifth act in a roystering night's adventure. And still oncemore:--

 Cold blows the winter wind; 'tis Love, Whose sweet eyes swim with honeyed tears, That bears me to thy doors, my love, Tossed by the storm of hopes and fears. 

 Cold blows the blast of aching Love; But be thou for my wandering sail, Adrift upon these waves of love, Safe harbour from the whistling gale!

However, upon this occasion, though we had winter-wind enough, andcold enough, there was not much love in the business. My arm wasfirmly clenched in Christian Buol's, and Christian Palmy camebehind, trolling out songs in Italian dialect, with still recurring_canaille_ choruses, of which the facile rhymes seemed mostlymade on a prolonged _amu-u-u-r_. It is noticeable that Italianditties are specially designed for fellows shouting in the streets atnight. They seem in keeping there, and nowhere else that I could eversee. And these Davosers took to them naturally when the time for Comuscame. It was between four and five in the morning, and nearly all thehouses in the place were dark. The tall church-tower and spire loomedup above us in grey twilight. The tireless wind still swept thinsnow from fell and forest. But the frenzied bells had sunk into theirtwelvemonth's slumber, which shall be broken only by decorous tollingsat less festive times. I wondered whether they were tingling stillwith the heart-throbs and with the pressure of those many arms? Wastheir old age warmed, as mine was, with that gust of life--the youngmen who had clung to them like bees to lily-bells, and shaken alltheir locked-up tone and shrillness into the wild winter air? Alas!how many generations of the young have handled them; and they arestill there, frozen in their belfry; and the young grow middle-aged, and old, and die at last; and the bells they grappled in their lustof manhood toll them to their graves, on which the tireless wind will, winter after winter, sprinkle snow from alps and forests which theyknew. 

'There is a light, ' cried Christian, 'up in Anna's window!' 'A light!a light!' the Comus shouted. But how to get at the window, which ispretty high above the ground, and out of reach of the most ardentrevellers? We search a neighbouring shed, extract a stable-ladder, andin two seconds Palmy has climbed to the topmost rung, while Christianand Georg hold it firm upon the snow beneath. Then begins a passagefrom some comic opera of Mozart's or Cimarosa's--an escapade familiarto Spanish or Italian students, which recalls the stage. It is anepisode from 'Don Giovanni, ' translated to this dark-etched sceneof snowy hills, and Gothic tower, and mullioned windows deep embayedbeneath their eaves and icicles. _Deh vieni alla finestra!_ singsPalmy-Leporello; the chorus answers: _Deh vieni! Perchè non vieniancora?_ pleads Leporello; the chorus shouts: _Perchè? Mioamu-u-u-r_, sighs Leporello; and Echo cries, _amu-u-u-r!_ Allthe wooing, be it noticed, is conducted in Italian. But the actorsmurmur to each other in Davoser Deutsch, 'She won't come, Palmy! It isfar too late; she is gone to bed. Come down; you'll wake the villagewith your caterwauling!' But Leporello waves his broad archdeacon'shat, and resumes a flood of flexible Bregaglian. He has a shrewdsuspicion that the girl is peeping from behind the window curtain;and tells us, bending down from the ladder, in a hoarse stage-whisper, that we must have patience; 'these girls are kittle cattle, who takelong to draw: but if your lungs last out, they're sure to show. ' AndLeporello is right. Faint heart ne'er won fair lady. From the summitof his ladder, by his eloquent Italian tongue, he brings the shy birddown at last. We hear the unbarring of the house door, and a comelymaiden, in her Sunday dress, welcomes us politely to her ground-floorsitting-room. The Comus enters, in grave order, with set speeches, handshakes, and inevitable _Prosits_! It is a large low chamber, with a huge stone stove, wide benches fixed along the walls, and agreat oval table. We sit how and where we can. Red wine is produced, and eier-brod and küchli. Fräulein Anna serves us sedately, holdingher own with decent self-respect against the inrush of the revellers. She is quite alone; but are not her father and mother in bed above, and within earshot? Besides, the Comus, even at this abnormal hour andafter an abnormal night, is well conducted. Things seem slipping intoa decorous wine-party, when Leporello readjusts the broad-brimmedhat upon his head, and very cleverly acts a little love-scene for ourbenefit. Fräulein Anna takes this as a delicate compliment, and thething is so prettily done in truth, that not the sternest taste couldbe offended. Meanwhile another party of night-wanderers, attracted byour mirth, break in. More _Prosits_ and clinked glasses follow;and with a fair good-morning to our hostess, we retire. 

It is too late to think of bed. 'The quincunx of heaven, ' as SirThomas Browne phrased it on a dissimilar occasion, 'runs low.... Thehuntsmen are up in America; and not in America only, for the huntsmen, if there are any this night in Graubünden, have long been out upon thesnow, and the stable-lads are dragging the sledges from their shedsto carry down the mails to Landquart. We meet the porters from thevarious hotels, bringing letter-bags and luggage to the post. It istime to turn in and take a cup of black coffee against the rising sun. 

IX

Some nights, even in Davos, are spent, even by an invalid, in bed. A leaflet, therefore, of 'Sleep-chasings' may not inappropriatelybe flung, as envoy to so many wanderings on foot and sledge upon thewinter snows. 

The first is a confused medley of things familiar and things strange. I have been dreaming of far-away old German towns, with gabled housesdeep in snow; dreaming of châlets in forgotten Alpine glens, wherewood-cutters come plunging into sleepy light from gloom, and sinkingdown beside the stove to shake the drift from their rough shoulders;dreaming of vast veils of icicles upon the gaunt black rocks in placeswhere no foot of man will pass, and where the snow is weaving eyebrowsover the ledges of grey whirlwind-beaten precipices; dreamingof Venice, forlorn beneath the windy drip of rain, the gas lampsflickering on the swimming piazzetta, the barche idle, the gondolierwrapped in his thread-bare cloak, alone; dreaming of Apennines, withworld-old cities, brown, above the brown sea of dead chestnut boughs;dreaming of stormy tides, and watchers aloft in lighthouses when dayis finished; dreaming of dead men and women and dead children in theearth, far down beneath the snow-drifts, six feet deep. And thenI lift my face, awaking, from my pillow; the pallid moon is on thevalley, and the room is filled with spectral light. 

I sleep, and change my dreaming. This is a hospice in an unfrequentedpass, between sad peaks, beside a little black lake, overdrifted withsoft snow. I pass into the house-room, gliding silently. An old manand an old woman are nodding, bowed in deepest slumber, by the stove. A young man plays the zither on a table. He lifts his head, stillmodulating with his fingers on the strings. He looks right through mewith wide anxious eyes. He does not see me, but sees Italy, I know, and some one wandering on a sandy shore. 

I sleep, and change my dreaming. This is S. Stephen's Church in Wien. Inside, the lamps are burning dimly in the choir. There is fog in theaisles; but through the sleepy air and over the red candles flies awild soprano's voice, a boy's soul in its singing sent to heaven. 

I sleep, and change my dreaming. From the mufflers in which hisfather, the mountebank, has wrapped the child, to carry him acrossthe heath, a little tumbling-boy emerges in soiled tights. He is halfasleep. His father scrapes the fiddle. The boy shortens his red belt, kisses his fingers to us, and ties himself into a knot among theglasses on the table. 

I sleep, and change my dreaming. I am on the parapet of a hugecircular tower, hollow like a well, and pierced with windows atirregular intervals. The parapet is broad, and slabbed with redVerona marble. Around me are athletic men, all naked, in the strangestattitudes of studied rest, down-gazing, as I do, into the depthsbelow. There comes a confused murmur of voices, and the tower isthreaded and rethreaded with great cables. Up these there climb to usa crowd of young men, clinging to the ropes and flinging their bodiessideways on aërial trapezes. My heart trembles with keen joy andterror. For nowhere else could plastic forms be seen more beautiful, and nowhere else is peril more apparent. Leaning my chin upon theutmost verge, I wait. I watch one youth, who smiles and soars to me;and when his face is almost touching mine, he speaks, but what he saysI know not. 

I sleep, and change my dreaming. The whole world rocks to itsfoundations. The mountain summits that I know are shaken. They bowtheir bristling crests. They are falling, falling on us, and the earthis riven. I wake in terror, shouting: INSOLITIS TREMUERUNT MOTIBUSALPES! An earthquake, slight but real, has stirred the ever-wakefulVesta of the brain to this Virgilian quotation. 

I sleep, and change my dreaming. Once more at night I sledge aloneupon the Klosters road. It is the point where the woods close over itand moonlight may not pierce the boughs. There come shrill cries ofmany voices from behind, and rushings that pass by and vanish. Thenon their sledges I behold the phantoms of the dead who died in Davos, longing for their homes; and each flies past me, shrieking in thestill cold air; and phosphorescent like long meteors, the pageantturns the windings of the road below and disappears. 

I sleep, and change my dreaming. This is the top of some highmountain, where the crags are cruelly tortured and cast in enormoussplinters on the ledges of cliffs grey with old-world ice. A ravine, opening at my feet, plunges down immeasurably to a dim and distantsea. Above me soars a precipice embossed with a gigantic ice-boundshape. As I gaze thereon, I find the lineaments and limbs of a Titanicman chained and nailed to the rock. His beard has grown for centuries, and flowed this way and that, adown his breast and over to the stoneon either side; and the whole of him is covered with a greenish ice, ancient beyond the memory of man. 'This is Prometheus, ' I whisper tomyself, 'and I am alone on Caucasus. '

 * * * * *

BACCHUS IN GRAUBÜNDEN

I

Some years' residence in the Canton of the Grisons made me familiarwith all sorts of Valtelline wine; with masculine but rough _Inferno_, generous _Forzato_, delicate _Sassella_, harsher _Montagner_, theraspberry flavour of _Grumello_, the sharp invigorating twang of_Villa_. The colour, ranging from garnet to almandine or ruby, told methe age and quality of wine; and I could judge from the crust it formsupon the bottle, whether it had been left long enough in wood toripen. I had furthermore arrived at the conclusion that the bestValtelline can only be tasted in cellars of the Engadine or Davos, where this vintage matures slowly in the mountain air, and takes aflavour unknown at lower levels. In a word, it had amused my leisureto make or think myself a connoisseur. My literary taste was tickledby the praise bestowed in the Augustan age on Rhætic grapes by Virgil:

 Et quo te carmine dicam, Rhætica? nec cellis ideo contende Falernis. 

I piqued myself on thinking that could the poet but have drankone bottle at Samaden--where Stilicho, by the way, in his famousrecruiting expedition may perhaps have drank it--he would have beenless chary in his panegyric. For the point of inferiority on which heseems to insist, namely, that Valtelline wine does not keep wellin cellar, is only proper to this vintage in Italian climate. Suchmeditations led my fancy on the path of history. Is there truth, then, in the dim tradition that this mountain land was colonisedby Etruscans? Is _Ras_ the root of Rhætia? The Etruscans wereaccomplished wine-growers, we know. It was their Montepulciano whichdrew the Gauls to Rome, if Livy can be trusted. Perhaps they firstplanted the vine in Valtelline. Perhaps its superior culture in thatdistrict may be due to ancient use surviving in a secluded Alpinevalley. One thing is certain, that the peasants of Sondrio and Tiranounderstand viticulture better than the Italians of Lombardy. 

Then my thoughts ran on to the period of modern history, when theGrisons seized the Valtelline in lieu of war-pay from the Dukes ofMilan. For some three centuries they held it as a subject province. From the Rathhaus at Davos or Chur they sent their nobles--VonSalis and Buol, Planta and Sprecher von Bernegg--across the hills asgovernors or podestàs to Poschiavo, Sondrio, Tirano, and Morbegno. In those old days the Valtelline wines came duly every winter oversnow-deep passes to fill the cellars of the Signori Grigioni. Thatquaint traveller Tom Coryat, in his so-called 'Crudities, ' notesthe custom early in the seventeenth century. And as that customthen obtained, it still subsists with little alteration. Thewine-carriers--Weinführer, as they are called--first scaledthe Bernina pass, halting then as now, perhaps at Poschiavo andPontresina. Afterwards, in order to reach Davos, the pass of theScaletta rose before them--a wilderness of untracked snow-drifts. Thecountry-folk still point to narrow, light hand-sledges, on which thecasks were charged before the last pitch of the pass. Some wine came, no doubt, on pack-saddles. A meadow in front of the Dischma-Thal, where the pass ends, still bears the name of the Ross-Weid, orhorse-pasture. It was here that the beasts of burden used for thiswine-service, rested after their long labours. In favourable weatherthe whole journey from Tirano would have occupied at least four days, with scanty halts at night. 

The Valtelline slipped from the hands of the Grisons early in thiscentury. It is rumoured that one of the Von Salis family negotiatedmatters with Napoleon more for his private benefit than for theinterests of the state. However this may have been, when theGraubünden became a Swiss Canton, after four centuries of sovereignindependence, the whole Valtelline passed to Austria, and soeventually to Italy. According to modern and just notions ofnationality, this was right. In their period of power, the Grisonsmasters had treated their Italian dependencies with harshness. TheValtelline is an Italian valley, connected with the rest ofthe peninsula by ties of race and language. It is, moreover, geographically linked to Italy by the great stream of the Adda, whichtakes its rise upon the Stelvio, and after passing through the Lake ofComo, swells the volume of the Po. 

But, though politically severed from the Valtelline, the Engadinersand Davosers have not dropped their old habit of importing its bestproduce. What they formerly levied as masters, they now acquire bypurchase. The Italian revenue derives a large profit from the frontierdues paid at the gate between Tirano and Poschiavo on the Berninaroad. Much of the same wine enters Switzerland by another route, travelling from Sondrio to Chiavenna and across the Splügen. But untilquite recently, the wine itself could scarcely be found outside theCanton. It was indeed quoted upon Lombard wine-lists. Yet no one drankit; and when I tasted it at Milan, I found it quite unrecognisable. The fact seems to be that the Graubündeners alone know how to dealwith it; and, as I have hinted, the wine requires a mountain climatefor its full development. 

II

The district where the wine of Valtellina is grown extends, roughlyspeaking, from Tirano to Morbegno, a distance of some fifty-fourmiles. The best sorts come from the middle of this region. High upin the valley, soil and climate are alike less favourable. Low downa coarser, earthier quality springs from fat land where the valleybroadens. The northern hillsides to a very considerable height abovethe river are covered with vineyards. The southern slopes on the leftbank of the Adda, lying more in shade, yield but little. Inferno, Grumello, and Perla di Sassella are the names of famous vineyards. Sassella is the general name for a large tract. Buying an Inferno, Grumello, or Perla di Sassella wine, it would be absurd to supposethat one obtained it precisely from the eponymous estate. But as eachof these vineyards yields a marked quality of wine, which is takenas standard-giving, the produce of the whole district may be broadlyclassified as approaching more or less nearly to one of these acceptedtypes. The Inferno, Grumello, and Perla di Sassella of commerce aretherefore three sorts of good Valtelline, ticketed with famous namesto indicate certain differences of quality. Montagner, as thename implies, is a somewhat lighter wine, grown higher up in thehill-vineyards. And of this class there are many species, someapproximating to Sassella in delicacy of flavour, others approachingthe tart lightness of the Villa vintage. This last takes its titlefrom a village in the neighbourhood of Tirano, where a table-wine ischiefly grown. 

Forzato is the strongest, dearest, longest-lived of this whole familyof wines. It is manufactured chiefly at Tirano; and, as will beunderstood from its name, does not profess to belong to any one of thefamous localities. Forzato or Sforzato, forced or enforced, is in facta wine which has undergone a more artificial process. In German thepeople call it Strohwein, which also points to the method of itspreparation. The finest grapes are selected and dried in the sun(hence the _Stroh_) for a period of eight or nine weeks. Whenthey have almost become raisins, they are pressed. The must is heavilycharged with sugar, and ferments powerfully. Wine thus made requiresseveral years to ripen. Sweet at first, it takes at last a very finequality and flavour, and is rough, almost acid, on the tongue. Itscolour too turns from a deep rich crimson to the tone of tawny port, which indeed it much resembles. 

Old Forzato, which has been long in cask, and then perhaps three yearsin bottle, will fetch at least six francs, or may rise to even tenfrancs a flask. The best Sassella rarely reaches more than fivefrancs. Good Montagner and Grumello can be had perhaps for fourfrancs; and Inferno of a special quality for six francs. Thus theaverage price of old Valtelline wine may be taken as five francs abottle. These, I should observe, are hotel prices. 

Valtelline wines bought in the wood vary, of course, according totheir age and year of vintage. I have found that from 2. 50 fr. To 3. 50fr. Per litre is a fair price for sorts fit to bottle. The new wine of1881 sold in the following winter at prices varying from 1. 05 fr. To1. 80 fr. Per litre. 

It is customary for the Graubünden wine-merchants to buy up the wholeproduce of a vineyard from the peasants at the end of the vintage. They go in person or depute their agents to inspect the wine, maketheir bargains, and seal the cellars where the wine is stored. Then, when the snow has fallen, their own horses with sleighs and trustedservants go across the passes to bring it home. Generally they havesome local man of confidence at Tirano, the starting-point for thehomeward journey, who takes the casks up to that place and sees themduly charged. Merchants of old standing maintain relations with thesame peasants, taking their wine regularly; so that from Lorenz Gredigat Pontresina or Andreas Gredig at Davos Dörfli, from Fanconi atSamaden, or from Giacomi at Chiavenna, special qualities of wine, theproduce of certain vineyards, are to be obtained. Up to the presenttime this wine trade has been conducted with simplicity and honesty byboth the dealers and the growers. One chief merit of Valtelline wineis that it is pure. How long so desirable a state of things willsurvive the slow but steady development of an export business may bequestioned. 

III

With so much practical and theoretical interest in the produce ofthe Valtelline to stimulate my curiosity, I determined to visit thedistrict at the season when the wine was leaving it. It was the winterof 1881-82, a winter of unparalleled beauty in the high Alps. Daysucceeded day without a cloud. Night followed night with steadystars, gliding across clear mountain ranges and forests of dark pinesunstirred by wind. I could not hope for a more prosperous season; andindeed I made such use of it, that between the months of January andMarch I crossed six passes of the Alps in open sleighs--the FluelaBernina, Splügen, Julier, Maloja, and Albula--with less difficulty anddiscomfort in mid-winter than the traveller may often find on them inJune. 

At the end of January, my friend Christian and I left Davos longbefore the sun was up, and ascended for four hours through theinterminable snow-drifts of the Fluela in a cold grey shadow. Thesun's light seemed to elude us. It ran along the ravine through whichwe toiled; dipped down to touch the topmost pines above our heads;rested in golden calm upon the Schiahorn at our back; capriciouslyplayed here and there across the Weisshorn on our left, and made theprecipices of the Schwartzhorn glitter on our right. But athwart ourpath it never fell until we reached the very summit of the pass. Then we passed quietly into the full glory of the winter morning--atranquil flood of sunbeams, pouring through air of crystalline purity, frozen and motionless. White peaks and dark brown rocks soared up, cutting a sky of almost purple blueness. A stillness that might befelt brooded over the whole world; but in that stillness there wasnothing sad, no suggestion of suspended vitality. It was the stillnessrather of untroubled health, of strength omnipotent but unexerted. 

From the Hochspitz of the Fluela the track plunges at one bound intothe valley of the Inn, following a narrow cornice carved from thesmooth bank of snow, and hung, without break or barrier, athousand feet or more above the torrent. The summer road is lost insnow-drifts. The galleries built as a protection from avalanches, which sweep in rivers from those grim, bare fells above, are blockedwith snow. Their useless arches yawn, as we glide over or outsidethem, by paths which instinct in our horse and driver traces. As a flymay creep along a house-roof, slanting downwards we descend. One whiskfrom the swinged tail of an avalanche would hurl us, like a fly, intothe ruin of the gaping gorge. But this season little snow has fallenon the higher hills; and what still lies there, is hard frozen. Therefore we have no fear, as we whirl fast and faster from thesnow-fields into the black forests of gnarled cembras and wind-weariedpines. Then Süss is reached, where the Inn hurries its shallow watersclogged with ice-floes through a sleepy hamlet. The stream is pure andgreen; for the fountains of the glaciers are locked by winter frosts;and only clear rills from perennial sources swell its tide. At Süsswe lost the sun, and toiled in garish gloom and silence, nipped by theever-deepening cold of evening, upwards for four hours to Samaden. 

The next day was spent in visiting the winter colony at San Moritz, where the Kulm Hotel, tenanted by some twenty guests, presented in itsvastness the appearance of a country-house. One of the prettiest spotsin the world is the ice-rink, fashioned by the skill of Herr CasparBadrutt on a high raised terrace, commanding the valley of the Inn andthe ponderous bulwarks of Bernina. The silhouettes of skaters, definedagainst that landscape of pure white, passed to and fro beneath acloudless sky. Ladies sat and worked or read on seats upon the ice. Not a breath of wind was astir, and warm beneficent sunlight floodedthe immeasurable air. Only, as the day declined, some iridescent filmsoverspread the west; and just above Maloja the apparition of amock sun--a well-defined circle of opaline light, broken at regularintervals by four globes--seemed to portend a change of weather. Thisforecast fortunately proved delusive. We drove back to Samaden acrossthe silent snow, enjoying those delicate tints of rose and violet andsaffron which shed enchantment for one hour over the white monotony ofAlpine winter. 

At half-past eight next morning, the sun was rising from behind PitzLanguard, as we crossed the Inn and drove through Pontresina in theglorious light, with all its huge hotels quite empty and none but afew country-folk abroad. Those who only know the Engadine in summerhave little conception of its beauty. Winter softens the hard detailsof bare rock, and rounds the melancholy grassless mountain flanks, suspending icicles to every ledge and spangling the curved surfacesof snow with crystals. The landscape gains in purity, and, what soundsunbelievable, in tenderness. Nor does it lose in grandeur. Lookingup the valley of the Morteratsch that morning, the glaciers weredistinguishable in hues of green and sapphire through their veil ofsnow; and the highest peaks soared in a transparency of amethystinelight beneath a blue sky traced with filaments of windy cloud. Somestorm must have disturbed the atmosphere in Italy, for fan-shapedmists frothed out around the sun, and curled themselves above themountains in fine feathery wreaths, melting imperceptibly into air, until, when we had risen above the cembras, the sky was one deep solidblue. 

All that upland wilderness is lovelier now than in the summer; and onthe morning of which I write, the air itself was far more summery thanI have ever known it in the Engadine in August. We could scarcelybear to place our hands upon the woodwork of the sleigh because ofthe fierce sun's heat. And yet the atmosphere was crystalline withwindless frost. As though to increase the strangeness of thesecontrasts, the pavement of beaten snow was stained with red dropsspilt from wine-casks which pass over it. 

The chief feature of the Bernina--what makes it a dreary pass enoughin summer, but infinitely beautiful in winter--is its breadth;illimitable undulations of snow-drifts; immensity of open sky;unbroken lines of white, descending in smooth curves from glitteringice-peaks. 

A glacier hangs in air above the frozen lakes, with all its green-blueice-cliffs glistening in intensest light. Pitz Palu shoots aloftlike sculptured marble, delicately veined with soft aërial shadows oftranslucent blue. At the summit of the pass all Italy seems to burstupon the eyes in those steep serried ranges, with their craggy crests, violet-hued in noonday sunshine, as though a bloom of plum or grapehad been shed over them, enamelling their jagged precipices. 

The top of the Bernina is not always thus in winter. It has a badreputation for the fury of invading storms, when falling snowhurtles together with snow scooped from the drifts in eddies, and theweltering white sea shifts at the will of whirlwinds. The Hospice thenmay be tenanted for days together by weather-bound wayfarers; and aline drawn close beneath its roof shows how two years ago the wholebuilding was buried in one snow-shroud. This morning we lounged aboutthe door, while our horses rested and postillions and carters pledgedone another in cups of new Veltliner. 

The road takes an awful and sudden dive downwards, quite irrespectiveof the carefully engineered post-track. At this season the path isbadly broken into ruts and chasms by the wine traffic. In some placesit was indubitably perilous: a narrow ledge of mere ice skirtingthinly clad hard-frozen banks of snow, which fell precipitatelysideways for hundreds of sheer feet. We did not slip over thisparapet, though we were often within an inch of doing so. Had ourhorse stumbled, it is not probable that I should have been writingthis. 

When we came to the galleries which defend the road from avalanches, we saw ahead of us a train of over forty sledges ascending, allcharged with Valtelline wine. Our postillions drew up at the innerside of the gallery, between massive columns of the purest icedependent from the rough-hewn roof and walls of rock. A sort of open_loggia_ on the farther side framed vignettes of the Valtellinemountains in their hard cerulean shadows and keen sunlight. Betweenus and the view defiled the wine-sledges; and as each went by, themen made us drink out of their _trinketti_. These are oblong, hexagonal wooden kegs, holding about fourteen litres, which the carterfills with wine before he leaves the Valtelline, to cheer him on thehomeward journey. You raise it in both hands, and when the bung hasbeen removed, allow the liquor to flow stream-wise down your throat. It was a most extraordinary Bacchic procession--a pomp which, thoughundreamed of on the banks of the Ilissus, proclaimed the deity ofDionysos in authentic fashion. Struggling horses, grappling at theice-bound floor with sharp-spiked shoes; huge, hoarse drivers, someclad in sheepskins from Italian valleys, some brown as bears in roughGraubünden homespun; casks, dropping their spilth of red wine on thesnow; greetings, embracings; patois of Bergamo, Romansch, and Germanroaring around the low-browed vaults and tingling ice pillars;pourings forth of libations of the new strong Valtelline on breastsand beards;--the whole made up a scene of stalwart jollity andmanful labour such as I have nowhere else in such wild circumstanceswitnessed. Many Davosers were there, the men of Andreas Gredig, Valär, and so forth; and all of these, on greeting Christian, forced us todrain a _Schluck_ from their unmanageable cruses. Then on theywent, crying, creaking, struggling, straining through the corridor, which echoed deafeningly, the gleaming crystals of those hard Italianmountains in their winter raiment building a background of stillbeauty to the savage Bacchanalian riot of the team. 

How little the visitors who drink Valtelline wine at S. Moritz orDavos reflect by what strange ways it reaches them. A sledge canscarcely be laden with more than one cask of 300 litres on the ascent;and this cask, according to the state of the road, has many times tobe shifted from wheels to runners and back again before the journeyis accomplished. One carter will take charge of two horses, andconsequently of two sledges and two casks, driving them both by voiceand gesture rather than by rein. When they leave the Valtelline, thecarters endeavour, as far as possible, to take the pass in gangs, lestbad weather or an accident upon the road should overtake them singly. At night they hardly rest three hours, and rarely think of sleeping, but spend the time in drinking and conversation. The horses are fedand littered; but for them too the night-halt is little better thana baiting-time. In fair weather the passage of the mountain is notdifficult, though tiring. But woe to men and beasts alike if theyencounter storms! Not a few perish in the passes; and it frequentlyhappens that their only chance is to unyoke the horses and leave thesledges in a snow-wreath, seeking for themselves such shelter asmay possibly be gained, frost-bitten, after hours of battling withimpermeable drifts. The wine is frozen into one solid mass of rosy icebefore it reaches Pontresina. This does not hurt the young vintage, but it is highly injurious to wine of some years' standing. The perilsof the journey are aggravated by the savage temper of the drivers. Jealousies between the natives of rival districts spring up; and thereare men alive who have fought the whole way down from Fluela Hospiceto Davos Platz with knives and stones, hammers and hatchets, woodenstaves and splintered cart-wheels, staining the snow with blood, andbringing broken pates, bruised limbs, and senseless comrades home totheir women to be tended. 

Bacchus Alpinus shepherded his train away from us to northward, and wepassed forth into noonday from the gallery. It then seemed clear thatboth conductor and postillion were sufficiently merry. The plunge theytook us down those frozen parapets, with shriek and _jauchzen_and cracked whips, was more than ever dangerous. Yet we reached LaRosa safely. This is a lovely solitary spot, beside a rushing stream, among grey granite boulders grown with spruce and rhododendron: averitable rose of Sharon blooming in the desert. The wastes of theBernina stretch above, and round about are leaguered some of the mostforbidding sharp-toothed peaks I ever saw. Onwards, across the silentsnow, we glided in immitigable sunshine, through opening valleys andpine-woods, past the robber-huts of Pisciadella, until at evenfall werested in the roadside inn at Poschiavo. 

IV

The snow-path ended at Poschiavo; and when, as usual, we started onour journey next day at sunrise, it was in a carriage upon wheels. Yet even here we were in full midwinter. Beyond Le Prese the lakepresented one sheet of smooth black ice, reflecting every peak andchasm of the mountains, and showing the rocks and water-weeds in theclear green depths below. The glittering floor stretched away foracres of untenanted expanse, with not a skater to explore those darkmysterious coves, or strike across the slanting sunlight pouredfrom clefts in the impendent hills. Inshore the substance of theice sparkled here and there with iridescence like the plumelets ofa butterfly's wing under the microscope, wherever light happened tocatch the jagged or oblique flaws that veined its solid crystal. 

From the lake the road descends suddenly for a considerable distancethrough a narrow gorge, following a torrent which rushes among graniteboulders. Chestnut trees begin to replace the pines. The sunnierterraces are planted with tobacco, and at a lower level vines appearat intervals in patches. One comes at length to a great red gateacross the road, which separates Switzerland from Italy, and where theexport dues on wine are paid. The Italian custom-house isromantically perched above the torrent. Two courteous and elegant_finanzieri_, mere boys, were sitting wrapped in their militarycloaks and reading novels in the sun as we drove up. Though they madesome pretence of examining the luggage, they excused themselves withsweet smiles and apologetic eyes--it was a disagreeable duty!

A short time brought us to the first village in the Valtelline, where the road bifurcates northward to Bormio and the Stelvio pass, southward to Sondrio and Lombardy. It is a little hamlet, known bythe name of La Madonna di Tirano, having grown up round a pilgrimagechurch of great beauty, with tall Lombard bell-tower, pierced withmany tiers of pilastered windows, ending in a whimsical spire, anddominating a fantastic cupola building of the earlier Renaissance. Taken altogether, this is a charming bit of architecture, picturesquely set beneath the granite snow-peaks of the Valtelline. The church, they say, was raised at Madonna's own command to stay thetide of heresy descending from the Engadine; and in the year 1620, thebronze statue of S. Michael, which still spreads wide its wings abovethe cupola, looked down upon the massacre of six hundred Protestantsand foreigners, commanded by the patriot Jacopo Robustelli. 

From Madonna the road leads up the valley through a narrow avenue ofpoplar-trees to the town of Tirano. We were now in the district whereForzato is made, and every vineyard had a name and history. In Tiranowe betook ourself to the house of an old acquaintance of the Buolfamily, Bernardo da Campo, or, as the Graubündeners call him, BernardCampbèll. We found him at dinner with his son and grandchildren in avast, dark, bare Italian chamber. It would be difficult to find a moretypical old Scotchman of the Lowlands than he looked, with his cleanclose-shaven face, bright brown eyes, and snow-white hair escapingfrom a broad-brimmed hat. He might have sat to a painter for someCovenanter's portrait, except that there was nothing dour about him, or for an illustration to Burns's 'Cotter's Saturday Night. ' The airof probity and canniness combined with a twinkle of dry humour wascompletely Scotch; and when he tapped his snuff-box, telling storiesof old days, I could not refrain from asking him about his pedigree. It should be said that there is a considerable family of Campèlls orCampbèlls in the Graubünden, who are fabled to deduce their stock froma Scotch Protestant of Zwingli's time; and this made it irresistibleto imagine that in our friend Bernardo I had chanced upon a notablespecimen of atavism. All he knew, however, was, that his firstancestor had been a foreigner, who came across the mountains to Tiranotwo centuries ago. [3]

This old gentleman is a considerable wine-dealer. He sent us with hisson, Giacomo, on a long journey underground through his cellars, wherewe tasted several sorts of Valtelline, especially the new Forzato, made a few weeks since, which singularly combines sweetness withstrength, and both with a slight effervescence. It is certainly thesort of wine wherewith to tempt a Polyphemus, and not unapt to turn agiant's head. 

Leaving Tirano, and once more passing through the poplars by Madonna, we descended the valley all along the vineyards of Villa and the vastdistrict of Sassella. Here and there, at wayside inns, we stopped todrink a glass of some particular vintage; and everywhere it seemed asthough god Bacchus were at home. The whole valley on the right side ofthe Adda is one gigantic vineyard, climbing the hills in tiers andterraces, which justify its Italian epithet of _Teatro di Bacco_. Therock is a greyish granite, assuming sullen brown and orange tintswhere exposed to sun and weather. The vines are grown on stakes, nottrellised over trees or carried across boulders, as is the fashion atChiavenna or Terlan. Yet every advantage of the mountain is adroitlyused; nooks and crannies being specially preferred, where the sun'srays are deflected from hanging cliffs. The soil seems deep, and is ofa dull yellow tone. When the vines end, brushwood takes up the growth, which expires at last in crag and snow. Some alps and chalets, dimlytraced against the sky, are evidences that a pastoral life prevailsabove the vineyards. Pan there stretches the pine-thyrsus down tovine-garlanded Dionysos. 

The Adda flows majestically among willows in the midst, and the valleyis nearly straight. The prettiest spot, perhaps, is at Tresenda orS. Giacomo, where a pass from Edolo and Brescia descends from thesouthern hills. But the Valtelline has no great claim to beauty ofscenery. Its chief town, Sondrio, where we supped and drank somespecial wine called _il vino de' Signori Grigioni_, has beenmodernised in dull Italian fashion. 

V

The hotel at Sondrio, La Maddalena, was in carnival uproar ofmasquers, topers, and musicians all night through. It was as much aswe could do to rouse the sleepy servants and get a cup of coffeeere we started in the frozen dawn. 'Verfluchte Maddalena!' grumbledChristian as he shouldered our portmanteaus and bore them in hot hasteto the post. Long experience only confirms the first impression, that, of all cold, the cold of an Italian winter is most penetrating. Aswe lumbered out of Sondrio in a heavy diligence, I could have fanciedmyself back once again at Radicofani or among the Ciminian hills. Thefrost was penetrating. Fur-coats would not keep it out; and we longedto be once more in open sledges on Bernina rather than enclosed inthat cold coupé. Now we passed Grumello, the second largest of therenowned vine districts; and always keeping the white mass of Monte diDisgrazia in sight, rolled at last into Morbegno. Here the Valtellinevintage properly ends, though much of the ordinary wine is probablysupplied from the inferior produce of these fields. It was pastnoon when we reached Colico, and saw the Lake of Como glittering insunlight, dazzling cloaks of snow on all the mountains, which look asdry and brown as dead beech-leaves at this season. Our Bacchic journeyhad reached its close; and it boots not here to tell in detail how wemade our way across the Splügen, piercing its avalanches by low-archedgalleries scooped from the solid snow, and careering in our sledgesdown perpendicular snow-fields, which no one who has crossed thatpass from the Italian side in winter will forget. We left the refugestation at the top together with a train of wine-sledges, and passedthem in the midst of the wild descent. Looking back, I saw two oftheir horses stumble in the plunge and roll headlong over. Unluckilyin one of these somersaults a man was injured. Flung ahead into thesnow by the first lurch, the sledge and wine-cask crossed him like agarden-roller. Had his bed not been of snow, he must have been crushedto death; and as it was, he presented a woeful appearance when heafterwards arrived at Splügen. 

VI

Though not strictly connected with the subject of this paper, I shallconclude these notes of winter wanderings in the high Alps with anepisode which illustrates their curious vicissitudes. 

It was late in the month of March, and nearly all the mountain roadswere open for wheeled vehicles. A carriage and four horses came tomeet us at the termination of a railway journey in Bagalz. We spentone day in visiting old houses of the Grisons aristocracy at Mayenfeldand Zizers, rejoicing in the early sunshine, which had spread thefields with spring flowers--primroses and oxlips, violets, anemones, and bright blue squills. At Chur we slept, and early next morningstarted for our homeward drive to Davos. Bad weather had declareditself in the night. It blew violently, and the rain soon changed tosnow, frozen by a bitter north blast. Crossing the dreary heath ofLenz was both magnificent and dreadful. By the time we reached Wiesen, all the forests were laden with snow, the roads deep in snow-drifts, the whole scene wintrier than it had been the winter through. 

At Wiesen we should have stayed, for evening was fast setting in. Butin ordinary weather it is only a two hours drive from Wiesen to Davos. Our coachman made no objections to resuming the journey, and our fourhorses had but a light load to drag. So we telegraphed for supper tobe prepared, and started between five and six. 

A deep gorge has to be traversed, where the torrent cleaves its waybetween jaws of limestone precipices. The road is carried along ledgesand through tunnels in the rock. Avalanches, which sweep this passageannually from the hills above, give it the name of Züge, or theSnow-Paths. As we entered the gorge darkness fell, the horses draggedmore heavily, and it soon became evident that our Tyrolese driver washopelessly drunk. He nearly upset us twice by taking sharp turns inthe road, banged the carriage against telegraph posts and juttingrocks, shaved the very verge of the torrent in places where therewas no parapet, and, what was worst of all, refused to leave his boxwithout a fight. The darkness by this time was all but total, and ablinding snow-storm swept howling through the ravine. At length wegot the carriage to a dead-stop, and floundered out in deep wetsnow toward some wooden huts where miners in old days made theirhabitation. The place, by a curious, perhaps unconscious irony, iscalled Hoffnungsau, or the Meadow of Hope. Indeed, it is not illnamed; for many wanderers, escaping, as we did, from the dreadfulgorge of Avalanches on a stormy night, may have felt, as we now felt, their hope reviving when they reached this shelter. 

There was no light; nothing above, beneath, around, on any side, buttearing tempest and snow whirled through the ravine. The horseswere taken out of the carriage; on their way to the stable, whichfortunately in these mountain regions will be always found beside thepoorest habitation, one of them fell back across a wall and nearlybroke his spine. Hoffnungsau is inhabited all through the year. In itsdismal dark kitchen we found a knot of workmen gathered together, andheard there were two horses on the premises besides our own. It thenoccurred to us that we might accomplish the rest of the journey withsuch sledges as they bring the wood on from the hills in winter, ifcoal-boxes or boxes of any sort could be provided. These should belashed to the sledges and filled with hay. We were only four persons;my wife and a friend should go in one, myself and my little girl inthe other. No sooner thought of than put into practice. These originalconveyances were improvised, and after two hours' halt on the Meadowof Hope, we all set forth again at half-past eight. 

I have rarely felt anything more piercing than the grim cold of thatjourney. We crawled at a foot's pace through changeful snow-drifts. The road was obliterated, and it was my duty to keep a petroleumstable-lamp swinging to illuminate the untracked wilderness. My littlegirl was snugly nested in the hay, and sound asleep with a deep whitecovering of snow above her. Meanwhile, the drift clave in frozenmasses to our faces, lashed by a wind so fierce and keen that itwas difficult to breathe it. My forehead-bone ached, as though withneuralgia, from the mere mask of icy snow upon it, plastered on withfrost. Nothing could be seen but millions of white specks, whirledat us in eddying concentric circles. Not far from the entrance to thevillage we met our house-folk out with lanterns to look for us. It waspast eleven at night when at last we entered warm rooms and refreshedourselves for the tiring day with a jovial champagne supper. Horses, carriage, and drunken driver reached home next morning. 

 * * * * *

OLD TOWNS OF PROVENCE

Travellers journeying southward from Paris first meet with olive-treesnear Montdragon or Monsélimart--little towns, with old historic names, upon the road to Orange. It is here that we begin to feel ourselveswithin the land of Provence, where the Romans found a second Italy, and where the autumn of their antique civilisation was followed, almost without an intermediate winter of barbarism, by the light anddelicate springtime of romance. Orange itself is full of Rome. Indeed, the ghost of the dead empire seems there to be more real and livingthan the actual flesh and blood of modern time, as represented bynarrow dirty streets and mean churches. It is the shell of the hugetheatre, hollowed from the solid hill, and fronted with a wall thatseems made rather to protect a city than to form a sounding-board fora stage, which first tells us that we have reached the old Arausio. Ofall theatres this is the most impressive, stupendous, indestructible, the Colosseum hardly excepted; for in Rome herself we are preparedfor something gigantic, while in the insignificant Arausio--a sortof antique Tewkesbury--to find such magnificence, durability, andvastness, impresses one with a nightmare sense that the old lionessof Empire can scarcely yet be dead. Standing before the colossal, towering, amorphous precipice which formed the background of thescena, we feel as if once more the 'heart-shaking sound of ConsulRomanus' might be heard; as if Roman knights and deputies, arisen fromthe dead, with faces hard and stern as those of the warriors carved onTrajan's frieze, might take their seats beneath us in the orchestra, and, after proclamation made, the mortmain of imperial Rome be laidupon the comforts, liberties, and little gracefulnesses of our modernlife. Nor is it unpleasant to be startled from such reverie by thevoice of the old guardian upon the stage beneath, sonorously devolvingthe vacuous Alexandrines with which he once welcomed his ephemeralFrench emperor from Algiers. The little man is dim with distance, eclipsed and swallowed up by the shadows and grotesque fragments ofthe ruin in the midst of which he stands. But his voice--thanks to theinimitable constructive art of the ancient architect, which, evenin the desolation of at least thirteen centuries, has not lost itscunning-emerges from the pigmy throat, and fills the whole vast hollowwith its clear, if tiny, sound. Thank heaven, there is no danger ofRoman resurrection here! The illusion is completely broken, and weturn to gather the first violets of February, and to wonder at thequaint postures of a praying mantis on the grass grown tiers andporches fringed with fern. 

The sense of Roman greatness which is so oppressive in Orange and inmany other parts of Provence, is not felt at Avignon. Here we exchangethe ghost of Imperial for the phantom of Ecclesiastical Rome. Thefixed epithet of Avignon is Papal; and as the express train rushesover its bleak and wind-tormented plain, the heavy dungeon-walls andbattlemented towers of its palace fortress seem to warn us off, andbid us quickly leave the Babylon of exiled impious Antichrist. Avignonpresents the bleakest, barest, greyest scene upon a February morning, when the incessant mistral is blowing, and far and near, upon desolatehillside and sandy plain, the scanty trees are bent sideways, thecrumbling castle turrets shivering like bleached skeletons in the dryungenial air. Yet inside the town, all is not so dreary. The Papalpalace, with its terrible Glacière, its chapel painted by SimoneMemmi, its endless corridors and staircases, its torture-chamber, funnel-shaped to drown and suffocate--so runs tradition--the shrieksof wretches on the rack, is now a barrack, filled with lively littleFrench soldiers, whose politeness, though sorely taxed, is neverruffled by the introduction of inquisitive visitors into theirdormitories, eating-places, and drill-grounds. And strange, indeed, it is to see the lines of neat narrow barrack beds, between which thered-legged little men are shaving, polishing their guns, or mendingtheir trousers, in those vaulted halls of popes and cardinals, thosevast presence-chambers and audience-galleries, where Urban entertainedS. Catherine, where Rienzi came, a prisoner, to be stared at. Pass bythe Glacière with a shudder, for it has still the reek of blood aboutit; and do not long delay in the cheerless dungeon of Rienzi. Time andregimental whitewash have swept these lurking-places of old crime verybare; but the parable of the seven devils is true in more senses thanone, and the ghosts that return to haunt a deodorised, disinfected, garnished sepulchre are almost more ghastly than those which havenever been disturbed from their old habitations. 

Little by little the eye becomes accustomed to the bareness andgreyness of this Provençal landscape; and then we find that thescenery round Avignon is eminently picturesque. The view from LesDoms--which is a hill above the Pope's palace, the Acropolis, as itwere, of Avignon--embraces a wide stretch of undulating champaign, bordered by low hills, and intersected by the flashing waters of themajestic Rhone. Across the stream stands Villeneuve, like a castleof romance, with its round stone towers fronting the gates andbattlemented walls of the Papal city. A bridge used to connect the twotowns, but it is now broken. The remaining fragment is of solid build, resting on great buttresses, one of which rises fantastically abovethe bridge into a little chapel. Such, one might fancy, was thebridge which Ariosto's Rodomonte kept on horse against the Paladins ofCharlemagne, when angered by the loss of his love. Nor is it difficultto imagine Bradamante spurring up the slope against him with her magiclance in rest, and tilting him into the tawny waves beneath. 

On a clear October morning, when the vineyards are taking their lasttints of gold and crimson, and the yellow foliage of the poplars bythe river mingles with the sober greys of olive-trees and willows, every square inch of this landscape, glittering as it does with lightand with colour, the more beautiful for its subtlety and rarity, wouldmake a picture. Out of many such vignettes let us choose one. We areon the shore close by the ruined bridge, the rolling muddy Rhone infront; beyond it, by the towing-path, a tall strong cypress-tree risesbeside a little house, and next to it a crucifix twelve feet or morein height, the Christ visible afar, stretched upon His red cross;arundo donax is waving all around, and willows near; behind, far off, soar the peaked hills, blue and pearled with clouds; past the cypress, on the Rhone, comes floating a long raft, swift through the stream, its rudder guided by a score of men: one standing erect upon the prowbends forward to salute the cross; on flies the raft, the tall reedsrustle, and the cypress sleeps. 

For those who have time to spare in going to or from the south itis worth while to spend a day or two in the most comfortable andcharacteristic of old French inns, the Hôtel de l'Europe, at Avignon. Should it rain, the museum of the town is worth a visit. It containsHorace Vernet's not uncelebrated picture of Mazeppa, and another, lessfamous, but perhaps more interesting, by swollen-cheeked David, the'genius in convulsion, ' as Carlyle has christened him. His canvasis unfinished. Who knows what cry of the Convention made the painterfling his palette down and leave the masterpiece he might havespoiled? For in its way the picture is a masterpiece. There lies JeanBarrad, drummer, aged fourteen, slain in La Vendée, a true patriot, who, while his life-blood flowed away, pressed the tricolor cockadeto his heart, and murmured 'Liberty!' David has treated his subjectclassically. The little drummer-boy, though French enough in featureand in feeling, lies, Greek-like, naked on the sand--a very Hyacinthof the Republic, La Vendée's Ilioneus. The tricolor cockade and thesentiment of upturned patriotic eyes are the only indications of hisbeing a hero in his teens, a citizen who thought it sweet to die forFrance. 

In fine weather a visit to Vaucluse should by no means be omitted, not so much, perhaps, for Petrarch's sake as for the interest of thedrive, and for the marvel of the fountain of the Sorgues. For sometime after leaving Avignon you jog along the level country betweenavenues of plane-trees; then comes a hilly ridge, on which the olives, mulberries, and vineyards join their colours and melt subtly intodistant purple. After crossing this we reach L'Isle, an islandvillage girdled by the gliding Sorgues, overshadowed with giganticplane-boughs, and echoing to the plash of water dripped from mossyfern-tufted millwheels. Those who expect Petrarch's Sorgues to besome trickling poet's rill emerging from a damp grotto, may well beastounded at the rush and roar of this azure river so close uponits fountain-head. It has a volume and an arrow-like rapidity thatcommunicate the feeling of exuberance and life. In passing, let it notbe forgotten that it was somewhere or other in this 'chiaro fondo diSorga, ' as Carlyle describes, that Jourdain, the hangman-hero of theGlacière, stuck fast upon his pony when flying from his foes, and hadhis accursed life, by some diabolical providence, spared for futurebutcheries. On we go across the austere plain, between fields ofmadder, the red roots of the 'garance' lying in swathes along thefurrows. In front rise ash-grey hills of barren rock, here and therecrimsoned with the leaves of the dwarf sumach. A huge cliff stands upand seems to bar all passage. Yet the river foams in torrents at ourside. Whence can it issue? What pass or cranny in that precipice iscloven for its escape? These questions grow in interest as we enterthe narrow defile of limestone rocks which leads to the cliff-barrier, and find ourselves among the figs and olives of Vaucluse. Here is thevillage, the little church, the ugly column to Petrarch's memory, the inn, with its caricatures of Laura, and its excellent trout, thebridge and the many-flashing, eddying Sorgues, lashed by millwheels, broken by weirs, divided in its course, channelled and dyked, yetflowing irresistibly and undefiled. Blue, purple, greened by moss andwater-weeds, silvered by snow-white pebbles, on its pure smooth bedthe river runs like elemental diamond, so clear and fresh. The rockson either side are grey or yellow, terraced into oliveyards, with hereand there a cypress, fig, or mulberry tree. Soon the gardens cease, and lentisk, rosemary, box, and ilex--shrubs of Provence--with hereand there a sumach out of reach, cling to the hard stone. And so atlast we are brought face to face with the sheer impassable precipice. At its basement sleeps a pool, perfectly untroubled; a lakelet inwhich the sheltering rocks and nestling wild figs are glassed as in amirror--a mirror of blue-black water, like amethyst or fluor-spar--sopure, so still, that where it laps the pebbles you can scarcely saywhere air begins and water ends. This, then, is Petrarch's 'grotto;'this is the fountain of Vaucluse. Up from its deep reservoirs, fromthe mysterious basements of the mountain, wells the silent stream;pauseless and motionless it fills its urn, rises unruffled, glidesuntil the brink is reached, then overflows, and foams, and dashesnoisily, a cataract, among the boulders of the hills. Nothing atVaucluse is more impressive than the contrast between the tranquilsilence of the fountain and the roar of the released impetuous river. Here we can realise the calm clear eyes of sculptured water-gods, their brimming urns, their gushing streams, the magic of themountain-born and darkness-cradled flood. Or again, looking up at thesheer steep cliff, 800 feet in height, and arching slightly roofwise, so that no rain falls upon the cavern of the pool, we seem to see thestroke of Neptune's trident, the hoof of Pegasus, the force of Moses'rod, which cleft rocks and made water gush forth in the desert. Thereis a strange fascination in the spot. As our eyes follow the whitepebble which cleaves the surface and falls visibly, until the veilof azure is too thick for sight to pierce, we feel as if some glamourwere drawing us, like Hylas, to the hidden caves. At least, we long toyield a prized and precious offering to the spring, to grace the nymphof Vaucluse with a pearl of price as token of our reverence and love. 

Meanwhile nothing has been said about Petrarch, who himself said muchabout the spring, and complained against those very nymphs to whom wehave in wish, at least, been scattering jewels, that they broke hisbanks and swallowed up his gardens every winter. At Vaucluse Petrarchloved, and lived, and sang. He has made Vaucluse famous, and willnever be forgotten there. But for the present the fountain is evenmore attractive than the memory of the poet. [4]

The change from Avignon to Nismes is very trying to the latter place;for Nismes is not picturesquely or historically interesting. It is aprosperous modern French town with two almost perfect Romanmonuments--Les Arènes and the Maison Carrée. The amphitheatre is acomplete oval, visible at one glance. Its smooth white stone, evenwhere it has not been restored, seems unimpaired by age; and CharlesMartel's conflagration, when he burned the Saracen hornet's nestinside it, has only blackened the outer walls and arches venerably. Utility and perfect adaptation of means to ends form the beauty ofRoman buildings. The science of construction and large intelligencedisplayed in them, their strength, simplicity, solidity, and purpose, are their glory. Perhaps there is only one modern edifice--Palladio'sPalazzo della Ragione at Vicenza--which approaches the dignity andloftiness of Roman architecture; and this it does because of itsabsolute freedom from ornament, the vastness of its design, and thedurability of its material. The temple, called the Maison Carrée, atNismes, is also very perfect, and comprehended at one glance. Light, graceful, airy, but rather thin and narrow, it reminds one of thetemple of Fortuna Virilis at Rome. 

But if Nismes itself is not picturesque, its environs contain thewonderful Pont du Gard. A two or three hours' drive leads through adesolate country to the valley of the Cardon, where suddenly, at aturn of the road, one comes upon the aqueduct. It is not within thescope of words to describe the impression produced by those vastarches, row above row, cutting the deep blue sky. The domed summerclouds sailing across them are comprehended in the gigantic span oftheir perfect semicircles, which seem rather to have been describedby Miltonic compasses of Deity than by merely human mathematics. Yet, standing beneath one of the vaults and looking upward, you may readRoman numerals in order from I. To X. , which prove their human originwell enough. Next to their strength, regularity, and magnitude, themost astonishing point about this triple tier of arches, piled oneabove the other to a height of 180 feet above a brawling streambetween two barren hills, is their lightness. The arches are notthick; the causeway on the top is only just broad enough for three mento walk abreast. So smooth and perpendicular are the supporting wallsthat scarcely a shrub or tuft of grass has grown upon the aqueductin all these years. And yet the huge fabric is strengthened by nobuttress, has needed no repair. This lightness of structure, combinedwith such prodigious durability, produces the strongest sense ofscience and self-reliant power in the men who designed it. None butRomans could have built such a monument, and have set it in such aplace--a wilderness of rock and rolling hill, scantily covered withlow brushwood, and browsed over by a few sheep--for such a purpose, too, in order to supply Nemausus with pure water. The modern town doespretty well without its water; but here subsists the civilisationof eighteen centuries past intact: the human labour yet remains, the measuring, contriving mind of man, shrinking from no obstacles, spanning the air, and in one edifice combining gigantic strength andperfect beauty. It is impossible not to echo Rousseau's words in sucha place, and to say with him: 'Le retentissement de mes pas dans cesimmenses voûtes me faisait croire entendre la forte voix de ceuxqui les avaient bâties. Je me perdais comme un insecte dans cetteimmensité. Je sentais, tout en me faisant petit, je ne sais quoiqui m'élevait l'âme; et je me disais en soupirant, Que ne suis-je néRomain!'

There is nothing at Arles which produces the same deep and indelibleimpression. Yet Arles is a far more interesting town than Nismes, partly because of the Rhone delta which begins there, partly becauseof its ruinous antiquity, and partly also because of the strong localcharacter of its population. The amphitheatre of Arles is vaster andmore sublime in its desolation than the tidy theatre at Nismes; thecrypts, and dens, and subterranean passages suggest all manner ofspeculation as to the uses to which they may have been appropriated;while the broken galleries outside, intricate and black and cavernous, like Piranesi's etchings of the 'Carceri, ' present the wildestpictures of greatness in decay, fantastic dilapidation. The ruins ofthe smaller theatre, again, with their picturesquely grouped fragmentsand their standing columns, might be sketched for a frontispiece tosome dilettante work on classical antiquities. For the rest, perhapsthe Aliscamps, or ancient Roman burial-ground, is the most interestingthing at Arles, not only because of Dante's celebrated lines in thecanto of 'Farinata:'--

 Si come ad Arli ove 'l Rodano stagna, Fanno i sepolcri tutto 'l loco varo;

but also because of the intrinsic picturesqueness of this avenue ofsepulchres beneath green trees upon a long soft grassy field. 

But as at Avignon and Nismes, so also at Arles, one of the chiefattractions of the place lies at a distance, and requires a specialexpedition. The road to Les Baux crosses a true Provençal desert whereone realises the phrase, 'Vieux comme les rochers de Provence, '--awilderness of grey stone, here and there worn into cart-tracks, andtufted with rosemary, box, lavender, and lentisk. On the way it passesthe Abbaye de Mont Majeur, a ruin of gigantic size, embracing allperiods of architecture; where nothing seems to flourish now buthenbane and the wild cucumber, or to breathe but a mumble-toothed andterrible old hag. The ruin stands above a desolate marsh, its vastItalian buildings of Palladian splendour looking more forlorn in theirdecay than the older and austerer mediæval towers, which rise up proudand patient and defiantly erect beneath the curse of time. When atlength what used to be the castle town of Les Baux is reached, youfind a naked mountain of yellow sandstone, worn away by nature intobastions and buttresses and coigns of vantage, sculptured by ancientart into palaces and chapels, battlements and dungeons. Now art andnature are confounded in one ruin. Blocks of masonry lie cheek by jowlwith masses of the rough-hewn rock; fallen cavern vaults are heapedround fragments of fan-shaped spandrel and clustered column-shaft; thedoors and windows of old pleasure-rooms are hung with ivy and wild figfor tapestry; winding staircases start midway upon the cliff, and leadto vacancy. High overhead suspended in mid-air hang chambers--lady'sbower or poet's singing-room--now inaccessible, the haunt of hawks andswallows. Within this rocky honeycomb--'cette ville en monolithe, 'as it has been aptly called, for it is literally scooped out of onemountain block--live about two hundred poor people, foddering theirwretched goats at carved piscina and stately sideboards, erecting mudbeplastered hovels in the halls of feudal princes. Murray is wrong incalling the place a mediæval town in its original state, for anythingmore purely ruinous, more like a decayed old cheese, cannot possiblybe conceived. The living only inhabit the tombs of the dead. Atthe end of the last century, when revolutionary effervescence wasbeginning to ferment, the people of Arles swept all its feudalityaway, defacing the very arms upon the town gate, and trampling thepalace towers to dust. 

The castle looks out across a vast extent of plain over Arles, thestagnant Rhone, the Camargue, and the salt pools of the lingering sea. In old days it was the eyrie of an eagle race called Seigneurs of LesBaux; and whether they took their title from the rock, or whether, as genealogists would have it, they gave the name of OrientalBalthazar--their reputed ancestor, one of the Magi--to the rockitself, remains a mystery not greatly worth the solving. 

Anyhow, here they lived and flourished, these feudal princes, bearingfor their ensign a silver comet of sixteen rays upon a field ofgules--themselves a comet race, baleful to the neighbouring lowlands, blazing with lurid splendour over wide tracts of country, a burning, raging, fiery-souled, swift-handed tribe, in whom a flame unquenchableglowed from son to sire through twice five hundred years until, inthe sixteenth century, they were burned out, and nothing remained butcinders--these broken ruins of their eyrie, and some outworn and dustytitles. Very strange are the fate and history of these same titles:King of Arles, for instance, savouring of troubadour and high romance;Prince of Tarentum, smacking of old plays and Italian novels; Princeof Orange, which the Nassaus, through the Châlons, seized in all itsemptiness long after the real principality had passed away, and cametherewith to sit on England's throne. 

The Les Baux in their heyday were patterns of feudal nobility. Theywarred incessantly with Counts of Provence, archbishops and burghersof Arles, Queens of Naples, Kings of Aragon. Crusading, pillaging, betraying, spending their substance on the sword, and buying it againby deeds of valour or imperial acts of favour, tuning troubadourharps, presiding at courts of love, --they filled a large page in thehistory of Southern France. The Les Baux were very superstitious. Inthe fulness of their prosperity they restricted the number of theirdependent towns, or _places baussenques_, to seventy-nine, because these numbers in combination were thought to be of good omento their house. Beral des Baux, Seigneur of Marseilles, was one daystarting on a journey with his whole force to Avignon. He met an oldwoman herb-gathering at daybreak, and said, 'Mother, hast thou seena crow or other bird?' 'Yea, ' answered the crone, 'on the trunk of adead willow. ' Beral counted upon his fingers the day of the year, andturned bridle. With troubadours of name and note they had dealings, but not always to their own advantage, as the following storytestifies. When the Baux and Berengers were struggling for thecountship of Provence, Raymond Berenger, by his wife's counsel, went, attended by troubadours, to meet the Emperor Frederick at Milan. There he sued for the investiture and ratification of Provence. Histroubadours sang and charmed Frederick; and the Emperor, for the joyhe had in them, wrote his celebrated lines beginning--

 Plas mi cavalier Francez. 

And when Berenger made his request he met with no refusal. Hearingthereof, the lords of Baux came down in wrath with a clangour of armedmen. But music had already gained the day; and where the Phoebus ofProvence had shone, the Æolus of storm-shaken Les Baux was powerless. Again, when Blacas, a knight of Provence, died, the great Sordellochanted one of his most fiery hymns, bidding the princes ofChristendom flock round and eat the heart of the dead lord. 'LetRambaude des Baux, ' cries the bard, with a sarcasm that is clearlymeant, but at this distance almost unintelligible, 'take also a goodpiece, for she is fair and good and truly virtuous; let her keep itwell who knows so well to husband her own weal. ' But the poets werenot always adverse to the house of Baux. Fouquet, the beautiful andgentle melodist whom Dante placed in paradise, served Adelaisie, wifeof Berald, with long service of unhappy love, and wrote upon herdeath 'The Complaint of Berald des Baux for Adelaisie. ' Guillaume deCabestan loved Berangère des Baux, and was so loved by her that shegave him a philtre to drink, whereof he sickened and grew mad. Manymore troubadours are cited as having frequented the castle of LesBaux, and among the members of the princely house were several poets. 

Some of them were renowned for beauty. We hear of a Cécile, calledPasse Rose, because of her exceeding loveliness; also of an unhappyFrançois, who, after passing eighteen years in prison, yet won thegrace and love of Joan of Naples by his charms. But the real temper ofthis fierce tribe was not shown among troubadours, or in the courts oflove and beauty. The stern and barren rock from which they sprang, andthe comet of their scutcheon, are the true symbols of their nature. History records no end of their ravages and slaughters. It is atedious catalogue of blood--how one prince put to fire and sword thewhole town of Courthezon; how another was stabbed in prison by hiswife; how a third besieged the castle of his niece, and sought toundermine her chamber, knowing her the while to be in childbed; how afourth was flayed alive outside the walls of Avignon. There is nothingterrible, splendid, and savage, belonging to feudal history, of whichan example may not be found in the annals of Les Baux, as narrated bytheir chronicler, Jules Canonge. 

However abrupt may seem the transition from these memories ofthe ancient nobles of Les Baux to mere matters of travel andpicturesqueness, it would be impossible to take leave of the oldtowns of Provence without glancing at the cathedrals of S. Trophimeat Arles, and of S. Gilles--a village on the border of the drearyflamingo-haunted Camargue. Both of these buildings have porchessplendidly encrusted with sculptures, half classical, half mediæval, marking the transition from ancient to modern art. But that of S. Gilles is by far the richer and more elaborate. The whole façade ofthis church is one mass of intricate decoration; Norman archesand carved lions, like those of Lombard architecture, minglingfantastically with Greek scrolls of fruit and flowers, with elegantCorinthian columns jutting out upon the church steps, and with the oldconventional wave-border that is called Etruscan in our modern jargon. From the midst of florid fret and foliage lean mild faces of saintsand Madonnas. Symbols of evangelists with half-human, half-animaleyes and wings, are interwoven with the leafy bowers of cupids. Graveapostles stand erect beneath acanthus wreaths that ought to crisp theforehead of a laughing Faun or Bacchus. And yet so full, exuberant, and deftly chosen are these various elements, that there remains nosense of incongruity or discord. The mediæval spirit had much troubleto disentangle itself from classic reminiscences; and fortunately forthe picturesqueness of S. Gilles, it did not succeed. How strangelydifferent is the result of this transition in the south from thosesevere and rigid forms which we call Romanesque in Germany andNormandy and England!

 * * * * *

THE CORNICE

It was a dull afternoon in February when we left Nice, and droveacross the mountains to Mentone. Over hill and sea hung a thick mist. Turbia's Roman tower stood up in cheerless solitude, wreathed roundwith driving vapour, and the rocky nest of Esa seemed suspended ina chaos between sea and sky. Sometimes the fog broke and showed usVillafranca, lying green and flat in the deep blue below: sometimes adistant view of higher peaks swam into sight from the shifting cloud. But the whole scene was desolate. Was it for this that we had left ourEnglish home, and travelled from London day and night? At length wereached the edge of the cloud, and jingled down by Roccabruna and theolive-groves, till one by one Mentone's villas came in sight, and atlast we found ourselves at the inn door. That night, and all next dayand the next night, we heard the hoarse sea beat and thunder on thebeach. The rain and wind kept driving from the south, but we consoledourselves with thinking that the orange-trees and every kind of flowerwere drinking in the moisture and waiting to rejoice in sunlight whichwould come. 

It was a Sunday morning when we woke and found that the rain had gone, the sun was shining brightly on the sea, and a clear north wind wasblowing cloud and mist away. Out upon the hills we went, not caringmuch what path we took; for everything was beautiful, and hilland vale were full of garden walks. Through lemon-groves, --pale, golden-tender trees, --and olives, stretching their grey boughs againstthe lonely cottage tiles, we climbed, until we reached the pines andheath above. Then I knew the meaning of Theocritus for the first time. We found a well, broad, deep, and clear, with green herbs growing atthe bottom, a runlet flowing from it down the rocky steps, maidenhair, black adiantum, and blue violets, hanging from the brink and mirroredin the water. This was just the well in _Hylas_. Theocritushas been badly treated. They call him a court poet, dead to Nature, artificial in his pictures. Yet I recognised this fountain by hisverse, just as if he had showed me the very spot. Violets groweverywhere, of every shade, from black to lilac. Their stalks arelong, and the flowers 'nod' upon them, so that I see how the Greekscould make them into chaplets--how Lycidas wore his crown of whiteviolets[5] lying by the fireside elbow-deep in withered asphodel, watching the chestnuts in the embers, and softly drinking deep healthsto Ageanax far off upon the waves. It is impossible to go wrong inthese valleys. They are cultivated to the height of about five hundredfeet above the sea, in terraces laboriously built up with walls, earthed and manured, and irrigated by means of tanks and aqueducts. Above this level, where the virgin soil has not been yet reclaimed, or where the winds of winter bring down freezing currents from themountains through a gap or gully of the lower hills, a tangled growthof heaths and arbutus, and pines, and rosemarys, and myrtles, continuethe vegetation, till it finally ends in bare grey rocks and peaks somethousand feet in height. Far above all signs of cultivation on thesearid peaks, you still may see villages and ruined castles, builtcenturies ago for a protection from the Moorish pirates. To thesemountain fastnesses the people of the coast retreated when theydescried the sails of their foes on the horizon. In Mentone, not verylong ago, old men might be seen who in their youth were said to havebeen taken captive by the Moors; and many Arabic words have foundtheir way into the patois of the people. 

There is something strangely fascinating in the sight of these ruinson the burning rocks, with their black sentinel cypresses, immenselytall and far away. Long years and rain and sunlight have made thesecastellated eyries one with their native stone. It is hard to tracein their foundations where Nature's workmanship ends and where man'sbegins. What strange sights the mountain villagers must see! The vastblue plain of the unfurrowed deep, the fairy range of Corsica hungmidway between the sea and sky at dawn or sunset, the stars so closeabove their heads, the deep dew-sprinkled valleys, the green pines! Onpenetrating into one of these hill-fortresses, you find that it isa whole village, with a church and castle and piazza, some few feetsquare, huddled together on a narrow platform. We met one day threemagnates of Gorbio taking a morning stroll backwards and forwards, up and down their tiny square. Vehemently gesticulating, loudlychattering, they talked as though they had not seen each other for tenyears, and were but just unloading their budgets of accumulated news. Yet these three men probably had lived, eaten, drunk, and talkedtogether from the cradle to that hour: so true it is that useand custom quicken all our powers, especially of gossiping andscandal-mongering. S. Agnese is the highest and most notable of allthese villages. The cold and heat upon its absolutely barren rockmust be alike intolerable. In appearance it is not unlike the Etruscantowns of Central Italy; but there is something, of course, far moreimposing in the immense antiquity and the historical associations ofa Narni, a Fiesole, a Chiusi, or an Orvieto. Sea-life and rusticitystrike a different note from that of those Apennine-girdled seats ofdead civilisation, in which nations, arts, and religions have gone byand left but few traces, --some wrecks of giant walls, some excavatedtombs, some shrines, where monks still sing and pray above the relicsof the founders of once world-shaking, now almost forgotten, orders. Here at Mentone there is none of this; the idyllic is the true note, and Theocritus is still alive. 

We do not often scale these altitudes, but keep along the terracedglades by the side of olive-shaded streams. The violets, instead ofpeeping shyly from hedgerows, fall in ripples and cascades over mossywalls among maidenhair and spleen-worts. They are very sweet, and thesound of trickling water seems to mingle with their fragrance in amost delicious harmony. Sound, smell, and hue make up one chord, thesense of which is pure and perfect peace. The country-people arekind, letting us pass everywhere, so that we make our way along theiraqueducts and through their gardens, under laden lemon-boughs, thepale fruit dangling at our ears, and swinging showers of scented dewupon us as we pass. Far better, however, than lemon or orange trees, are the olives. Some of these are immensely old, numbering, it issaid, five centuries, so that Petrarch may almost have rested beneaththeir shade on his way to Avignon. These veterans are cavernous withage: gnarled, split, and twisted trunks, throwing out arms that breakinto a hundred branches; every branch distinct, and feathered withinnumerable sparks and spikelets of white, wavy, greenish light. These are the leaves, and the stems are grey with lichens. The sky andsea--two blues, one full of sunlight and the other purple--set thesefountains of perennial brightness like gems in lapis-lazuli. At adistance the same olives look hoary and soft--a veil of woven lightor luminous haze. When the wind blows their branches all one way, they ripple like a sea of silver. But underneath their covert, inthe shade, grey periwinkles wind among the snowy drift of allium. Thenarcissus sends its arrowy fragrance through the air, while, far andwide, red anemones burn like fire, with interchange of blue and lilacbuds, white arums, orchises, and pink gladiolus. Wandering there, andseeing the pale flowers, stars white and pink and odorous, we dreamof Olivet, or the grave Garden of the Agony, and the trees seem alwayswhispering of sacred things. How people can blaspheme against theolives, and call them imitations of the willow, or complain that theyare shabby shrubs, I do not know. [6]

This shore would stand for Shelley's Island of Epipsychidion, orthe golden age which Empedocles describes, when the mild nationsworshipped Aphrodite with incense and the images of beasts andyellow honey, and no blood was spilt upon her altars--when 'the treesflourished with perennial leaves and fruit, and ample crops adornedtheir boughs through all the year. ' This even now is literally true ofthe lemon-groves, which do not cease to flower and ripen. Everythingfits in to complete the reproduction of Greek pastoral life. The goatseat cytisus and myrtle on the shore; a whole flock gathered round meas I sat beneath a tuft of golden green euphorbia the other day, andnibbled bread from my hands. The frog still croaks by tank andfountain, 'whom the Muses have ordained to sing for aye, ' inspite of Bion's death. The narcissus, anemone, and hyacinth still telltheir tales of love and death. Hesper still gazes on the shepherdfrom the mountain-head. The slender cypresses still vibrate, the pinesmurmur. Pan sleeps in noontide heat, and goat-herds and wayfaringmen lie down to slumber by the roadside, under olive-boughs in whichcicadas sing. The little villages high up are just as white, themountains just as grey and shadowy when evening falls. Nothing ischanged--except ourselves. I expect to find a statue of Priapus orpastoral Pan, hung with wreaths of flowers--the meal cake, honey, andspilt wine upon his altar, and young boys and maidens dancing round. Surely, in some far-off glade, by the side of lemon-grove or garden, near the village, there must be still a pagan remnant of gladNature-worship. Surely I shall chance upon some Thyrsis piping in thepine-tree shade, or Daphne flying from the arms of Phoebus. So I dreamuntil I come upon the Calvary set on a solitary hillock, with itsprayer-steps lending a wide prospect across the olives and theorange-trees, and the broad valleys, to immeasurable skies and purpleseas. There is the iron cross, the wounded heart, the spear, the reed, the nails, the crown of thorns, the cup of sacrificial blood, thetitle, with its superscription royal and divine. The other day wecrossed a brook and entered a lemon-field, rich with blossomsand carpeted with red anemones. Everything basked in sunlight andglittered with exceeding brilliancy of hue. A tiny white chapel stoodin a corner of the enclosure. Two iron-grated windows let mesee inside: it was a bare place, containing nothing but a woodenpraying-desk, black and worm-eaten, an altar with its candles and noflowers, and above the altar a square picture brown with age. On thefloor were scattered several pence, and in a vase above the holy-watervessel stood some withered hyacinths. As my sight became accustomed tothe gloom, I could see from the darkness of the picture a pale Christnailed to the cross with agonising upward eyes and ashy aureole abovethe bleeding thorns. Thus I stepped suddenly away from the outwardpomp and bravery of nature to the inward aspirations, agonies, and martyrdoms of man--from Greek legends of the past to the realChristian present--and I remembered that an illimitable prospect hasbeen opened to the world, that in spite of ourselves we must turn oureyes heavenward, inward, to the infinite unseen beyond us and withinour souls. Nothing can take us back to Phoebus or to Pan. Nothingcan again identify us with the simple natural earth. '_Une immenseespérance a traversé la terre_, ' and these chapels, with their deepsignificances, lurk in the fair landscape like the cares of real lifeamong our dreams of art, or like a fear of death and the hereafter inthe midst of opera music. It is a strange contrast. The worship of menin those old times was symbolised by dances in the evening, banquets, libations, and mirth-making. 'Euphrosyne' was alike the goddess ofthe righteous mind and of the merry heart. Old withered women tellingtheir rosaries at dusk; belated shepherds crossing themselves beneaththe stars when they pass the chapel; maidens weighed down withMargaret's anguish of unhappy love; youths vowing their life tocontemplation in secluded cloisters, --these are the human forms whichgather round such chapels; and the motto of the worshippers consistsin this, 'Do often violence to thy desire. ' In the Tyrol we have seenwhole villages praying together at daybreak before their day's work, singing their _Miserere_ and their _Gloria_ and their _Dies Iræ_, tothe sound of crashing organs and jangling bells; appealing in themidst of Nature's splendour to the Spirit which is above Nature, whichdwells in darkness rather than light, and loves the yearnings andcontentions of our soul more than its summer gladness and peace. Eventhe olives here tell more to us of Olivet and the Garden than of theoil-press and the wrestling-ground. The lilies carry us to the Sermonon the Mount, and teach humility, instead of summoning up some legendof a god's love for a mortal. The hillside tanks and running streams, and water-brooks swollen by sudden rain, speak of Palestine. We callthe white flowers stars of Bethlehem. The large sceptre-reed; thefig-tree, lingering in barrenness when other trees are full of fruit;the locust-beans of the Caruba:--for one suggestion of Greek idyllsthere is yet another, of far deeper, dearer power. 

But who can resist the influence of Greek ideas at the Cap S. Martin?Down to the verge of the sea stretch the tall, twisted stems of Levantpines, and on the caverned limestone breaks the deep blue water. Dazzling as marble are these rocks, pointed and honeycombed withconstant dashing of the restless sea, tufted with corallines and greyand purple seaweeds in the little pools, but hard and dry and roughabove tide level. Nor does the sea always lap them quietly; for thelast few days it has come tumbling in, roaring and raging on the beachwith huge waves crystalline in their transparency, and maned withfleecy spray. Such were the rocks and such the swell of breakers whenUlysses grasped the shore after his long swim. Samphire, very salt andfragrant, grows in the rocky honeycomb; then lentisk and beach-lovingmyrtle, both exceeding green and bushy; then rosemary and euphorbiaabove the reach of spray. Fishermen, with their long reeds, sit lazilyperched upon black rocks above blue waves, sunning themselves as muchas seeking sport. One distant tip of snow, seen far away behind thehills, reminds us of an alien, unremembered winter. While dreamingthere, this fancy came into my head: Polyphemus was born yonder inthe Gorbio Valley. There he fed his sheep and goats, and on the hillsfound scanty pasture for his kine. He and his mother lived in thewhite house by the cypress near the stream where tulips grow. YoungGalatea, nursed in the caverns of these rocks, white as the foam, andshy as the sea fishes, came one morning up the valley to pick mountainhyacinths, and little Polyphemus led the way. He knew where violetsand sweet narcissus grew, as well as Galatea where pink corallineand spreading sea-flowers with their waving arms. But Galatea, havingfilled her lap with bluebells, quite forgot the leaping kids, andpiping Cyclops, and cool summer caves, and yellow honey, and blackivy, and sweet vine, and water cold as Alpine snow. Down the swiftstreamlet she danced laughingly, and made herself once more bitterwith the sea. But Polyphemus remained, --hungry, sad, gazing on thebarren sea, and piping to the mockery of its waves. 

Filled with these Greek fancies, it is strange to come upon a littlesandstone dell furrowed by trickling streams and overgrown withEnglish primroses; or to enter the village of Roccabruna, with itsmediæval castle and the motto on its walls, _Tempora labunturtacitisque senescimus annis_. A true motto for the town, where thebutcher comes but once a week, and where men and boys, and dogs, andpalms, and lemon-trees grow up and flourish and decay in the samehollow of the sunny mountain-side. Into the hard conglomerate of thehill the town is built; house walls and precipices mortised into oneanother, dovetailed by the art of years gone by, and riveted byage. The same plants grow from both alike--spurge, cistus, rue, andhenbane, constant to the desolation of abandoned dwellings. From thecastle you look down on roofs, brown tiles and chimney-pots, set oneabove the other like a big card-castle. Each house has its foot on aneighbour's neck, and its shoulder set against the native stone. Thestreets meander in and out, and up and down, overarched and balconied, but very clean. They swarm with children, healthy, happy, littlemonkeys, who grow fat on salt fish and yellow polenta, with oil andsun _ad libitum_. 

At night from Roccabruna you may see the flaring gas-lamps of thegaming-house at Monaco, that Armida's garden of the nineteenthcentury. It is the sunniest and most sheltered spot of all the coast. Long ago Lucan said of Monaco, '_Non Corus in illum jus habet autZephyrus_;' winter never comes to nip its tangled cactuses, andaloes, and geraniums. The air swoons with the scent of lemon-groves;tall palm-trees wave their graceful branches by the shore; music ofthe softest and the loudest swells from the palace; cool corridorsand sunny seats stand ready for the noontide heat or evening calm;without, are olive-gardens, green and fresh and full of flowers. Butthe witch herself holds her high court and never-ending festival ofsin in the painted banquet-halls and among the green tables. 

Let us leave this scene and turn with the country-folk of Roccabrunato S. Michael's Church at Mentone. High above the sea it stands, and from its open doors you look across the mountains with theirolive-trees. Inside the church is a seething mass of country-folk andtownspeople, mostly women, and these almost all old, but picturesquebeyond description; kerchiefs of every colour, wrinkles of every shapeand depth, skins of every tone of brown and yellow, voices of everygruffness, shrillness, strength, and weakness. Wherever an emptycorner can be found, it is soon filled by tottering babies andmischievous children. The country-women come with their large danglingearrings of thin gold, wearing pink tulips or lemon-buds in theirblack hair. A low buzz of gossiping and mutual recognition keeps theair alive. The whole service seems a holiday--a general enjoyment ofgala dresses and friendly greetings, very different from thesilence, immobility, and _noli me tangere_ aspect of an Englishcongregation. Over all drones, rattles, snores, and shrieks the organ;wailing, querulous, asthmatic, incomplete, its everlasting nasalchant--always beginning, never ending, through a range of two or threenotes ground into one monotony. The voices of the congregationrise and sink above it. These southern people, like the Arabs, theApulians, and the Spaniards, seem to find their music in a hurdy-gurdyswell of sound. The other day we met a little girl, walking andspinning, and singing all the while, whose song was just anotherversion of this chant. It has a discontented plaintive wail, as if itcame from some vast age, and were a cousin of primeval winds. 

At first sight, by the side of Mentone, San Remo is sadly prosaic. Thevalleys seem to sprawl, and the universal olives are monotonously greyupon their thick clay soil. Yet the wealth of flowers in the fatearth is wonderful. One might fancy oneself in a weedy farm flower-bedinvaded by stray oats and beans and cabbages and garlic from thekitchen-garden. The country does not suggest a single Greek idea. It has no form or outline--no barren peaks, no spare and difficultvegetation. The beauty is rich but tame--valleys green with oats andcorn, blossoming cherry-trees, and sweet bean-fields, figs coming intoleaf, and arrowy bay-trees by the side of sparkling streams: here andthere a broken aqueduct or rainbow bridge hung with maidenhair andbriar and clematis and sarsaparilla. 

In the cathedral church of San Siro on Good Friday they hang thecolumns and the windows with black; they cover the pictures and defacethe altar; above the high altar they raise a crucifix, and below theyplace a catafalque with the effigy of the dead Christ. To this sadsymbol they address their prayers and incense, chant their 'litaniesand lurries, ' and clash the rattles, which commemorate their rageagainst the traitor Judas. So far have we already passed away from theGreek feeling of Mentone. As I listened to the hideous din, I couldnot but remember the Theocritean burial of Adonis. Two funeral bedsprepared: two feasts recurring in the springtime of the year. What adifference beneath this superficial similarity--[Greek: kalos nekusoia katheudôn]--_attritus ægrâ macie_. But the fast of GoodFriday is followed by the festival of Easter. That, after all, is thechief difference. 

After leaving the cathedral we saw a pretty picture in a dull oldstreet of San Remo--three children leaning from a window, blowingbubbles. The bubbles floated down the street, of every colour, roundand trembling, like the dreams of life which children dream. The townis certainly most picturesque. It resembles a huge glacier of housespoured over a wedge of rock, running down the sides and along theridge, and spreading itself into a fan between two torrents on theshore below. House over house, with balcony and staircase, conventturret and church tower, palm-trees and olives, roof gardens andclinging creepers--this white cataract of buildings streams downwardfrom the lazar-house, and sanctuary, and sandstone quarries on thehill. It is a mass of streets placed close above each other, andlinked together with arms and arches of solid masonry, as a protectionfrom the earthquakes, which are frequent at San Remo. The walls aretall, and form a labyrinth of gloomy passages and treacherous blindalleys, where the Moors of old might meet with a ferocious welcome. Indeed, San Remo is a fortress as well as a dwelling-place. Over itsgateways may still be traced the pipes for molten lead, and on itswalls the eyeloops for arrows, with brackets for the feet of archers. Masses of building have been shaken down by earthquakes. The ruins ofwhat once were houses gape with blackened chimneys and dark forlorncellars; mazes of fungus and unhealthy weeds among the still securehabitations. Hardly a ray of light penetrates the streets; one learnsthe meaning of the Italian word _uggia_ from their cold andgloom. During the day they are deserted by every one but babies andwitchlike old women--some gossiping, some sitting vacant at the housedoor, some spinning or weaving, or minding little children--ugly andancient as are their own homes, yet clean as are the streets. Theyounger population goes afield; the men on mules laden for the hills, the women burdened like mules with heavy and disgusting loads. It isan exceptionally good-looking race; tall, well-grown, and strong. --Butto the streets again. The shops in the upper town are few, chieflywine-booths and stalls for the sale of salt fish, eggs, and bread, or cobblers' and tinkers' ware. Notwithstanding the darkness of theirdwellings, the people have a love of flowers; azaleas lean from theirwindows, and vines, carefully protected by a sheath of brickwork, climb the six stories, to blossom out into a pergola upon the roof. Look at that mass of greenery and colours, dimly seen from beneath, with a yellow cat sunning herself upon the parapet! To reach such agarden and such sunlight who would not mount six stories and threada labyrinth of passages? I should prefer a room upon the east side ofthe town, looking southward to the Molo and the sea, with a soundof water beneath, and a palm soaring up to fan my window with hisfeathery leaves. 

The shrines are little spots of brightness in the gloomy streets. Madonna with a sword; Christ holding His pierced and bleeding heart;l'Eterno Padre pointing to the dead Son stretched upon His knee; somesouls in torment; S. Roch reminding us of old plagues by the spot uponhis thigh;--these are the symbols of the shrines. Before them standrows of pots filled with gillyflowers, placed there by pious, simple, praying hands--by maidens come to tell their sorrows to our Lady richin sorrow, by old women bent and shrivelled, in hopes of paradise orgratitude for happy days, when Madonna kept Cecchino faithful to hishome, or saved the baby from the fever. 

Lower down, between the sea and the hill, is the municipal, aristocratic, ecclesiastical quarter of San Remo. There stands thePalace Borea--a truly princely pile, built in the last Renaissancestyle of splendour, with sea-nymphs and dolphins, and satyric heads, half lips, half leafage, round about its doors and windows. Once itformed the dwelling of a feudal family, but now it is a roomyanthill of a hundred houses, shops, and offices, the Boreas of to-dayretaining but a portion of one flat, and making profit of the rest. There, too, are the barracks and the syndic's hall; the Jesuits'school, crowded with boys and girls; the shops for clothes, confectionery, and trinkets; the piazza, with its fountain andtasselled planes, and flowery chestnut-trees, a mass of greenery. Under these trees the idlers lounge, boys play at leap-frog, men atbowls. Women in San Remo work all day, but men and boys play for themost part at bowls or toss-penny or leap-frog or morra. San Siro, thecathedral, stands at one end of the square. Do not go inside; it hasa sickly smell of immemorial incense and garlic, undefinable andhorrible. Far better looks San Siro from the parapet above thetorrent. There you see its irregular half-Gothic outline across atangle of lemon-trees and olives. The stream rushes by through highwalls, covered with creepers, spanned by ferny bridges, feathered byone or two old tufty palms. And over all rises the ancient turret ofSan Siro, like a Spanish giralda, a minaret of pinnacles and pyramidsand dome bubbles, with windows showing heavy bells, old clocks, andsundials painted on the walls, and a cupola of green and yellow tileslike serpent-scales, to crown the whole. The sea lies beyond, andthe house-roofs break it with grey horizontal lines. Then there areconvents, legions of them, large white edifices, Jesuitical apparentlyfor the most part, clanging importunate bells, leaning rose-blossomsand cypress-boughs over their jealous walls. 

Lastly, there is the port--the mole running out into the sea, the quayplanted with plane-trees, and the fishing-boats--by which San Remo isconnected with the naval glory of the past--with the Riviera that gavebirth to Columbus--with the Liguria that the Dorias ruled--with thegreat name of Genoa. The port is empty enough now; but from the pieryou look back on San Remo and its circling hills, a jewelled townset in illimitable olive greyness. The quay seems also to be thecattle-market. There the small buff cows of North Italy repose aftertheir long voyage or march, kneeling on the sandy ground or rubbingtheir sides against the wooden cross awry with age and shorn of allits symbols. Lambs frisk among the boats; impudent kids nibblethe drooping ears of patient mules. Hinds in white jackets andknee-breeches made of skins, lead shaggy rams and fiercely beardedgoats, ready to butt at every barking dog, and always seekingopportunities of flight. Farmers and parish priests in blackpetticoats feel the cattle and dispute about the price, or whet theirbargains with a draught of wine. Meanwhile the nets are brought onshore glittering with the fry of sardines, which are cooked likewhitebait, with cuttlefish--amorphous objects stretching shiny feelerson the hot dry sand--and prickly purple eggs of the sea-urchin. Womengo about their labour through the throng, some carrying stones upontheir heads, or unloading boats and bearing planks of wood in singlefile, two marching side by side beneath one load of lime, othersscarcely visible under a stack of oats, another with her baby in itscradle fast asleep. 

San Remo has an elder brother among the hills, which is called SanRomolo, after one of the old bishops of Genoa. Who San Remo was isburied in remote antiquity; but his town has prospered, while of SanRomolo nothing remains but a ruined hill-convent among pine-trees. Theold convent is worth visiting. Its road carries you into the heart ofthe sierra which surrounds San Remo, a hill-country something likethe Jura, undulating and green to the very top with maritime pines andpinasters. Riding up, you hear all manner of Alpine sounds; brawlingstreams, tinkling cowbells, and herdsmen calling to each other on theslopes. Beneath you lies San Remo, scarcely visible; and over it thegreat sea rises ever so far into the sky, until the white sails hangin air, and cloud and sea-line melt into each other indistinguishably. Spanish chestnuts surround the monastery with bright blue gentians, hepaticas, forget-me-nots, and primroses about their roots. The houseitself is perched on a knoll with ample prospect to the sea and tothe mountains, very near to heaven, within a theatre of noblecontemplations and soul-stirring thoughts. If Mentone spoke to me ofthe poetry of Greek pastoral life, this convent speaks of mediævalmonasticism--of solitude with God, above, beneath, and all around, ofsilence and repose from agitating cares, of continuity in prayer, andchangelessness of daily life. Some precepts of the _Imitatio_came into my mind: 'Be never wholly idle; read or write, pray ormeditate, or work with diligence for the common needs. ' 'Praiseworthyis it for the religious man to go abroad but seldom, and to seem toshun, and keep his eyes from men. ' 'Sweet is the cell when it is oftensought, but if we gad about, it wearies us by its seclusion. ' Then Ithought of the monks so living in this solitude; their cell windowslooking across the valley to the sea, through summer and winter, undersun and stars. Then would they read or write, what long melodioushours! or would they pray, what stations on the pine-clad hills! orwould they toil, what terraces to build and plant with corn, whatflowers to tend, what cows to milk and pasture, what wood to cut, what fir-cones to gather for the winter fire! or should they yearn forsilence, silence from their comrades of the solitude, what whisperinggalleries of God, where never human voice breaks loudly, but windsand streams and lonely birds disturb the awful stillness! In such ahermitage as this, only more wild, lived S. Francis of Assisi, amongthe Apennines. [7] It was there that he learned the tongues of beastsand birds, and preached them sermons. Stretched for hours motionlesson the bare rocks, coloured like them and rough like them in his brownpeasant's serge, he prayed and meditated, saw the vision of Christcrucified, and planned his order to regenerate a vicious age. So stillhe lay, so long, so like a stone, so gentle were his eyes, so kindand low his voice, that the mice nibbled breadcrumbs from his wallet, lizards ran over him, and larks sang to him in the air. There, too, inthose long, solitary vigils, the Spirit of God came upon him, and thespirit of Nature was even as God's Spirit, and he sang: 'Laudato siaDio mio Signore, con tutte le creature, specialmente messer lo fratesole; per suor luna, e per le stelle; per frate vento e per l'aire, enuvolo, e sereno e ogni tempo. ' Half the value of this hymn wouldbe lost were we to forget how it was written, in what solitudes andmountains far from men, or to ticket it with some abstract wordlike Pantheism. Pantheism it is not; but an acknowledgment of thatbrotherhood, beneath the love of God, by which the sun and moon andstars, and wind and air and cloud, and clearness and all weather, andall creatures, are bound together with the soul of man. 

Few, of course, were like S. Francis. Probably no monk of San Romolowas inspired with his enthusiasm for humanity, or had his revelationof the Divine Spirit inherent in the world. Still fewer can have feltthe æsthetic charm of Nature but most vaguely. It was as much as theycould boast, if they kept steadily to the rule of their order, andattended to the concerns each of his own soul. A terrible selfishness, if rightly considered; but one which accorded with the delusion thatthis world is a cave of care, the other world a place of torture orundying bliss, death the prime object of our meditation, and lifelongabandonment of our fellow-men the highest mode of existence. Why, then, should monks, so persuaded of the riddle of the earth, haveplaced themselves in scenes so beautiful? Why rose the Camaldolis andChartreuses over Europe? white convents on the brows of lofty hills, among the rustling boughs of Vallombrosas, in the grassy meadows ofEngelbergs, --always the eyries of Nature's lovers, men smitten withthe loveliness of earth? There is surely some meaning in these poeticstations. 

Here is a sentence of the _Imitatio_ which throws some light uponthe hymn of S. Francis and the sites of Benedictine monasteries, byexplaining the value of natural beauty for monks who spent their lifein studying death: 'If thy heart were right, then would every creaturebe to thee a mirror of life, and a book of holy doctrine. There is nocreature so small and vile that does not show forth the goodnessof God. ' With this sentence bound about their foreheads, walked FraAngelico and S. Francis. To men like them the mountain valleys and theskies, and all that they contained, were full of deep significance. Though they reasoned '_de conditione humanæ miseriæ_, ' and '_decontemptu mundi_, ' yet the whole world was a pageant of God'sglory, a testimony to His goodness. Their chastened senses, purehearts, and simple wills were as wings by which they soared above thethings of earth, and sent the music of their souls aloft with everyother creature in the symphony of praise. To them, as to Blake, thesun was no mere blazing disc or ball, but 'an innumerable companyof the heavenly host singing, "Holy, holy, holy is the Lord GodAlmighty. "' To them the winds were brothers, and the streams weresisters--brethren in common dependence upon God their Father, brethrenin common consecration to His service, brethren by blood, brethren byvows of holiness. Unquestioning faith rendered this world no puzzle;they overlooked the things of sense because the spiritual thingswere ever present, and as clear as day. Yet did they not forgetthat spiritual things are symbolised by things of sense; and so thesmallest herb of grass was vital to their tranquil contemplations. We who have lost sight of the invisible world, who set our affectionsmore on things of earth, fancy that because these monks despised theworld, and did not write about its landscapes, therefore they weredead to its beauty. This is mere vanity: the mountains, stars, seas, fields, and living things were only swallowed up in the one thought ofGod, and made subordinate to the awfulness of human destinies. Weto whom hills are hills, and seas are seas, and stars are ponderablequantities, speak, write, and reason of them as of objects interestingin themselves. The monks were less ostensibly concerned about suchthings, because they only found in them the vestibules and symbols ofa hidden mystery. 

The contrast between the Greek and mediæval modes of regardingNature is not a little remarkable. Both Greeks and monks, judged bynineteenth-century standards, were unobservant of natural beauties. They make but brief and general remarks upon landscapes and the like. The [Greek: pontiôn te kumatôn anêrithmon gelasma] is veryrare. But the Greeks stopped at the threshold of Nature; the forcesthey found there, the gods, were inherent in Nature, and distinct. They did not, like the monks, place one spiritual power, omnipotentand omnipresent, above all, and see in Nature lessons of Divinegovernment. We ourselves having somewhat overstrained the latter pointof view, are now apt to return vaguely to Greek fancies. Perhaps, too, we talk so much about scenery because it is scenery to us, and thelife has gone out of it. 

I cannot leave the Cornice without one word about a place which liesbetween Mentone and San Remo. Bordighera has a beauty which is quitedistinct from both. Palms are its chief characteristics. They leanagainst the garden walls, and feather the wells outside the town, where women come with brazen pitchers to draw water. In some of themarshy tangles of the plain, they spring from a thick undergrowth ofspiky leaves, and rear their tall aërial arms against the deep bluebackground of the sea or darker purple of the distant hills. Whitepigeons fly about among their branches, and the air is loud withcooings and with rustlings, and the hoarser croaking of innumerablefrogs. Then, in the olive-groves that stretch along the level shore, are labyrinths of rare and curious plants, painted tulips and whiteperiwinkles, flinging their light of blossoms and dark glossy leavesdown the swift channels of the brawling streams. On each side of therivulets they grow, like sister cataracts of flowers instead of spray. At night fresh stars come out along the coast, beneath the starsof heaven; for you can see the lamps of Ventimiglia and Mentoneand Monaco, and, far away, the lighthouses upon the promontories ofAntibes and the Estrelles. At dawn, a vision of Corsica grows fromthe sea. The island lies eighty miles away, but one can trace thedark strip of irregular peaks glowing amid the gold and purple of therising sun. If the air is clear and bright, the snows and overvaultingclouds which crown its mountains shine all day, and glitter like anapparition in the bright blue sky. 'Phantom fair, ' half raised abovethe sea, it stands, as unreal and transparent as the moon when seen inApril sunlight, yet not to be confounded with the shape of any cloud. If Mentone speaks of Greek legends, and San Romolo restores themonastic past, we feel ourselves at Bordighera transported to theEast; and lying under its tall palms can fancy ourselves at Tyre orDaphne, or in the gardens of a Moslem prince. 

 Note. --Dec. 1873. My old impressions are renewed and confirmed by a third visit, after seven years, to this coast. For purely idyllic loveliness, the Cornice is surpassed by nothing in the South. A very few spots in Sicily, the road between Castellammare and Amalfi, and the island of Corfu, are its only rivals in this style of scenery. From Cannes to Sestri is one continuous line of exquisitely modulated landscape beauty, which can only be fully appreciated by travellers in carriage or on foot. 

 * * * * *

_AJACCIO_

It generally happens that visitors to Ajaccio pass over from theCornice coast, leaving Nice at night, and waking about sunrise to findthemselves beneath the frowning mountains of Corsica. The differencebetween the scenery of the island and the shores which they haveleft is very striking. Instead of the rocky mountains of the Cornice, intolerably dry and barren at their summits, but covered at their basewith villages and ancient towns and olive-fields, Corsica presents ascene of solitary and peculiar grandeur. The highest mountain-tops arecovered with snow, and beneath the snow-level to the sea they areas green as Irish or as English hills, but nearly uninhabited anduncultivated. Valleys of almost Alpine verdure are succeeded bytracts of chestnut wood and scattered pines, or deep and flowerybrushwood--the 'maquis' of Corsica, which yields shelter to itstraditional outlaws and bandits. Yet upon these hillsides thereare hardly any signs of life; the whole country seems abandoned toprimeval wildness and the majesty of desolation. Nothing can possiblybe more unlike the smiling Riviera, every square mile of which iscultivated like a garden, and every valley and bay dotted over withwhite villages. After steaming for a few hours along this savagecoast, the rocks which guard the entrance to the bay of Ajaccio, murderous-looking teeth and needles ominously christened Sanguinari, are passed, and we enter the splendid land-locked harbour, on thenorthern shore of which Ajaccio is built. About three centuries agothe town, which used to occupy the extreme or eastern end of the bay, was removed to a more healthy point upon the northern coast, so thatAjaccio is quite a modern city. Visitors who expect to find in itthe picturesqueness of Genoa or San Remo, or even of Mentone, willbe sadly disappointed. It is simply a healthy, well-appointed town ofrecent date, the chief merits of which are, that it has wide streets, and is free, externally at least, from the filth and rubbish of mostsouthern seaports. 

But if Ajaccio itself is not picturesque, the scenery whichit commands, and in the heart of which it lies, is of the mostmagnificent. The bay of Ajaccio resembles a vast Italian lake--a LagoMaggiore, with greater space between the mountains and the shore. From the snow-peaks of the interior, huge granite crystals clothed inwhite, to the southern extremity of the bay, peak succeeds peak andridge rises behind ridge in a line of wonderful variety and beauty. The atmospheric changes of light and shadow, cloud and colour, on thisupland country, are as subtle and as various as those which lend theirbeauty to the scenery of the lakes, while the sea below is blue andrarely troubled. One could never get tired with looking at this view. Morning and evening add new charms to its sublimity and beauty. In theearly morning Monte d'Oro sparkles like a Monte Rosa with its freshsnow, and the whole inferior range puts on the crystal blueness ofdawn among the Alps. In the evening, violet and purple tints andthe golden glow of Italian sunset lend a different lustre to thefairyland. In fact, the beauties of Switzerland and Italy arecuriously blended in this landscape. 

In soil and vegetation the country round Ajaccio differs much from theCornice. There are very few olive-trees, nor is the cultivated groundbacked up so immediately by stony mountains; but between the seashoreand the hills there is plenty of space for pasture-land, and orchardsof apricot and peach-trees, and orange gardens. This undulatingchampaign, green with meadows and watered with clear streams, is veryrefreshing to the eyes of Northern people, who may have wearied of thebareness and greyness of Nice or Mentone. It is traversed by excellentroads, recently constructed on a plan of the French Government, whichintersect the country in all directions, and offer an infinite varietyof rides or drives to visitors. The broken granite of which theseroads are made is very pleasant for riding over. Most of the hillsthrough which they strike, after starting from Ajaccio, areclothed with a thick brushwood of box, ilex, lentisk, arbutus, and laurustinus, which stretches down irregularly into vineyards, olive-gardens, and meadows. It is, indeed, the native growth of theisland; for wherever a piece of ground is left untilled, the macchigrow up, and the scent of their multitudinous aromatic blossoms is sostrong that it may be smelt miles out at sea. Napoleon, at S. Helena, referred to this fragrance when he said that he should know Corsicablindfold by the smell of its soil. Occasional woods of holm oak makedarker patches on the landscape, and a few pines fringe the side ofenclosure walls or towers. The prickly pear runs riot in and outamong the hedges and upon the walls, diversifying the colours of thelandscape with its strange grey-green masses and unwieldy fans. Inspring, when peach and almond trees are in blossom, and when theroadside is starred with asphodels, this country is most beautiful inits gladness. The macchi blaze with cistus flowers of red and silver. Golden broom mixes with the dark purple of the great French lavender, and over the whole mass of blossom wave plumes of Mediterranean heathand sweet-scented yellow coronilla. Under the stems of the ilex peepcyclamens, pink and sweet; the hedgerows are a tangle of vetches, convolvuluses, lupines, orchises, and alliums, with here and there apurple iris. It would be difficult to describe all the rare and lovelyplants which are found here in a profusion that surpasses even theflower-gardens of the Cornice, and reminds one of the most favouredAlpine valleys in their early spring. 

Since the French occupied Corsica they have done much for the islandby improving its harbours and making good roads, and endeavouringto mitigate the ferocity of the people. But they have many things tocontend against, and Corsica is still behind the other provinces ofFrance. The people are idle, haughty, umbrageous, fiery, quarrelsome, fond of gipsy life, and retentive through generations of old feuds andprejudices to an almost inconceivable extent. Then the nature of thecountry itself offers serious obstacles to its proper colonisationand cultivation. The savage state of the island and its internal feudshave disposed the Corsicans to quit the seaboard for their mountainvillages and fortresses, so that the great plains at the foot of thehills are unwholesome for want of tillage and drainage. Again, the mountains themselves have in many parts been stripped of theirforests, and converted into mere wildernesses of macchi stretchingup and down their slopes for miles and miles of useless desolation. Another impediment to proper cultivation is found in the old habit ofwhat is called free pasturage. The highland shepherds are allowedby the national custom to drive down their flocks and herds to thelowlands during the winter, so that fences are broken, young cropsare browsed over and trampled down, and agriculture becomes a mereimpossibility. The last and chief difficulty against which the Frenchhave had to contend, and up to this time with apparent success, isbrigandage. The Corsican system of brigandage is so very differentfrom that of the Italians, Sicilians, and Greeks, that a word may besaid about its peculiar character. In the first place, it has nothingat all to do with robbery and thieving. The Corsican bandit took to afree life among the macchi, not for the sake of supporting himself bylawless depredation, but because he had put himself under a legal andsocial ban by murdering some one in obedience to the strict code ofhonour of his country. His victim may have been the hereditary foe ofhis house for generations, or else the newly made enemy of yesterday. But in either case, if he had killed him fairly, after a duenotification of his intention to do so, he was held to have fulfilleda duty rather than to have committed a crime. He then betook himselfto the dense tangles of evergreens which I have described, where helived upon the charity of countryfolk and shepherds. In the eyes ofthose simple people it was a sacred duty to relieve the necessities ofthe outlaws, and to guard them from the bloodhounds of justice. Therewas scarcely a respectable family in Corsica who had not one or moreof its members thus _alla campagna_, as it was euphemisticallystyled. The Corsicans themselves have attributed this miserable stateof things to two principal causes. The first of these was the ancientbad government of the island: under its Genoese rulers no justice wasadministered, and private vengeance for homicide or insult became anecessary consequence among the haughty and warlike families ofthe mountain villages. Secondly, the Corsicans have been from timeimmemorial accustomed to wear arms in everyday life. They used to sitat their house doors and pace the streets with musket, pistol, dagger, and cartouch-box on their persons; and on the most trivial occasionof merriment or enthusiasm they would discharge their firearms. Thishabit gave a bloody termination to many quarrels, which might haveended more peaceably had the parties been unarmed; and so the seedsof _vendetta_ were constantly being sown. Statistics publishedby the French Government present a hideous picture of the state ofbloodshed in Corsica even during this century. In one period of thirtyyears (between 1821 and 1850) there were 4319 murders in the island. Almost every man was watching for his neighbour's life, or seeking howto save his own; and agriculture and commerce were neglected for thisgrisly game of hide-and-seek. In 1853 the French began to take strongmeasures, and, under the Prefect Thuillier, they hunted the banditsfrom the macchi, killing between 200 and 300 of them. At the same timean edict was promulgated against bearing arms. It is forbidden to sellthe old Corsican stiletto in the shops, and no one may carry a gun, even for sporting purposes, unless he obtains a special licence. Theselicences, moreover, are only granted for short and precisely measuredperiods. 

In order to appreciate the stern and gloomy character of theCorsicans, it is necessary to leave the smiling gardens of Ajaccio, and to visit some of the more distant mountain villages--Vico, Cavro, Bastelica, or Bocognano, any of which may easily be reached from thecapital. Immediately after quitting the seaboard, we enter a countryaustere in its simplicity, solemn without relief, yet dignified by itsmajesty and by the sense of freedom it inspires. As we approach themountains, the macchi become taller, feathering man-high above theroad, and stretching far away upon the hills. Gigantic masses ofgranite, shaped like buttresses and bastions, seem to guard theapproaches to these hills; while, looking backward over the greenplain, the sea lies smiling in a haze of blue among the rocky hornsand misty headlands of the coast. There is a stateliness about theabrupt inclination of these granite slopes, rising from their frowningportals by sharp _arêtes_ to the snows piled on their summits, which contrasts in a strange way with the softness and beauty ofthe mingling sea and plain beneath. In no landscape are more variousqualities combined; in none are they so harmonised as to produce sostrong a sense of majestic freedom and severe power. Suppose that weare on the road to Corte, and have now reached Bocognano, the firstconsiderable village since we left Ajaccio. Bocognano might be chosenas typical of Corsican hill-villages, with its narrow street, andtall tower-like houses of five or six stories high, faced withrough granite, and pierced with the smallest windows and very narrowdoorways. These buildings have a mournful and desolate appearance. There is none of the grandeur of antiquity about them; no sculpturedarms or castellated turrets, or balconies or spacious staircases, such as are common in the poorest towns of Italy. The signs of warlikeoccupation which they offer, and their sinister aspect of vigilance, are thoroughly prosaic. They seem to suggest a state of society inwhich feud and violence were systematised into routine. There is norelief to the savage austerity of their forbidding aspect; no signsof wealth or household comfort; no trace of art, no liveliness andgracefulness of architecture. Perched upon their coigns of vantage, these villages seem always menacing, as if Saracen pirates, or Genoesemarauders, or bandits bent on vengeance, were still for ever on thewatch. Forests of immensely old chestnut-trees surround Bocognano onevery side, so that you step from the village streets into the shadeof woods that seem to have remained untouched for centuries. Thecountry-people support themselves almost entirely upon the fruit ofthese chestnuts; and there is a large department of Corsica calledCastagniccia, from the prevalence of these trees and the sustenancewhich the inhabitants derive from them. Close by the village brawlsa torrent, such as one may see in the Monte Rosa valleys or theApennines, but very rarely in Switzerland. It is of a pure greencolour, absolutely like Indian jade, foaming round the graniteboulders, and gliding over smooth slabs of polished stone, and eddyinginto still, deep pools fringed with fern. Monte d'Oro, one of thelargest mountains of Corsica, soars above, and from his snows thepurest water, undefiled by glacier mud or the _débris_ ofavalanches, melts away. Following the stream, we rise through themacchi and the chestnut woods, which grow more sparely by degrees, until we reach the zone of beeches. Here the scene seems suddenlytransferred to the Pyrenees; for the road is carried along abruptslopes, thickly set with gigantic beech-trees, overgrown with pink andsilver lichens. In the early spring their last year's leaves are stillcrisp with hoar-frost; one morning's journey has brought us from thesummer of Ajaccio to winter on these heights, where no flowers arevisible but the pale hellebore and tiny lilac crocuses. Snow-driftsstretch by the roadside, and one by one the pioneers of the vastpine-woods of the interior appear. A great portion of the pine-forest(_Pinus larix_, or Corsican pine, not larch) between Bocognanoand Corte had recently been burned by accident when we passed by. Nothing could be more forlorn than the black leafless stems andbranches emerging from the snow. Some of these trees were mast-high, and some mere saplings. Corte itself is built among the mountainfastnesses of the interior. The snows and granite cliffs of MonteRotondo overhang it to the north-west, while two fair valleys leaddownward from its eyrie to the eastern coast. The rock on which itstands rises to a sharp point, sloping southward, and commanding thevalleys of the Golo and the Tavignano. Remembering that Corte was theold capital of Corsica, and the centre of General Paoli's government, we are led to compare the town with Innsprück, Meran, or Grenoble. In point of scenery and situation it is hardly second to any of thesemountain-girdled cities; but its poverty and bareness are scarcelyless striking than those of Bocognano. 

The whole Corsican character, with its stern love of justice, itsfurious revengefulness and wild passion for freedom, seems to beillustrated by the peculiar elements of grandeur and desolation inthis landscape. When we traverse the forest of Vico or the rockypasture-lands of Niolo, the history of the Corsican national heroes, Giudice della Rocca and Sampiero, becomes intelligible, nor do we failto understand some of the mysterious attraction which led the moredaring spirits of the island to prefer a free life among the macchiand pine-woods to placid lawful occupations in farms and villages. The lives of the two men whom I have mentioned are so prominent inCorsican history, and are so often still upon the lips of the commonpeople, that it may be well to sketch their outlines in the foregroundof the Salvator Rosa landscape just described. Giudice was thegovernor of Corsica, as lieutenant for the Pisans, at the end of thethirteenth century. At that time the island belonged to the republicof Pisa, but the Genoese were encroaching on them by land and sea, and the whole life of their brave champion was spent in a desperatestruggle with the invaders, until at last he died, old, blind, and inprison, at the command of his savage foes. Giudice was the title whichthe Pisans usually conferred upon their governor, and Della Roccadeserved it by right of his own inexorable love of justice. Indeed, justice seems to have been with him a passion, swallowing up all otherfeelings of his nature. All the stories which are told of him turnupon this point in his character; and though they may not be strictlytrue, they illustrate the stern virtues for which he was celebratedamong the Corsicans, and show what kind of men this harsh and gloomynation loved to celebrate as heroes. This is not the place either tocriticise these legends or to recount them at full length. The mostfamous and the most characteristic may, however, be briefly told. Onone occasion, after a victory over the Genoese, he sent a messagethat the captives in his hands should be released if their wives andsisters came to sue for them. The Genoese ladies embarked, andarrived in Corsica, and to Giudice's nephew was intrusted the dutyof fulfilling his uncle's promise. In the course of executing hiscommission, the youth was so smitten with the beauty of one of thewomen that he dishonoured her. Thereupon Giudice had him at once putto death. Another story shows the Spartan justice of this hero ina less savage light. He was passing by a cowherd's cottage, when heheard some young calves bleating. On inquiring what distressed them, he was told that the calves had not enough milk to drink after thefarm people had been served. Then Giudice made it a law that thecalves throughout the land should take their fill before the cows weremilked. 

Sampiero belongs to a later period of Corsican history. After a longcourse of misgovernment the Genoese rule had become unbearable. Therewas no pretence of administering justice, and private vengeance hadfull sway in the island. The sufferings of the nation were so greatthat the time had come for a new judge or saviour to rise among them. Sampiero was the son of obscure parents who lived at Bastelica. Buthis abilities very soon declared themselves, and made a way for him inthe world. He spent his youth in the armies of the Medici and of theFrench Francis, gaining great renown as a brave soldier. Bayard becamehis friend, and Francis made him captain of his Corsican bands. ButSampiero did not forget the wrongs of his native land while thus onforeign service. He resolved, if possible, to undermine the powerof Genoa, and spent the whole of his manhood and old age in onelong struggle with their great captain, Stephen Doria. Of his sternpatriotism and Roman severity of virtue the following story is aterrible illustration. Sampiero, though a man of mean birth, hadmarried an heiress of the noble Corsican house of the Ornani. Hiswife, Vannina, was a woman of timid and flexible nature, who, thoughdevoted to her husband, fell into the snares of his enemies. Duringhis absence on an embassy to Algiers the Genoese induced her to leaveher home at Marseilles and to seek refuge in their city, persuadingher that this step would secure the safety of her child. She wasstarting on her journey when a friend of Sampiero arrested her, andbrought her back to Aix, in Provence. Sampiero, when he heard of theseevents, hurried to France, and was received by a relative of his, who hinted that he had known of Vannina's projected flight. 'E tu haitaciuto?' was Sampiero's only answer, accompanied by a stroke of hispoignard that killed the lukewarm cousin. Sampiero now brought hiswife from Aix to Marseilles, preserving the most absolute silence onthe way, and there, on entering his house, he killed her with his ownhand. It is said that he loved Vannina passionately; and when she wasdead, he caused her to be buried with magnificence in the church of S. Francis. Like Giudice, Sampiero fell at last a prey to treachery. Themurder of Vannina had made the Ornani his deadly foes. In order toavenge her blood, they played into the hands of the Genoese, and laida plot by which the noblest of the Corsicans was brought to death. First, they gained over to their scheme a monk of Bastelica, calledAmbrogio, and Sampiero's own squire and shield-bearer, Vittolo. Bymeans of these men, in whom he trusted, he was drawn defenceless andunattended into a deeply wooded ravine near Cavro, not very far fromhis birthplace, where the Ornani and their Genoese troops surroundedhim. Sampiero fired his pistols in vain, for Vittolo had loaded themwith the shot downwards. Then he drew his sword, and began to layabout him, when the same Vittolo, the Judas, stabbed him frombehind, and the old lion fell dead by his friend's hand. Sampiero wassixty-nine when he died, in the year 1567. It is satisfactory to knowthat the Corsicans have called traitors and foes to their countryVittoli for ever. These two examples of Corsican patriots are enough;we need not add to theirs the history of Paoli--a milder and morehumane, but scarcely less heroic leader. Paoli, however, in thehour of Corsica's extremest peril, retired to England, and died inphilosophic exile. Neither Giudice nor Sampiero would have acted thus. The more forlorn the hope, the more they struggled. 

Among the old Corsican customs which are fast dying out, butwhich still linger in the remote valleys of Niolo and Vico, is the_vócero_, or funeral chant, improvised by women at funerals overthe bodies of the dead. Nothing illustrates the ferocious temper andsavage passions of the race better than these _vóceri_, many ofwhich have been written down and preserved. Most of them are songsof vengeance and imprecation, mingled with hyperbolical laments andutterances of extravagant grief, poured forth by wives and sisters atthe side of murdered husbands and brothers. The women who sing themseem to have lost all milk of human kindness, and to have exchangedthe virtues of their sex for Spartan fortitude and the rage of furies. While we read their turbid lines we are carried in imagination to oneof the cheerless houses of Bastelica or Bocognano, overshadowed by itsmournful chestnut-tree, on which the blood of the murdered man is yetred. The _gridata_, or wake, is assembled in a dark room. On thewooden board, called _tola_, the corpse lies stretched; and roundit are women, veiled in the blue-black mantle of Corsican costume, moaning and rocking themselves upon their chairs. The _pasto_ or_conforto_, food supplied for mourners, stands upon a side table, and round the room are men with savage eyes and bristling beards, armed to the teeth, keen for vengeance. The dead man's musket andpocket-pistol lie beside him, and his bloody shirt is hung up at hishead. Suddenly, the silence, hitherto only disturbed by suppressedgroans and muttered curses, is broken by a sharp cry. A woman rises:it is the sister of the dead man; she seizes his shirt, and holdingit aloft with Mænad gestures and frantic screams, gives rhythmicutterance to her grief and rage. 'I was spinning, when I heard a greatnoise: it was a gunshot, which went into my heart, and seemed a voicethat cried, "Run, thy brother is dying. " I ran into the room above;I took the blow into my breast; I said, "Now he is dead, there isnothing to give me comfort. Who will undertake thy vengeance? When Ishow thy shirt, who will vow to let his beard grow till the murdereris slain? Who is there left to do it? A mother near her death? Asister? Of all our race there is only left a woman, without kin, poor, orphan, and a girl. Yet, O my brother! never fear. For thy vengeancethy sister is enough!

 '"Ma per fà la to bindetta, Sta siguru, basta anch ella!

Give me the pistol; I will shoulder the gun; I will away to thehills. My brother, heart of thy sister, thou shalt be avenged!"' A_vócero_ declaimed upon the bier of Giammatteo and Pasquale, two cousins, by the sister of the former, is still fiercer and moreenergetic in its malediction. This Erinnys of revenge prays Christ andall the saints to extirpate the murderer's whole race, to shrivel itup till it passes from the earth. Then, with a sudden and vehementtransition to the pathos of her own sorrow, she exclaims:--

 'Halla mai bista nissunu Tumbà l'omi pe li canti?'

It appears from these words that Giammatteo's enemies had killed himbecause they were jealous of his skill in singing. Shortly after, she curses the curate of the village, a kinsman of the murderer, forrefusing to toll the funeral bells; and at last, all other threads ofrage and sorrow being twined and knotted into one, she gives looseto her raging thirst for blood: 'If only I had a son, to train likea sleuth-hound, that he might track the murderer! Oh, if I had a son!Oh, if I had a lad!' Her words seem to choke her, and she swoons, andremains for a short time insensible. When the Bacchante of revengeawakes, it is with milder feelings in her heart: 'O brother mine, Matteo! art thou sleeping? Here I will rest with thee and weep tilldaybreak. ' It is rare to find in literature so crude and intensean expression of fiery hatred as these untranslatable _vóceri_present. The emotion is so simple and so strong that it becomessublime by mere force, and affects us with a strange pathos whencontrasted with the tender affection conveyed in such terms ofendearment as 'my dove, ' 'my flower, ' 'my pheasant, ' 'my brightpainted orange, ' addressed to the dead. In the _vóceri_ it oftenhappens that there are several interlocutors: one friend questions andanother answers; or a kinswoman of the murderer attempts to justifythe deed, and is overwhelmed with deadly imprecations. Passionateappeals are made to the corpse: 'Arise! Do you not hear the women cry?Stand up. Show your wounds, and let the fountains of your blood flow!Alas! he is dead; he sleeps; he cannot hear!' Then they turn again totears and curses, feeling that no help or comfort can come from theclay-cold form. The intensity of grief finds strange language for itsutterance. A girl, mourning over her father, cries:--

 'Mi l'hannu crucifissatu Cume Ghiesu Cristu in croce. '

Once only, in Viale's collection, does any friend of the dead remembermercy. It is an old woman, who points to the crucifix above the bier. 

But all the _vóceri_ are not so murderous. Several are composedfor girls who died unwedded and before their time, by their mothersor companions. The language of these laments is far more tender andornate. They praise the gentle virtues and beauty of the girl, herpiety and helpful household ways. The most affecting of these dirgesis that which celebrates the death of Romana, daughter of DariolaDanesi. Here is a pretty picture of the girl: 'Among the best andfairest maidens you were like a rose among flowers, like the moonamong stars; so far more lovely were you than the loveliest. Theyouths in your presence were like lighted torches, but full ofreverence; you were courteous to all, but with none familiar. Inchurch they gazed at you, but you looked at none of them; and aftermass you said, "Mother, let us go. " Oh! who will console me for yourloss? Why did the Lord so much desire you? But now you rest in heaven, all joy and smiles; for the world was not worthy of so fair a face. Oh, how far more beautiful will Paradise be now!' Then follows apiteous picture of the old bereaved mother, to whom a year will seema thousand years, who will wander among relatives without affection, neighbours without love; and who, when sickness comes, will have noone to give her a drop of water, or to wipe the sweat from her brow, or to hold her hand in death. Yet all that is left for her is to waitand pray for the end, that she may join again her darling. 

But it is time to return to Ajaccio itself. At present the attractionsand ornaments of the town consist of a good public library, CardinalFesch's large but indifferent collection of pictures, two monumentserected to Napoleon, and Napoleon's house. It will always be the chiefpride of Ajaccio that she gave birth to the great emperor. Close tothe harbour, in a public square by the sea-beach, stands an equestrianstatue of the conqueror, surrounded by his four brothers on foot. Theyare all attired in Roman fashion, and are turned seaward, to the west, as if to symbolise the emigration of this family to subdue Europe. There is something ludicrous and forlorn in the stiffness of thegroup--something even pathetic, when we think how Napoleon gazedseaward from another island, no longer on horseback, no longerlaurel-crowned, an unthroned, unseated conqueror, on S. Helena. Hisfather's house stands close by. An old Italian waiting-woman, who hadbeen long in the service of the Murats, keeps it and shows it. Shehas the manners of a lady, and can tell many stories of the variousmembers of the Buonaparte family. Those who fancy that Napoleon wasborn in a mean dwelling of poor parents will be surprised to find somuch space and elegance in these apartments. Of course his family wasnot rich by comparison with the riches of French or English nobles. But for Corsicans they were well-to-do, and their house has an air ofantique dignity. The chairs of the entrance-saloon have been literallystripped of their coverings by enthusiastic visitors; the horse-hairstuffing underneath protrudes itself with a sort of comic pride, asif protesting that it came to be so tattered in an honourable service. Some of the furniture seems new; but many old presses, inlaid withmarbles, agates, and lapis-lazuli, such as Italian families preservefor generations, have an air of respectable antiquity about them. Noris there any doubt that the young Napoleon led his minuets beneaththe stiff girandoles of the formal dancing-room. There, too, in adark back chamber, is the bed in which he was born. At its foot is aphotograph of the Prince Imperial sent by the Empress Eugénie, who, when she visited the room, wept much _pianse molto_ (to use theold lady's phrase)--at seeing the place where such lofty destiniesbegan. On the wall of the same room is a portrait of Napoleon himselfas the young general of the republic--with the citizen's unkempthair, the fierce fire of the Revolution in his eyes, a frown upon hisforehead, lips compressed, and quivering nostrils; also one of hismother, the pastille of a handsome woman, with Napoleonic eyesand brows and nose, but with a vacant simpering mouth. Perhapsthe provincial artist knew not how to seize the expression of thisfeature, the most difficult to draw. For we cannot fancy that Letiziahad lips without the firmness or the fulness of a majestic nature. 

The whole first story of this house belonged to the Buonaparte family. The windows look out partly on a little court and partly on narrowstreets. It was, no doubt, the memory of this home that made Napoleon, when emperor, design schemes for the good of Corsica--schemes thatmight have brought him more honour than many conquests, but whichhe had no time or leisure to carry out. On S. Helena his mind oftenreverted to them, and he would speak of the gummy odours of the macchiwafted from the hillsides to the seashore. 

 * * * * *

_MONTE GENEROSO_

The long hot days of Italian summer were settling down on plain andcountry when, in the last week of May, we travelled northward fromFlorence and Bologna seeking coolness. That was very hard to find inLombardy. The days were long and sultry, the nights short, without arespite from the heat. Milan seemed a furnace, though in the Duomo andthe narrow shady streets there was a twilight darkness which at leastlooked cool. Long may it be before the northern spirit of improvementhas taught the Italians to despise the wisdom of their forefathers, who built those sombre streets of palaces with overhanging eaves, that, almost meeting, form a shelter from the fiercest sun. The lakecountry was even worse than the towns; the sunlight lay all day asleepupon the shining waters, and no breeze came to stir their surface orto lift the tepid veil of haze, through which the stony mountains, with their yet unmelted patches of winter snow, glared as if inmockery of coolness. 

Then we heard of a new inn, which had just been built by anenterprising Italian doctor below the very top of Monte Generoso. There was a picture of it in the hotel at Cadenabbia, but this gavebut little idea of any particular beauty. A big square house, with many windows, and the usual ladies on mules, and guides withalpenstocks, advancing towards it, and some round bushes growing near, was all it showed. Yet there hung the real Monte Generoso above ourheads, and we thought it must be cooler on its height than by thelake-shore. To find coolness was the great point with us just then. Moreover, some one talked of the wonderful plants that grew among itsrocks, and of its grassy slopes enamelled with such flowers as makeour cottage gardens at home gay in summer, not to speak of othersrarer and peculiar to the region of the Southern Alps. Indeed, theGeneroso has a name for flowers, and it deserves it, as we presentlyfound. 

This mountain is fitted by its position for commanding one of thefinest views in the whole range of the Lombard Alps. A glance at themap shows that. Standing out pre-eminent among the chain of lowerhills to which it belongs, the lakes of Lugano and Como with theirlong arms enclose it on three sides, while on the fourth the plain ofLombardy with its many cities, its rich pasture-lands and cornfieldsintersected by winding river-courses and straight interminableroads, advances to its very foot. No place could be better chosen forsurveying that contrasted scene of plain and mountain, which formsthe great attraction of the outlying buttresses of the central Alpinemass. The superiority of the Monte Generoso to any of the similareminences on the northern outskirts of Switzerland is great. Inrichness of colour, in picturesqueness of suggestion, in sublimity andbreadth of prospect, its advantages are incontestable. The reasons forthis superiority are obvious. On the Italian side the transition frommountain to plain is far more abrupt; the atmosphere being clearer, a larger sweep of distance is within our vision; again, the sunlightblazes all day long upon the very front and forehead of the distantAlpine chain, instead of merely slanting along it, as it does upon thenorthern side. 

From Mendrisio, the village at the foot of the mountain, an easymule-path leads to the hotel, winding first through English-lookinghollow lanes with real hedges, which are rare in this country, and English primroses beneath them. Then comes a forest region ofluxuriant chestnut-trees, giants with pink boles just bursting intolate leafage, yellow and tender, but too thin as yet for shade. A little higher up, the chestnuts are displaced by wild laburnumsbending under their weight of flowers. The graceful branches meetabove our heads, sweeping their long tassels against our faces as weride beneath them, while the air for a good mile is full of fragrance. It is strange to be reminded in this blooming labyrinth of the dustysuburb roads and villa gardens of London. The laburnum is pleasantenough in S. John's Wood or the Regent's Park in May--a tamedomesticated thing of brightness amid smoke and dust. But it isanother joy to see it flourishing in its own home, clothing acres ofthe mountain-side in a very splendour of spring-colour, mingling itspaler blossoms with the golden broom of our own hills, and withthe silver of the hawthorn and wild cherry. Deep beds oflilies-of-the-valley grow everywhere beneath the trees; and in themeadows purple columbines, white asphodels, the Alpine spiræa, tall, with feathery leaves, blue scabious, golden hawkweeds, turkscaplilies, and, better than all, the exquisite narcissus poeticus, withits crimson-tipped cup, and the pure pale lilies of San Bruno, arecrowded in a maze of dazzling brightness. Higher up the laburnumsdisappear, and flaunting crimson peonies gleam here and there uponthe rocks, until at length the gentians and white ranunculuses of thehigher Alps displace the less hardy flowers of Italy. 

About an hour below the summit of the mountain we came upon the inn, a large clean building, with scanty furniture and snowy wooden floors, guiltless of carpets. It is big enough to hold about a hundred guests;and Doctor Pasta, who built it, a native of Mendrisio, was giftedeither with much faith or with a real prophetic instinct. [8] Anyhow hedeserves commendation for his spirit of enterprise. As yet the houseis little known to English travellers: it is mostly frequented byItalians from Milan, Novara, and other cities of the plain, who callit the Italian Righi, and come to it, as cockneys go to Richmond, for noisy picnic excursions, or at most for a few weeks'_villeggiatura_ in the summer heats. When we were there in Maythe season had scarcely begun, and the only inmates besides ourselveswere a large party from Milan, ladies and gentlemen in holiday guise, who came, stayed one night, climbed the peak at sunrise, and departedamid jokes and shouting and half-childish play, very unlike the doingsof a similar party in sober England. After that the stillness ofnature descended on the mountain, and the sun shone day after day uponthat great view which seemed created only for ourselves. And whata view it was! The plain stretching up to the high horizon, where amisty range of pink cirrus-clouds alone marked the line where earthended and the sky began, was islanded with cities and villagesinnumerable, basking in the hazy shimmering heat. Milan, seen throughthe doctor's telescope, displayed its Duomo perfect as a microscopicshell, with all its exquisite fretwork, and Napoleon's arch of triumphsurmounted by the four tiny horses, as in a fairy's dream. Far off, long silver lines marked the lazy course of Po and Ticino, whilelittle lakes like Varese and the lower end of Maggiore spreadthemselves out, connecting the mountains with the plain. Five minutes'walk from the hotel brought us to a ridge where the precipice fellsuddenly and almost sheer over one arm of Lugano Lake. Sullenlyoutstretched asleep it lay beneath us, coloured with the tints offluor-spar, or with the changeful green and azure of a peacock'sbreast. The depth appeared immeasurable. San Salvadore had recededinto insignificance: the houses and churches and villas of Luganobordered the lake-shore with an uneven line of whiteness. And over allthere rested a blue mist of twilight and of haze, contrasting with theclearness of the peaks above. It was sunset when we first came here;and, wave beyond wave, the purple Italian hills tossed their crestedsummits to the foot of a range of stormy clouds that shrouded the highAlps. Behind the clouds was sunset, clear and golden; but themountains had put on their mantle for the night, and the hem of theirgarment was all we were to see. And yet--over the edge of the topmostridge of cloud, what was that long hard line of black, too solid andimmovable for cloud, rising into four sharp needles clear and welldefined? Surely it must be the familiar outline of Monte Rosa itself, the form which every one who loves the Alps knows well by heart, whichpicture-lovers know from Ruskin's woodcut in the 'Modern Painters. 'For a moment only the vision stayed: then clouds swept over it again, and from the place where the empress of the Alps had been, a pillar ofmist shaped like an angel's wing, purple and tipped with gold, shot upagainst the pale green sky. That cloud-world was a pageant in itself, as grand and more gorgeous perhaps than the mountains would have been. Deep down through the hollows of the Simplon a thunderstorm wasdriving; and we saw forked flashes once and again, as in a distantworld, lighting up the valleys for a moment, and leaving the darknessblacker behind them as the storm blurred out the landscape forty milesaway. Darkness was coming to us too, though our sky was clear and thestars were shining brightly. At our feet the earth was folding itselfto sleep; the plain was wholly lost; little islands of white mist hadformed themselves, and settled down upon the lakes and on their marshyestuaries; the birds were hushed; the gentian-cups were filling to thebrim with dew. Night had descended on the mountain and the plain; theshow was over. 

The dawn was whitening in the east next morning, when we againscrambled through the dwarf beechwood to the precipice above the lake. Like an ink-blot it lay, unruffled, slumbering sadly. Broad sheets ofvapour brooded on the plain, telling of miasma and fever, of which weon the mountain, in the pure cool air, knew nothing. The Alps wereall there now--cold, unreal, stretching like a phantom line of snowypeaks, from the sharp pyramids of Monte Viso and the Grivola in thewest to the distant Bernina and the Ortler in the east. Supreme amongthem towered Monte Rosa--queenly, triumphant, gazing down in proudpre-eminence, as she does when seen from any point of the Italianplain. There is no mountain like her. Mont Blanc himself is scarcelyso regal; and she seems to know it, for even the clouds sweep humbledround her base, girdling her at most, but leaving her crown clear andfree. Now, however, there were no clouds to be seen in all the sky. The mountains had a strange unshriven look, as if waiting to beblessed. Above them, in the cold grey air, hung a low black archof shadow, the shadow of the bulk of the huge earth, which stillconcealed the sun. Slowly, slowly this dark line sank lower, till, one by one, at last, the peaks caught first a pale pink flush; thena sudden golden glory flashed from one to the other, as they leaptjoyfully into life. It is a supreme moment this first burst of lifeand light over the sleeping world, as one can only see it on rare daysand in rare places like the Monte Generoso. The earth--enough of it atleast for us to picture to ourselves the whole--lies at our feet; andwe feel as the Saviour might have felt, when from the top of thathigh mountain He beheld the kingdoms of the world and all the glory ofthem. Strangely and solemnly may we image to our fancy the lives thatare being lived down in those cities of the plain: how many are wakingat this very moment to toil and a painful weariness, to sorrow, or to'that unrest which men miscall delight;' while we upon our mountainbuttress, suspended in mid-heaven and for a while removed from dailycares, are drinking in the beauty of the world that God has made sofair and wonderful. From this same eyrie, only a few years ago, thehostile armies of France, Italy, and Austria might have been watchedmoving in dim masses across the plains, for the possession of whichthey were to clash in mortal fight at Solferino and Magenta. All ispeaceful now. It is hard to picture the waving cornfields troddendown, the burning villages and ransacked vineyards, all the horrors ofreal war to which that fertile plain has been so often the prey. Butnow these memories of

 Old, unhappy, far-off things, And battles long ago, do but add a calm and beauty to the radiant scene that lies before us. And the thoughts which it suggests, the images with which it storesour mind, are not without their noblest uses. The glory of the worldsinks deeper into our shallow souls than we well know; and the spiritof its splendour is always ready to revisit us on dark and dreary daysat home with an unspeakable refreshment. Even as I write, I seem tosee the golden glow sweeping in broad waves over the purple hillsnearer and nearer, till the lake brightens at our feet, and thewindows of Lugano flash with sunlight, and little boats creep forthacross the water like spiders on a pond, leaving an arrowy track oflight upon the green behind them, while Monte Salvadore with its tinychapel and a patch of the further landscape are still kept in darknessby the shadow of the Generoso itself. The birds wake into song as thesun's light comes; cuckoo answers cuckoo from ridge to ridge; dogsbark; and even the sounds of human life rise up to us: children'svoices and the murmurs of the market-place ascending faintly from themany villages hidden among the chestnut-trees beneath our feet; whilethe creaking of a cart we can but just see slowly crawling along thestraight road by the lake, is heard at intervals. 

The full beauty of the sunrise is but brief. Already the low lakelikemists we saw last night have risen and spread, and shaken themselvesout into masses of summer clouds, which, floating upward, threaten toenvelop us upon our vantage-ground. Meanwhile they form a changefulsea below, blotting out the plain, surging up into the valleys withthe movement of a billowy tide, attacking the lower heights like theadvance-guard of a besieging army, but daring not as yet to invade thecold and solemn solitudes of the snowy Alps. These, too, in time, whenthe sun's heat has grown strongest, will be folded in their middaypall of sheltering vapour. 

The very summit of Monte Generoso must not be left without a word ofnotice. The path to it is as easy as the sheep-walks on an Englishdown, though cut along grass-slopes descending at a perilously sharpangle. At the top the view is much the same, as far as the grandfeatures go, as that which is commanded from the cliff by the hotel. But the rocks here are crowded with rare Alpine flowers--delicategolden auriculas with powdery leaves and stems, pale yellow cowslips, imperial purple saxifrages, soldanellas at the edge of lingeringpatches of the winter snow, blue gentians, crocuses, and the frail, rosy-tipped ranunculus, called glacialis. Their blooming time isbrief. When summer comes the mountain will be bare and burned, likeall Italian hills. The Generoso is a very dry mountain, silent andsolemn from its want of streams. There is no sound of falling waterson its crags; no musical rivulets flow down its sides, led carefullyalong the slopes, as in Switzerland, by the peasants, to keep theirhay-crops green and gladden the thirsty turf throughout the heatand drought of summer. The soil is a Jurassic limestone: the rainpenetrates the porous rock, and sinks through cracks and fissures, toreappear above the base of the mountain in a full-grown stream. Thisis a defect in the Generoso, as much to be regretted as the want ofshade upon its higher pastures. Here, as elsewhere in Piedmont, theforests are cut for charcoal; the beech-scrub, which covers largetracts of the hills, never having the chance of growing into treesmuch higher than a man. It is this which makes an Italian mountainat a distance look woolly, like a sheep's back. Among the brushwood, however, lilies-of-the-valley and Solomon's seals delight to grow;and the league-long beds of wild strawberries prove that when thelaburnums have faded, the mountain will become a garden of feasting. 

It was on the crest of Monte Generoso, late one afternoon in May, thatwe saw a sight of great beauty. The sun had yet about an hour beforeit sank behind the peaks of Monte Rosa, and the sky was clear, exceptfor a few white clouds that floated across the plain of Lombardy. Thenas we sat upon the crags, tufted with soldanellas and auriculas, we could see a fleecy vapour gliding upward from the hollows of themountain, very thin and pale, yet dense enough to blot the landscapeto the south and east from sight. It rose with an imperceptiblemotion, as the Oceanides might have soared from the sea to comfortPrometheus in the tragedy of Æschylus. Already the sun had touched itsupper edge with gold, and we were expecting to be enveloped in a mist;when suddenly upon the outspread sheet before us there appeared twoforms, larger than life, yet not gigantic, surrounded with haloes ofsuch tempered iridescence as the moon half hidden by a summer cloud iswont to make. They were the glorified figures of ourselves; and whatwe did, the phantoms mocked, rising or bowing, or spreading wide theirarms. Some scarce-felt breeze prevented the vapour from passing acrossthe ridge to westward, though it still rose from beneath, and keptfading away into thin air above our heads. Therefore the vision lastedas long as the sun stayed yet above the Alps; and the images withtheir aureoles shrank and dilated with the undulations of the mist. I could not but think of that old formula for an anthropomorphicDeity--'the Brocken-spectre of the human spirit projected on the mistsof the Non-ego. ' Even like those cloud-phantoms are the gods made inthe image of man, who have been worshipped through successive ages ofthe world, gods dowered with like passions to those of the raceswho have crouched before them, gods cruel and malignant and lustful, jealous and noble and just, radiant or gloomy, the counterparts of menupon a vast and shadowy scale. But here another question rose. Ifthe gods that men have made and ignorantly worshipped be reallybut glorified copies of their own souls, where is the sun in thisparallel? Without the sun's rays the mists of Monte Generoso couldhave shown, no shadowy forms. Without some other power than the mindof man, could men have fashioned for themselves those ideals that theynamed their gods? Unseen by Greek, or Norseman, or Hindoo, the potentforce by which alone they could externalise their image, existedoutside them, independent of their thought. Nor does the trite epigramtouch the surface of the real mystery. The sun, the human beings onthe mountain, and the mists are all parts of one material universe:the transient phenomenon we witnessed was but the effect of a chancecombination. Is, then, the anthropomorphic God as momentary and asaccidental in the system of the world as that vapoury spectre? TheGod in whom we live and move and have our being must be far moreall-pervasive, more incognisable by the souls of men, who doubt notfor one moment of His presence and His power. Except for purposes ofrhetoric the metaphor that seemed so clever fails. Nor, when once suchthoughts have been stirred in us by such a sight, can we do betterthan repeat Goethe's sublime profession of a philosophic mysticism. This translation I made one morning on the Pasterze Gletscher beneaththe spires of the Gross Glockner:--

 To Him who from eternity, self-stirred, Himself hath made by His creative word! To Him, supreme, who causeth Faith to be, Trust, Hope, Love, Power, and endless Energy! To Him, who, seek to name Him as we will, Unknown within Himself abideth still!

 Strain ear and eye, till sight and sense be dim; Thou'lt find but faint similitudes of Him: Yea, and thy spirit in her flight of flame Still strives to gauge the symbol and the name: Charmed and compelled thou climb'st from height to height, And round thy path the world shines wondrous bright; Time, Space, and Size, and Distance cease to be, And every step is fresh infinity. What were the God who sat outside to scan The spheres that 'neath His finger circling ran? God dwells within, and moves the world and moulds, Himself and Nature in one form enfolds: Thus all that lives in Him and breathes and is, Shall ne'er His puissance, ne'er His spirit miss. 

 The soul of man, too, is an universe: Whence follows it that race with race concurs In naming all it knows of good and true God, --yea, its own God; and with homage due Surrenders to His sway both earth and heaven; Fears Him, and loves, where place for love is given. 

 * * * * *

_LOMBARD VIGNETTES_

ON THE SUPERGA

This is the chord of Lombard colouring in May. Lowest in the scale:bright green of varied tints, the meadow-grasses mingling with willowsand acacias, harmonised by air and distance. Next, opaque blue--theblue of something between amethyst and lapis-lazuli--that belongsalone to the basements of Italian mountains. Higher, the roseatewhiteness of ridged snow on Alps or Apennines. Highest, the blue ofthe sky, ascending from pale turquoise to transparent sapphire filledwith light. A mediæval mystic might have likened this chord to thespiritual world. For the lowest region is that of natural life, ofplant and bird and beast, and unregenerate man; it is the place offaun and nymph and satyr, the plain where wars are fought and citiesbuilt, and work is done. Thence we climb to purified humanity, themountains of purgation, the solitude and simplicity of contemplativelife not yet made perfect by freedom from the flesh. Higher comes thatthin white belt, where are the resting places of angelic feet, thepoints whence purged souls take their flight toward infinity. Aboveall is heaven, the hierarchies ascending row on row to reach the lightof God. 

This fancy occurred to me as I climbed the slope of the Superga, gazing over acacia hedges and poplars to the mountains bare in morninglight. The occasional occurrence of bars across this chord--poplarsshivering in sun and breeze, stationary cypresses as black as night, and tall campanili with the hot red shafts of glowing brick--adds justenough of composition to the landscape. Without too much straining ofthe allegory, the mystic might have recognised in these aspiring barsthe upward effort of souls rooted in the common life of earth. 

The panorama, unrolling as we ascend, is enough to overpower a loverof beauty. There is nothing equal to it for space and breadth andmajesty. Monte Rosa, the masses of Mont Blanc blent with the GrandParadis, the airy pyramid of Monte Viso, these are the battlements ofthat vast Alpine rampart, in which the vale of Susa opens like a gate. To west and south sweep the Maritime Alps and the Apennines. Beneath, glides the infant Po; and where he leads our eyes, the plain is onlylimited by pearly mist. 

A BRONZE BUST OF CALIGULA AT TURIN

The Albertina bronze is one of the most precious portraits ofantiquity, not merely because it confirms the testimony of the greenbasalt bust in the Capitol, but also because it supplies an even moreemphatic and impressive illustration to the narrative of Suetonius. 

Caligula is here represented as young and singularly beautiful. It isindeed an ideal Roman head, with the powerful square modelling, thecrisp short hair, low forehead and regular firm features, proper tothe noblest Roman type. The head is thrown backward from the throat;and there is a something of menace or defiance or suffering in thesuggestion of brusque movement given to the sinews of the neck. Thisattitude, together with the tension of the forehead, and the fixedexpression of pain and strain communicated by the lines of themouth--strong muscles of the upper lip and abruptly chiselled underlip--in relation to the small eyes, deep set beneath their cavernousand level brows, renders the whole face a monument of spiritualanguish. I remember that the green basalt bust of the Capitol has thesame anxious forehead, the same troubled and overburdened eyes; butthe agony of this fretful mouth, comparable to nothing but the mouthof Pandolfo Sigismondo Malatesta, and, like that, on the vergeof breaking into the spasms of delirium, is quite peculiar to theAlbertina bronze. It is just this which the portrait of the Capitollacks for the completion of Caligula. The man who could be sorepresented in art had nothing wholly vulgar in him. The brutalityof Caracalla, the overblown sensuality of Nero, the effeminacy ofCommodus or Heliogabalus, are all absent here. This face idealisesthe torture of a morbid soul. It is withal so truly beautiful that itmight easily be made the poem of high suffering or noble passion. If the bronze were plastic, I see how a great sculptor, by but fewstrokes, could convert it into an agonising Stephen or Sebastian. Asit is, the unimaginable touch of disease, the unrest of madness, madeCaligula the genius of insatiable appetite; and his martyrdom was thetorment of lust and ennui and everlasting agitation. The accident ofempire tantalised him with vain hopes of satisfying the Charybdisof his soul's sick cravings. From point to point he passed of emptypleasure and unsatisfying cruelty, for ever hungry; until the maladyof his spirit, unrestrained by any limitations, and with the rightmedium for its development, became unique--the tragic type ofpathological desire. What more than all things must have plagued a manwith that face was probably the unavoidable meanness of his career. When we study the chapters of Suetonius, we are forced to feel that, though the situation and the madness of Caligula were dramaticallyimpressive, his crimes were trivial and, small. In spite of the vastscale on which he worked his devilish will, his life presents a totalpicture of sordid vice, differing only from pot-house dissipation andschoolboy cruelty in point of size. And this of a truth is the Nemesisof evil. After a time, mere tyrannous caprice must become commonplaceand cloying, tedious to the tyrant, and uninteresting to the studentof humanity: nor can I believe that Caligula failed to perceive thisto his own infinite disgust. 

Suetonius asserts that he was hideously ugly. How are we to squarethis testimony with the witness of the bronze before us? What changedthe face, so beautiful and terrible in youth, to ugliness that shrankfrom sight in manhood? Did the murderers find it blurred in its finelineaments, furrowed with lines of care, hollowed with the soul'shunger? Unless a life of vice and madness had succeeded in makingCaligula's face what the faces of some maniacs are--the bloated ruinof what was once a living witness to the soul within--I could fancythat death may have sanctified it with even more beauty than thisbust of the self-tormented young man shows. Have we not all seen theanguish of thought-fretted faces smoothed out by the hands of theDeliverer?

FERRARI AT VERCELLI

It is possible that many visitors to the Cathedral of Como havecarried away the memory of stately women with abundant yellow hair anddraperies of green and crimson, in a picture they connect thereafterwith Gaudenzio Ferrari. And when they come to Milan, they are probablyboth impressed and disappointed by a Martyrdom of S. Catherine in theBrera, bearing the same artist's name. If they wish to understand thispainter, they must seek him at Varallo, at Saronno, and at Vercelli. In the Church of S. Cristoforo in Vercelli, Gaudenzio Ferrari at thefull height of his powers showed what he could do to justify Lomazzo'stitle chosen for him of the Eagle. He has indeed the strong wing andthe swiftness of the king of birds. And yet the works of few reallygreat painters--and among the really great we place Ferrari--leaveupon the mind a more distressing sense of imperfection. Extraordinaryfertility of fancy, vehement dramatic passion, sincere study ofnature, and great command of technical resources are here (aselsewhere in Ferrari's frescoes) neutralised by an incurable defect ofthe combining and harmonising faculty, so essential to a masterpiece. There is stuff enough of thought and vigour and imagination to makea dozen artists. And yet we turn away disappointed from the crowded, dazzling, stupefying wilderness of forms and faces on these mightywalls. 

All that Ferrari derived from actual life--the heads of singlefigures, the powerful movement of men and women in excited action, themonumental pose of two praying nuns--is admirably rendered. His angelstoo, in S. Cristoforo as elsewhere, are quite original; not only intheir type of beauty, which is terrestrial and peculiar to Ferrari, without a touch of Correggio's sensuality; but also in the intensityof their emotion, the realisation of their vitality. Those which hoverround the Cross in the fresco of the 'Crucifixion' are as passionateas any angels of the Giottesque masters in Assisi. Those again whichcrowd the Stable of Bethlehem in the 'Nativity' yield no point ofidyllic charm to Gozzoli's in the Riccardi Chapel. 

The 'Crucifixion' and the 'Assumption of Madonna' are very talland narrow compositions, audacious in their attempt to fill almostunmanageable space with a connected action. Of the two frescoes the'Crucifixion, ' which has points of strong similarity to the samesubject at Varallo, is by far the best. Ferrari never painted anythingat once truer to life and nobler in tragic style than the faintingVirgin. Her face expresses the very acme of martyrdom--not exaggeratednor spasmodic, but real and sublime--in the suffering of a statelymatron. In points like this Ferrari cannot be surpassed. Raphael couldscarcely have done better; besides, there is an air of sincerity, astamp of popular truth, in this episode, which lies beyond Raphael'ssphere. It reminds us rather of Tintoretto. 

After the 'Crucifixion, ' I place the 'Adoration of the Magi, ' fullof fine mundane motives and gorgeous costumes; then the 'Sposalizio'(whose marriage, I am not certain), the only grandly composed pictureof the series, and marked by noble heads; then the 'Adoration ofthe Shepherds, ' with two lovely angels holding the bambino. The'Assumption of the Magdalen'--for which fresco there is a valuablecartoon in the Albertina Collection at Turin--must have been a finepicture; but it is ruined now. An oil altar-piece in the choir of thesame church struck me less than the frescoes. It represents Madonnaand a crowd of saints under an orchard of apple-trees, with cherubscuriously flung about almost at random in the air. The motive of theorchard is prettily conceived and carried out with spirit. 

What Ferrari possessed was rapidity of movement, fulness and richnessof reality, exuberance of invention, excellent portraiture, dramaticvehemence, and an almost unrivalled sympathy with the swift andpassionate world of angels. What he lacked was power of composition, simplicity of total effect, harmony in colouring, control over hisown luxuriance, the sense of tranquillity. He seems to have soughtgrandeur in size and multitude, richness, éclat, contrast. Being thedisciple of Lionardo and Raphael, his defects are truly singular. Asa composer, the old leaven of Giovenone remained in him; but he feltthe dramatic tendencies of a later age, and in occasional episodes herealised them with a force and _furia_ granted to very few of theItalian painters. 

LANINI AT VERCELLI

The Casa Mariano is a palace which belonged to a family of that name. Like many houses of the sort in Italy, it fell to vile uses; andits hall of audience was turned into a lumber-room. The Operai ofVercelli, I was told, bought the palace a few years ago, restored thenoble hall, and devoted a smaller room to a collection of picturesvaluable for students of the early Vercellese style of painting. Ofthese there is no need to speak. The great hall is the gem of the CasaMariano. It has a coved roof, with a large flat oblong space inthe centre of the ceiling. The whole of this vault and the lunettesbeneath were painted by Lanini; so runs the tradition of thefresco-painter's name; and though much injured by centuries ofoutrage, and somewhat marred by recent restoration, these frescoesform a precious monument of Lombard art. The object of the painter'sdesign seems to have been the glorification of Music. In the centralcompartment of the roof is an assembly of the gods, obviously borrowedfrom Raphael's 'Marriage of Cupid and Psyche' in the Farnesinaat Rome. The fusion of Roman composition with Lombard executionconstitutes the chief charm of this singular work, and makes it, sofar as I am aware, unique. Single figures of the goddesses, and thewhole movement of the scene upon Olympus, are transcribed withoutattempt at concealment. And yet the fresco is not a barefaced copy. The manner of feeling and of execution is quite different from that ofRaphael's school. The poetry and sentiment are genuinely Lombard. Noneof Raphael's pupils could have carried out his design with a delicacyof emotion and a technical skill in colouring so consummate. What, we think, as we gaze upward, would the Master have given for such acraftsman? The hardness, coarseness, and animal crudity of the RomanSchool are absent: so also is their vigour. But where the grace ofform and colour is so soft and sweet, where the high-bred calm ofgood company is so sympathetically rendered, where the atmosphere ofamorous languor and of melody is so artistically diffused, we cannotmiss the powerful modelling and rather vulgar _tours de force_ ofGiulio Romano. The scale of tone is silvery golden. There are no hardblues, no coarse red flesh-tints, no black shadows. Mellow lights, the morning hues of primrose, or of palest amber, pervade the wholesociety. It is a court of gentle and harmonious souls; and thoughthis style of beauty might cloy, at first sight there is somethingravishing in those yellow-haired white-limbed, blooming deities. Nomovement of lascivious grace as in Correggio, no perturbation ofthe senses as in some of the Venetians, disturbs the rhythm of theirmusic; nor is the pleasure of the flesh, though felt by the painterand communicated to the spectator, an interruption to their divinecalm. The white, saffron-haired goddesses are grouped togetherlike stars seen in the topaz light of evening, like daffodils halfsmothered in snowdrops, and among them, Diana, with the crescenton her forehead, is the fairest. Her dream-like beauty need fearno comparison with the Diana of the Camera di S. Paolo. Apollo andBacchus are scarcely less lovely in their bloom of earliest manhood;honey-pale, as Greeks would say; like statues of living electron;realising Simaetha's picture of her lover and his friend:

[Greek:

 tois d' ên xanthotera men elichrysoio geneias, stêthea de stilbonta poly pleon ê tu Selana. [9]]

It was thus that the almost childlike spirit of the Milanese paintersfelt the antique: how differently from their Roman brethren! It wasthus that they interpreted the lines of their own poets:--

 E i tuoi capei più volte ho somigliati Di Cerere a le paglie secche o bionde Dintorno crespi al tuo capo legati. [10]

Yet the painter of this hall--whether we are to call him Lanini oranother--was not a composer. Where he has not robbed the motives andthe distribution of the figures from Raphael, he has nothing left butgrace of detail. The intellectual feebleness of his style may be seenin many figures of women playing upon instruments of music, rangedaround the walls. One girl at the organ is graceful; another with atambourine has a sort of Bassarid beauty. But the group of Apollo, Pegasus, and a Muse upon Parnassus, is a failure in its meaninglessfrigidity, while few of these subordinate compositions show power ofconception or vigour of design. 

Lanini, like Sodoma, was a native of Vercelli; and though he wasFerrari's pupil, there is more in him of Luini or of Sodoma than ofhis master. He does not rise at any point to the height of thesethree great masters, but he shares some of Luini's and Sodoma's finequalities, without having any of Ferrari's force. A visit to themangled remnants of his frescoes in S. Caterina will repay the studentof art. This was once, apparently, a double church, or a church withthe hall and chapel of a _confraternita_ appended to it. One portionof the building was painted with the history of the Saint; and verylovely must this work have been, to judge by the fragments which haverecently been rescued from whitewash, damp, and ruthless mutilation. What wonderful Lombard faces, half obliterated on the broken wall andmouldering plaster, smile upon us like drowned memories swimming upfrom the depths of oblivion! Wherever three or four are groupedtogether, we find an exquisite little picture--an old woman and twoyoung women in a doorway, for example, telling no story, but touchingus with simple harmony of form. Nothing further is needed to rendertheir grace intelligible. Indeed, knowing the faults of the school, wemay seek some consolation by telling ourselves that these incompletefragments yield Lanini's best. In the coved compartments of the roof, above the windows, ran a row of dancing boys; and these are still mostbeautifully modelled, though the pallor of recent whitewash is uponthem. All the boys have blonde hair. They are naked, with scrolls orribbons wreathed around them, adding to the airiness of theircontinual dance. Some of the loveliest are in a room used to stow awaythe lumber of the church--old boards and curtains, broken lanterns, candle-ends in tin sconces, the musty apparatus of festivaladornments, and in the midst of all a battered, weather-beaten bier. 

THE PIAZZA OF PIACENZA

The great feature of Piacenza is its famous piazza--romantically, picturesquely perfect square, surpassing the most daring attemptsof the scene-painter, and realising a poet's dreams. The space isconsiderable, and many streets converge upon it at irregular angles. Its finest architectural feature is the antique Palace of the Commune:Gothic arcades of stone below, surmounted by a brick building withwonderfully delicate and varied terra-cotta work in the round-archedwindows. Before this façade, on the marble pavement, prance the bronzeequestrian statues of two Farnesi--insignificant men, exaggeratedhorses, flying drapery--as _barocco_ as it is possible to bein style, but so splendidly toned with verdigris, so superb in their_bravura_ attitude, and so happily placed in the line of twostreets lending far vistas from the square into the town beyond, thatit is difficult to criticise them seriously. They form, indeed, animportant element in the pictorial effect, and enhance the terra-cottawork of the façade by the contrast of their colour. 

The time to see this square is in evening twilight--that wonderfulhour after sunset--when the people are strolling on the pavement, polished to a mirror by the pacing of successive centuries, andwhen the cavalry soldiers group themselves at the angles under thelamp-posts or beneath the dimly lighted Gothic arches of the Palace. This is the magical mellow hour to be sought by lovers of thepicturesque in all the towns of Italy, the hour which, by its tenderblendings of sallow western lights with glimmering lamps, casts theveil of half shadow over any crudeness and restores the injuriesof Time; the hour when all the tints of these old buildings areintensified, etherealised, and harmonised by one pervasive glow. WhenI last saw Piacenza, it had been raining all day; and ere sundown aclearing had come from the Alps, followed by fresh threatenings ofthunderstorms. The air was very liquid. There was a tract of yellowsunset sky to westward, a faint new moon half swathed in mist above, and over all the north a huge towered thundercloud kept flashingdistant lightnings. The pallid primrose of the West, forced down andreflected back from that vast bank of tempest, gave unearthly beautyto the hues of church and palace--tender half-tones of violet andrusset paling into greys and yellows on what in daylight seemed butdull red brick. Even the uncompromising façade of S. Francesco helped;and the Dukes were like statues of the 'Gran Commendatore, ' waitingfor Don Giovanni's invitation. 

MASOLINO AT CASTIGLIONE D'OLONA

Through the loveliest Arcadian scenery of woods and fields andrushing waters the road leads downward from Varese to Castiglione. The Collegiate Church stands on a leafy hill above the town, with fairprospect over groves and waterfalls and distant mountains. Here in thechoir is a series of frescoes by Masolino da Panicale, the masterof Masaccio, who painted them about the year 1428. 'Masolinus deFlorentia pinxit' decides their authorship. The histories of theVirgin, S. Stephen and S. Lawrence, are represented: but the injuriesof time and neglect have been so great that it is difficult to judgethem fairly. All we feel for certain is that Masolino had not yetescaped from the traditional Giottesque mannerism. Only a group ofJews stoning Stephen, and Lawrence before the tribunal, remind us bydramatic energy of the Brancacci Chapel. 

The Baptistery frescoes, dealing with the legend of S. John, show aremarkable advance; and they are luckily in better preservation. Asoldier lifting his two-handed sword to strike off the Baptist's headis a vigorous figure, full of Florentine realism. Also in the Baptismin Jordan we are reminded of Masaccio by an excellent group ofbathers--one man taking off his hose, another putting them on again, a third standing naked with his back turned, and a fourth shiveringhalf-dressed with a look of curious sadness on his face. The nude hasbeen carefully studied and well realised. The finest composition ofthis series is a large panel representing a double action--Salome atHerod's table begging for the Baptist's head, and then presentingit to her mother Herodias. The costumes are quattrocento Florentine, exactly rendered. Salome is a graceful slender creature; the two womenwho regard her offering to Herodias with mingled curiosity and horror, are well conceived. The background consists of a mountain landscapein Masaccio's simple manner, a rich Renaissance villa, and an openloggia. The architecture perspective is scientifically accurate, anda frieze of boys with garlands on the villa is in the best manner ofFlorentine sculpture. On the mountain side, diminished in scale, isa group of elders, burying the body of S. John. These are massedtogether and robed in the style of Masaccio, and have his viriledignity of form and action. Indeed this interesting wall-paintingfurnishes an epitome of Florentine art, in its intentions andachievements, during the first half of the fifteenth century. Thecolour is strong and brilliant, and the execution solid. 

The margin of the Salome panel has been used for scratching theChronicle of Castiglione. I read one date, 1568, several of thenext century, the record of a duel between two gentlemen, and manyinscriptions to this effect, 'Erodiana Regina, ' 'Omnia praetereunt, '&c. A dirty one-eyed fellow keeps the place. In my presence he sweptthe frescoes over with a scratchy broom, flaying their upper surfacein profound unconsciousness of mischief. The armour of the executionerhas had its steel colours almost rubbed off by this infernal process. Damp and cobwebs are far kinder. 

THE CERTOSA

The Certosa of Pavia leaves upon the mind an impression of bewilderingsumptuousness: nowhere else are costly materials so combined with alavish expenditure of the rarest art. Those who have only once beendriven round together with the crew of sightseers, can carry littleaway but the memory of lapis-lazuli and bronze-work, inlaid agates andlabyrinthine sculpture, cloisters tenantless in silence, fair paintedfaces smiling from dark corners on the senseless crowd, trim gardenswith rows of pink primroses in spring, and of begonia in autumn, blooming beneath colonnades of glowing terra-cotta. The strikingcontrast between the Gothic of the interior and the Renaissancefaçade, each in its own kind perfect, will also be remembered; andthoughts of the two great houses, Visconti and Sforza, to whose prideof power it is a monument, may be blended with the recollection ofart-treasures alien to their spirit. 

Two great artists, Ambrogio Borgognone and Antonio Amadeo, are thepresiding genii of the Certosa. To minute criticism, based upon theaccurate investigation of records and the comparison of styles, must be left the task of separating their work from that of numerouscollaborators. But it is none the less certain that the keynote ofthe whole music is struck by them, Amadeo, the master of the Colleonichapel at Bergamo, was both sculptor and architect. If the façadeof the Certosa be not absolutely his creation, he had a hand in thedistribution of its masses and the detail of its ornaments. The onlyfault in this otherwise faultless product of the purest quattrocentoinspiration, is that the façade is a frontispiece, with hardly anystructural relation to the church it masks: and this, though seriousfrom the point of view of architecture, is no abatement of itssculpturesque and picturesque refinement. At first sight it seemsa wilderness of loveliest reliefs and statues--of angel faces, fluttering raiment, flowing hair, love-laden youths, and stationaryfigures of grave saints, mid wayward tangles of acanthus and wild vineand cupid-laden foliage; but the subordination of these decorativedetails to the main design, clear, rhythmical, and lucid, like achaunt of Pergolese or Stradella, will enrapture one who has thesense for unity evoked from divers elements, for thought subduing allcaprices to the harmony of beauty. It is not possible elsewhere inItaly to find the instinct of the earlier Renaissance, so amorous inits expenditure of rare material, so lavish in its bestowal of thecostliest workmanship on ornamental episodes, brought into truerkeeping with a pure and simple structural effect. 

All the great sculptor-architects of Lombardy worked in successionon this miracle of beauty; and this may account for the sustainedperfection of style, which nowhere suffers from the languor ofexhaustion in the artist or from repetition of motives. It remains thetriumph of North Italian genius, exhibiting qualities of tendernessand self-abandonment to inspiration, which we lack in the severermasterpieces of the Tuscan school. 

To Borgognone is assigned the painting of the roof in nave andchoir--exceeding rich, varied, and withal in sympathy with statelyGothic style. Borgognone again is said to have designed the saints andmartyrs worked in _tarsia_ for the choir-stalls. His frescoes arein some parts well preserved, as in the lovely little Madonna at theend of the south chapel, while the great fresco above the window inthe south transept has an historical value that renders it interestingin spite of partial decay. Borgognone's oil pictures throughoutthe church prove, if such proof were needed after inspection of thealtar-piece in our National Gallery, that he was one of the mostpowerful and original painters of Italy, blending the repose of theearlier masters and their consummate workmanship with a profoundsensibility to the finest shades of feeling and the rarest forms ofnatural beauty. He selected an exquisite type of face for his youngmen and women; on his old men he bestowed singular gravity anddignity. His saints are a society of strong, pure, restful, earnestsouls, in whom the passion of deepest emotion is transfigured byhabitual calm. The brown and golden harmonies he loved, are gainedwithout sacrifice of lustre: there is a self-restraint in hiscolouring which corresponds to the reserve of his emotion; and thougha regret sometimes rises in our mind that he should have modelled thelight and shade upon his faces with a brusque, unpleasing hardness, their pallor dwells within our memory as something delicately soughtif not consummately attained. In a word, Borgognone was a true Lombardof the best time. The very imperfection of his flesh-painting repeatsin colour what the greatest Lombard sculptors sought in stone--asharpness of relief that passes over into angularity. This brusquenesswas the counterpoise to tenderness of feeling and intensity of fancyin these northern artists. Of all Borgognone's pictures in the CertosaI should select the altar-piece of S. Siro with S. Lawrence and S. Stephen and two Fathers of the Church, for its fusion of this master'squalities. 

The Certosa is a wilderness of lovely workmanship. From Borgognone'smajesty we pass into the quiet region of Luini's Christian grace, ormark the influence of Lionardo on that rare Assumption of Madonna byhis pupil, Andrea Solari. Like everything touched by the Lionardesquespirit, this great picture was left unfinished: yet Northern Italyhas nothing finer to show than the landscape, outspread in itsimmeasurable purity of calm, behind the grouped Apostles and theascendant Mother of Heaven. The feeling of that happy region betweenthe Alps and Lombardy, where there are many waters--_et tacitos sinelabe laous sine murmure rivos_--and where the last spurs of themountains sink in undulations to the plain, has passed into this azurevista, just as all Umbria is suggested in a twilight background ofyoung Raphael or Perugino. 

The portraits of the Dukes of Milan and their families carry us intoa very different realm of feeling. Medallions above the doors ofsacristy and chancel, stately figures reared aloft beneath giganticcanopies, men and women slumbering with folded hands upon their marblebiers--we read in all those sculptured forms a strange record of humanrestlessness, resolved into the quiet of the tomb. The iniquities ofGian Galeazzo Visconti, _il gran Biscione_, the blood-thirstof Gian Maria, the dark designs of Filippo and his secret vices, Francesco Sforza's treason, Galeazzo Maria's vanities and lusts;their tyrants' dread of thunder and the knife; their awful deaths bypestilence and the assassin's poignard; their selfishness, oppression, cruelty and fraud; the murders of their kinsmen; their labyrinthineplots and acts of broken faith;--all is tranquil now, and we cansay to each what Bosola found for the Duchess of Malfi ere herexecution:--

 Much you had of land and rent; Your length in clay's now competent: A long war disturbed your mind; Here your perfect peace is signed!

Some of these faces are commonplace, with _bourgeois_ cunningwritten on the heavy features; one is bluff, another stolid, a thirdbloated, a fourth stately. The sculptors have dealt fairly withall, and not one has the lineaments of utter baseness. To CristoforoSolari's statues of Lodovico Sforza and his wife, Beatrice d'Este, thepalm of excellence in art and of historical interest must be awarded. Sculpture has rarely been more dignified and true to life than here. The woman with her short clustering curls, the man with his strongface, are resting after that long fever which brought woe to Italy, toEurope a new age, and to the boasted minion of Fortune a slow deathin the prison palace of Loches. Attired in ducal robes, they lie instate; and the sculptor has carved the lashes on their eyelids, heavywith death's marmoreal sleep. He at least has passed no judgmenton their crimes. Let us too bow and leave their memories to thehistorian's pen, their spirits to God's mercy. 

After all wanderings in this Temple of Art, we return to AntonioAmadeo, to his long-haired seraphs playing on the lutes of Paradise, to his angels of the Passion with their fluttering robes and armsoutspread in agony, to his saints and satyrs mingled on pilasters ofthe marble doorways, his delicate _Lavabo_ decorations, and hishymns of piety expressed in noble forms of weeping women and deadChrists. Wherever we may pass, this master-spirit of the Lombard styleenthralls attention. His curious treatment of drapery as though it¦were made of crumpled paper, and his trick of enhancing relief bysharp angles and attenuated limbs, do not detract from his peculiarcharm. That is his way, very different from Donatello's, of attainingto the maximum of life and lightness in the stubborn vehicle ofstone. Nor do all the riches of the choir--those multitudes of singingangels, those Ascensions and Assumptions, and innumerablebasreliefs of gleaming marble moulded into softest wax by mastery ofart--distract our eyes from the single round medallion, not largerthan a common plate, inscribed by him upon the front of the highaltar. Perhaps, if one who loved Amadeo were bidden to point outhis masterpiece, he would lead the way at once to this. The space issmall: yet it includes the whole tragedy of the Passion. Christ islying dead among the women on his mother's lap, and there are pityingangels in the air above. One woman lifts his arm, another makes herbreast a pillow for his head. Their agony is hushed, but felt inevery limb and feature; and the extremity of suffering is seen in eacharticulation of the worn and wounded form just taken from the cross. It would be too painful, were not the harmony of art so rare, theinterlacing of those many figures in a simple round so exquisite. Thenoblest tranquillity and the most passionate emotion are here fused ina manner of adorable naturalness. 

From the church it is delightful to escape into the cloisters, floodedwith sunlight, where the swallows skim, and the brown hawks circle, and the mason bees are at work upon their cells among the carvings. The arcades of the two cloisters are the final triumph of Lombardterra-cotta. The memory fails before such infinite invention, suchfacility and felicity of execution. Wreaths of cupids gliding roundthe arches among grape-bunches and bird-haunted foliage of vine; rowsof angels, like rising and setting planets, some smiling andsome grave, ascending and descending by the Gothic curves; saintsstationary on their pedestals, and faces leaning from the roundsabove; crowds of cherubs, and courses of stars, and acanthus leaves inwoven lines, and ribands incessantly inscribed with Ave Maria! Then, over all, the rich red light and purple shadows of the brick, thanwhich no substance sympathises more completely with the sky of solidblue above, the broad plain space of waving summer grass beneath ourfeet. 

It is now late afternoon, and when evening comes, the train will takeus back to Milan. There is yet a little while to rest tired eyes andstrained spirits among the willows and the poplars by the monasterywall. Through that grey-green leafage, young with early spring, the pinnacles of the Certosa leap like flames into the sky. Therice-fields are under water, far and wide, shining like burnishedgold beneath the level light now near to sun-down. Frogs are croaking;those persistent frogs, whom the Muses have ordained to sing for aye, in spite of Bion and all tuneful poets dead. We sit and watch thewater-snakes, the busy rats, the hundred creatures swarming in the fatwell-watered soil. Nightingales here and there, new-comers, tune theirtimid April song: but, strangest of all sounds in such a place, mycomrade from the Grisons jodels forth an Alpine cowherd's melody. _Auf den Alpen droben ist ein herrliches Leben!_

Did the echoes of Gian Galeazzo's convent ever wake to such a tune asthis before?

SAN MAURIZIO

The student of art in Italy, after mastering the characters ofdifferent styles and epochs, finds a final satisfaction in thecontemplation of buildings designed and decorated by one master, orby groups of artists interpreting the spirit of a single period. Suchsupreme monuments of the national genius are not very common, and theyare therefore the more precious. Giotto's Chapel at Padua; the VillaFarnesina at Rome, built by Peruzzi and painted in fresco by Raphaeland Sodoma; the Palazzo del Te at Mantua, Giulio Romano's masterpiece;the Scuola di San Rocco, illustrating the Venetian Renaissance at itsclimax, might be cited among the most splendid of these achievements. In the church of the Monastero Maggiore at Milan, dedicated to S. Maurizio, Lombard architecture and fresco-painting may be studiedin this rare combination. The monastery itself, one of the oldest inMilan, formed a retreat for cloistered virgins following the rule ofS. Benedict. It may have been founded as early as the tenth century;but its church was rebuilt in the first two decades of the sixteenth, between 1503 and 1519, and was immediately afterwards decorated withfrescoes by Luini and his pupils. Gian Giacomo Dolcebono, architectand sculptor, called by his fellow-craftsmen _magistro di taliarepietre_, gave the design, at once simple and harmonious, which wascarried out with hardly any deviation from his plan. The church is along parallelogram, divided into two unequal portions, the first andsmaller for the public, the second for the nuns. The walls are piercedwith rounded and pilastered windows, ten on each side, four of whichbelong to the outer and six to the inner section. The dividing wall orseptum rises to the point from which the groinings of the roof spring;and round three sides of the whole building, north, east, and south, runs a gallery for the use of the convent. The altars of the inner andouter church are placed against the septum, back to back, with certaindifferences of structure that need not be described. Simple andsevere, S. Maurizio owes its architectural beauty wholly and entirelyto purity of line and perfection of proportion. There is a prevailingspirit of repose, a sense of space, fair, lightsome, and adaptedto serene moods of the meditative fancy in this building, which issingularly at variance with the religious mysticism and imaginativegrandeur of a Gothic edifice. The principal beauty of the church, however, is its tone of colour. Every square inch is covered withfresco or rich woodwork, mellowed by time into that harmony of tintswhich blends the work of greater and lesser artists in one goldenhue of brown. Round the arcades of the convent-loggia run delicatearabesques with faces of fair female saints--Catherine, Agnes, Lucy, Agatha, --gem-like or star-like, gazing from their gallery upon thechurch below. The Luinesque smile is on their lips and in their eyes, quiet, refined, as though the emblems of their martyrdom brought backno thought of pain to break the Paradise of rest in which they dwell. There are twenty-six in all, a sisterhood of stainless souls, thelilies of Love's garden planted round Christ's throne. Soldier saintsare mingled with them in still smaller rounds above the windows, chosen to illustrate the virtues of an order which renounced theworld. To decide whose hand produced these masterpieces of Lombardsuavity and grace, or whether more than one, would not be easy. Nearthe altar we can perhaps trace the style of Bartolommeo Suardi in anAnnunciation painted on the spandrils--that heroic style, large andnoble, known to us by the chivalrous S. Martin and the glorifiedMadonna of the Brera frescoes. It is not impossible that the malesaints of the loggia may be also his, though a tenderer touch, asomething more nearly Lionardesque in its quietude, must be discernedin Lucy and her sisters. The whole of the altar in this inner churchbelongs to Luini. Were it not for darkness and decay, we shouldpronounce this series of the Passion in nine great compositions, withsaints and martyrs and torch-bearing genii, to be one of his mostambitious and successful efforts. As it is, we can but judge in part;the adolescent beauty of Sebastian, the grave compassion of S. Rocco, the classical perfection of the cupid with lighted tapers, thegracious majesty of women smiling on us sideways from their Lombardeyelids--these remain to haunt our memory, emerging from the shadowsof the vault above. 

The inner church, as is fitting, excludes all worldly elements. Weare in the presence of Christ's agony, relieved and tempered by thesunlight of those beauteous female faces. All is solemn here, still asthe convent, pure as the meditations of a novice. We pass the septum, and find ourselves in the outer church appropriated to the laity. Above the high altar the whole wall is covered with Luini's loveliestwork, in excellent light and far from ill preserved. The space dividesinto eight compartments. A Pietà, an Assumption, Saints and Foundersof the church, group themselves under the influence of Luini'sharmonising colour into one symphonious whole. But the places ofdistinction are reserved for two great benefactors of the convent, Alessandro de' Bentivogli and his wife, Ippolita Sforza. When theBentivogli were expelled from Bologna by the Papal forces, Alessandrosettled at Milan, where he dwelt, honoured by the Sforzas and alliedto them by marriage, till his death in 1532. He was buried in themonastery by the side of his sister Alessandra, a nun of the order. Luini has painted the illustrious exile in his habit as he lived. Heis kneeling, as though in ever-during adoration of the altar mystery, attired in a long black senatorial robe trimmed with furs. In his lefthand he holds a book; and above his pale, serenely noble face is alittle black berretta. Saints attend him, as though attesting to hisact of faith. Opposite kneels Ippolita, his wife, the brilliant queenof fashion, the witty leader of society, to whom Bandello dedicatedhis Novelle, and whom he praised as both incomparably beautiful andsingularly learned. Her queenly form is clothed from head to foot inwhite brocade, slashed and trimmed with gold lace, and on her foreheadis a golden circlet. She has the proud port of a princess, the beautyof a woman past her prime but stately, the indescribable dignity ofattitude which no one but Luini could have rendered so majesticallysweet. In her hand is a book; and she, like Alessandro, has hersaintly sponsors, Agnes and Catherine and S. Scolastica. 

Few pictures bring the splendid Milanese Court so vividly before us asthese portraits of the Bentivogli: they are, moreover, very preciousfor the light they throw on what Luini could achieve in the secularstyle so rarely touched by him. Great, however, as are these frescoes, they are far surpassed both in value and interest by his paintings inthe side chapel of S. Catherine. Here more than anywhere else, moreeven than at Saronno or Lugano, do we feel the true distinctionof Luini--his unrivalled excellence as a colourist, his power overpathos, the refinement of his feeling, and the peculiar beauty of hisfavourite types. The chapel was decorated at the expense of a Milaneseadvocate, Francesco Besozzi, who died in 1529. It is he who iskneeling, grey-haired and bareheaded, under the protection of S. Catherine of Alexandria, intently gazing at Christ unbound from thescourging pillar. On the other side stand S. Lawrence and S. Stephen, pointing to the Christ and looking at us, as though their lips wereframed to say: 'Behold and see if there be any sorrow like untohis sorrow. ' Even the soldiers who have done their cruel work, seemsoftened. They untie the cords tenderly, and support the faintingform, too weak to stand alone. What sadness in the lovely faces of S. Catherine and Lawrence! What divine anguish in the loosened limbsand bending body of Christ; what piety in the adoring old man! All themoods proper to this supreme tragedy of the faith are touched as insome tenor song with low accompaniment of viols; for it was Luini'sspecial province to feel profoundly and to express musically. The verydepth of the Passion is there; and yet there is no discord. 

Just in proportion to this unique faculty for yielding a melodiousrepresentation of the most intense moments of stationary emotion, washis inability to deal with a dramatic subject. The first episode of S. Catherine's execution, when the wheel was broken and the executionersstruck by lightning, is painted in this chapel without energy and witha lack of composition that betrays the master's indifference to hissubject. Far different is the second episode when Catherine is aboutto be beheaded. The executioner has raised his sword to strike. She, robed in brocade of black and gold, so cut as to display the curve ofneck and back, while the bosom is covered, leans her head aboveher praying hands, and waits the blow in sweetest resignation. Twosoldiers stand at some distance in a landscape of hill and meadow; andfar up are seen the angels carrying her body to its tomb upon MountSinai. I cannot find words or summon courage to describe the beautyof this picture; its atmosphere of holy peace, the dignity of itscomposition, the golden richness of its colouring. The most tragicsituation has here again been alchemised by Luini's magic into apure idyll, without the loss of power, without the sacrifice ofedification. 

S. Catherine in this incomparable fresco is a portrait, the history ofwhich so strikingly illustrates the relation of the arts to religionon the one hand, and to life on the other, in the age of theRenaissance, that it cannot be omitted. At the end of his fourthNovella, having related the life of the Contessa di Cellant, Bandellosays: 'And so the poor woman was beheaded; such was the end of herunbridled desires; and he who would fain see her painted to the life, let him go to the Church of the Monistero Maggiore, and there will hebehold her portrait. ' The Contessa di Cellant was the only child of arich usurer who lived at Casal Monferrato. Her mother was a Greek;and she was a girl of such exquisite beauty, that, in spite of herlow origin, she became the wife of the noble Ermes Visconti in hersixteenth year. He took her to live with him at Milan, where shefrequented the house of the Bentivogli, but none other. Her husbandtold Bandello that he knew her temper better than to let her visitwith the freedom of the Milanese ladies. Upon his death, while shewas little more than twenty, she retired to Casale and led a gaylife among many lovers. One of these, the Count of Cellant in the Vald'Aosta, became her second husband, conquered by her extraordinaryloveliness. They could not, however, agree together. She left him, andestablished herself at Pavia. Rich with her father's wealth and stillof most seductive beauty, she now abandoned herself to a life ofprofligacy. Three among her lovers must be named: Ardizzino Valperga, Count of Masino; Roberto Sanseverino, of the princely Naples family;and Don Pietro di Cardona, a Sicilian. With each of the two first shequarrelled, and separately besought each to murder the other. Theywere friends and frustrated her plans by communicating them to oneanother. The third loved her with the insane passion of a very youngman. What she desired, he promised to do blindly; and she bade himmurder his two predecessors in her favour. At this time she was livingat Milan, where the Duke of Bourbon was acting as viceroy for theEmperor. Don Pietro took twenty-five armed men of his household, andwaylaid the Count of Masino, as he was returning with his brother andeight or nine servants, late one night from supper. Both the brothersand the greater part of their suite were killed: but Don Pietro wascaught. He revealed the atrocity of his mistress; and she was sentto prison. Incapable of proving her innocence, and prevented fromescaping, in spite of 15, 000 golden crowns with which she hoped tobribe her jailors, she was finally beheaded. Thus did a vulgar andinfamous Messalina, distinguished only by rare beauty, furnish Luiniwith a S. Catherine for this masterpiece of pious art! The thing seemsscarcely credible. Yet Bandello lived in Milan while the Church ofS. Maurizio was being painted; nor does he show the slightest sign ofdisgust at the discord between the Contessa's life and her artisticpresentation in the person of a royal martyr. 

A HUMANIST'S MONUMENT

In the Sculpture Gallery of the Brera is preserved a fair white marbletomb, carved by that excellent Lombard sculptor, Agostino Busti. Theepitaph runs as follows:--

 En Virtutem Mortis nesciam. Vivet Lancinus Curtius Sæcula per omnia Quascunque lustrans oras, Tantum possunt Camoenæ. 

'Look here on Virtue that knows nought of Death! Lancinus Curtiusshall live through all the centuries, and visit every shore of earth. Such power have the Muses. ' The timeworn poet reclines, as thoughsleeping or resting, ready to be waked; his head is covered withflowing hair, and crowned with laurel; it leans upon his left hand. Oneither side of his couch stand cupids or genii with torches turned toearth. Above is a group of the three Graces, flanked by winged Pegasi. Higher up are throned two Victories with palms, and at the top a nakedFame. We need not ask who was Lancinus Curtius. He is forgotten, andhis virtue has not saved him from oblivion; though he strove in hislifetime, _pro virili parte_, for the palm that Busti carved uponhis grave. Yet his monument teaches in short compass a deep lesson;and his epitaph sums up the dream which lured the men of Italy in theRenaissance to their doom. We see before us sculptured in this marblethe ideal of the humanistic poet-scholar's life: Love, Grace, theMuse, and Nakedness, and Glory. There is not a single intrusivethought derived from Christianity. The end for which the man livedwas Pagan. His hope was earthly fame. Yet his name survives, if thisindeed be a survival, not in those winged verses which were to carryhim abroad across the earth, but in the marble of a cunning craftsman, scanned now and then by a wandering scholar's eye in the half-darknessof a vault. 

THE MONUMENT OF GASTON DE FOIX IN THE BRERA

The hero of Ravenna lies stretched upon his back in the hollow ofa bier covered with laced drapery; and his head rests on richlyornamented cushions. These decorative accessories, together with theminute work of his scabbard, wrought in the fanciful mannerism of the_cinquecento_, serve to enhance the statuesque simplicity of theyoung soldier's effigy. The contrast between so much of richness inthe merely subordinate details, and this sublime severity of treatmentin the person of the hero, is truly and touchingly dramatic. There isa smile as of content in death, upon his face; and the features areexceedingly beautiful--with the beauty of a boy, almost of a woman. The heavy hair is cut straight above the forehead and straight overthe shoulders, falling in massive clusters. A delicately sculpturedlaurel branch is woven into a victor's crown, and laid lightly on thetresses it scarcely seems to clasp. So fragile is this wreath thatit does not break the pure outline of the boy-conqueror's head. Thearmour is quite plain. So is the surcoat. Upon the swelling bust, that seems fit harbour for a hero's heart, there lies the collar of anorder composed of cockle-shells; and this is all the ornament givento the figure. The hands are clasped across a sword laid flat upon thebreast, and placed between the legs. Upon the chin is a little tuft ofhair, parted, and curling either way; for the victor of Ravenna, likethe Hermes of Homer, was [Greek: prôton hypênêtês], 'a youth ofprincely blood, whose beard hath just begun to grow, for whom theseason of bloom is in its prime of grace. ' The whole statue is theidealisation of _virtù_--that quality so highly prized by theItalians and the ancients, so well fitted for commemoration in thearts. It is the apotheosis of human life resolved into undying memorybecause of one great deed. It is the supreme portrait in modern timesof a young hero, chiselled by artists belonging to a race no longerheroic, but capable of comprehending and expressing the æsthetic charmof heroism. Standing before it, we may say of Gaston what Arrian wroteto Hadrian of Achilles:--'That he was a hero, if hero ever lived, I cannot doubt; for his birth and blood were noble, and he wasbeautiful, and his spirit was mighty, and he passed in youth'sprime away from men. ' Italian sculpture, under the condition of the_cinquecento_, had indeed no more congenial theme than thisof bravery and beauty, youth and fame, immortal honour and untimelydeath; nor could any sculptor of death have poetised the theme morethoroughly than Agostino Busti, whose simple instinct, unlike that ofMichelangelo, led him to subordinate his own imagination to the pathosof reality. 

SARONNO

The church of Saronno is a pretty building with a Bramantesque cupola, standing among meadows at some distance from the little town. Itis the object of a special cult, which draws pilgrims from theneighbouring country-side; but the concourse is not large enough toload the sanctuary with unnecessary wealth. Everything is very quietin the holy place, and the offerings of the pious seem to have beenonly just enough to keep the building and its treasures of art inrepair. The church consists of a nave, a central cupola, a vestibuleleading to the choir, the choir itself, and a small tribune behind thechoir. No other single building in North Italy can boast so much thatis first-rate of the work of Luini and Gandenzio Ferrari. 

The cupola is raised on a sort of drum composed of twelve pieces, perforated with round windows and supported on four massive piers. Onthe level of the eye are frescoes by Luini of S. Rocco, S. Sebastian, S. Christopher, and S. Antony--by no means in his best style, andinferior to all his other paintings in this church. The Sebastian, for example, shows an effort to vary the traditional treatment of thissaint. He is tied in a sprawling attitude to a tree; and little ofLuini's special pathos or sense of beauty--the melody of idyllic gracemade spiritual--appears in him. These four saints are on the piers. Above are frescoes from the early Bible history by Lanini, painted incontinuation of Ferrari's medallions from the story of Adam expelledfrom Paradise, which fill the space beneath the cupola, leading theeye upward to Ferrari's masterpiece. 

The dome itself is crowded with a host of angels singing and playingupon instruments of music. At each of the twelve angles of the drumstands a coryphæus of this celestial choir, full length, with wavingdrapery. Higher up, the golden-haired, broad-winged, divine creaturesare massed together, filling every square inch of the vault withcolour. Yet there is no confusion. The simplicity of the selectedmotive and the necessities of the place acted like a check onFerrari, who, in spite of his dramatic impulse, could not tell a storycoherently or fill a canvas with harmonised variety. There is no traceof his violence here. Though the motion of music runs through thewhole multitude like a breeze, though the joy expressed is a real_tripudio celeste_, not one of all these angels flings his armsabroad or makes a movement that disturbs the rhythm. We feel that theyare keeping time and resting quietly, each in his appointed seat, asthough the sphere was circling with them round the throne of God, whois their centre and their source of gladness. Unlike Correggio and hisimitators, Ferrari has introduced no clouds, and has in no case madethe legs of his angels prominent. It is a mass of noble faces andvoluminously robed figures, emerging each above the other like flowersin a vase. Bach too has specific character, while all are robust andfull of life, intent upon the service set them. Their instrumentsof music are all the lutes and viols, flutes, cymbals, drums, fifes, citherns, organs, and harps that Ferrari's day could show. The scaleof colour, as usual with Ferrari, is a little heavy; nor are the tintssatisfactorily harmonised. But the vigour and invention of the wholework would atone for minor defects of far greater consequence. 

It is natural, beneath this dome, to turn aside and think onemoment of Correggio at Parma. Before the _macchinisti_ of theseventeenth century had vulgarised the motive, Correggio's boldattempt to paint heaven in flight from earth--earth left behind in thepersons of the Apostles standing round the empty tomb, heaven soaringupward with a spiral vortex into the abyss of light above--had anoriginality which set at nought all criticism. There is such ecstasyof jubilation, such rapturous rapidity of flight, that we who strainour eyes from below, feel we are in the darkness of the grave whichMary left. A kind of controlling rhythm for the composition is gainedby placing Gabriel, Madonna, and Christ at three points in the swirlof angels. Nevertheless, composition--the presiding all-controllingintellect--is just what makes itself felt by absence; and Correggio'sspecial qualities of light and colour have now so far vanishedfrom the cupola of the Duomo that the, constructive poverty isnot disguised. Here if anywhere in painting, we may apply Goethe'swords--_Gefühl ist Alles. _

If then we return to Ferrari's angels at Saronno, we find that thepainter of Varallo chose a safer though a far more modest theme. Nordid he expose himself to that most cruel of all degradations which theethereal genius of Correggio has suffered from incompetent imitators. To daub a tawdry and superficial reproduction of those Parmesefrescoes, to fill the cupolas of Italy with veritable _guazzettidi rane_, was comparatively easy; and between our intelligenceand what remains of that stupendous masterpiece of boldness, crowd athousand memories of such ineptitude. On the other hand, nothing butsolid work and conscientious inspiration could enable any workman, however able, to follow Ferrari in the path struck out by him atSaronno. His cupola has had no imitator; and its only rival is thenoble pendant painted at Varallo by his own hand, of angels in adoringanguish round the Cross. 

In the ante-choir of the sanctuary are Luini's priceless frescoes ofthe 'Marriage of the Virgin, ' and the 'Dispute with the Doctors. '[11]Their execution is flawless, and they are perfectly preserved. Ifcriticism before such admirable examples of so excellent a masterbe permissible, it may be questioned whether the figures are not toocrowded, whether the groups are sufficiently varied and connected byrhythmic lines. Yet the concords of yellow and orange with blue inthe 'Sposalizio, ' and the blendings of dull violet and red in the'Disputa, ' make up for much of stiffness. Here, as in the Chapel ofS. Catherine at Milan, we feel that Luini was the greatest colouristamong _frescanti. _ In the 'Sposalizio' the female heads are singularlynoble and idyllically graceful. Some of the young men too have Luini'sspecial grace and abundance of golden hair. In the 'Disputa' thegravity and dignity of old men are above all things striking. 

Passing into the choir, we find on either hand the 'Adorationof the Magi' and the 'Purification of the Virgin, ' two of Luini'sdivinest frescoes. Above them in lunettes are four Evangelists andfour Latin Fathers, with four Sibyls. Time and neglect have done nodamage here: and here, again, perforce we notice perfect mastery ofcolour in fresco. The blues detach themselves too much, perhaps, fromthe rest of the colouring; and that is all a devil's advocate couldsay. It is possible that the absence of blue makes the S. Catherinefrescoes in the Monastero Maggiore at Milan surpass all other works ofLuini. But nowhere else has he shown more beauty and variety in detailthan here. The group of women led by Joseph, the shepherd carryingthe lamb upon his shoulder, the girl with a basket of white doves, the child with an apple on the altar-steps, the lovely youth in theforeground heedless of the scene; all these are idyllic incidentstreated with the purest, the serenest, the most spontaneous, thetruest, most instinctive sense of beauty. The landscape includes aview of Saronno, and an episodical picture of the 'Flight into Egypt'where a white-robed angel leads the way. All these lovely thingsare in the 'Purification, ' which is dated _Bernardinus Lovinuspinxit_, MDXXV. 

The fresco of the 'Magi' is less notable in detail, and in generaleffect is more spoiled by obtrusive blues. There is, however, oneyoung man of wholly Lionardesque loveliness, whose divine innocenceof adolescence, unalloyed by serious thought, unstirred by passions, almost forces a comparison with Sodoma. The only painter whoapproaches Luini in what may be called the Lombard, to distinguish itfrom the Venetian idyll, is Sodoma; and the work of his which comesnearest to Luini's masterpieces is the legend of S. Benedict, atMonte Oliveto, near Siena. Yet Sodoma had not all Luini's innocence or_naïveté. _ If he added something slightly humorous which has anindefinite charm, he lacked that freshness as of 'cool, meek-bloodedflowers' and boyish voices, which fascinates us in Luini. Sodomawas closer to the earth, and feared not to impregnate what he sawof beauty with the fiercer passions of his nature. If Luini had feltpassion, who shall say? It appears nowhere in his work, where life istoned to a religious joyousness. When Shelley compared the poetry ofthe Theocritean amourists to the perfume of the tuberose, and that ofthe earlier Greek poets to 'a meadow-gale of June, which minglesthe fragrance of all the flowers of the field, ' he supplied uswith critical images which may not unfairly be used to point thedistinction between Sodoma at Monte Oliveto and Luini at Saronno. 

THE CASTELLO OF FERRARA

Is it possible that the patron saints of cities should mould thetemper of the people to their own likeness? S. George, the chivalrous, is champion of Ferrara. His is the marble group above the Cathedralporch, so feudal in its medieval pomp. He and S. Michael are paintedin fresco over the south portcullis of the Castle. His lustrous armourgleams with Giorgionesque brilliancy from Dossi's masterpiece inthe Pinacoteca. That Ferrara, the only place in Italy where chivalrystruck any root, should have had S. George for patron, is at any ratesignificant. 

The best preserved relic of princely feudal life in Italy isthis Castello of the Este family, with its sombre moat, chaineddrawbridges, doleful dungeons, and unnumbered tragedies, each one ofwhich may be compared with Parisina's history. I do not want to dwellon these things now. It is enough to remember the Castello, built ofruddiest brick, time-mellowed with how many centuries of sun and softsea-air, as it appeared upon the close of one tempestuous day. Justbefore evening the rain-clouds parted and the sun flamed out acrossthe misty Lombard plain. The Castello burned like a hero's funeralpyre, and round its high-built turrets swallows circled in the warmblue air. On the moat slept shadows, mixed with flowers of sunset, tossed from pinnacle and gable. Then the sky changed. A roof ofthunder-cloud spread overhead with the rapidity of tempest. The dyingsun gathered his last strength against it, fretting those steel-bluearches with crimson; and all the fierce light, thrown from vault tovault of cloud, was reflected back as from a shield, and cast inblots and patches on the buildings. The Castle towered up rosy-redand shadowy sombre, enshrined, embosomed in those purple clouds; andmomently ran lightning forks like rapiers through the growing mass. Everything around, meanwhile, was quiet in the grass-grown streets. The only sound was a high, clear boy's voice chanting an opera tune. 

PETRARCH'S TOMB AT ARQUA

The drive from Este along the skirts of the Euganean Hills to Arquatakes one through a country which is tenderly beautiful, because ofits contrast between little peaked mountains and the plain. It isnot a grand landscape. It lacks all that makes the skirts of Alpsand Apennines sublime. Its charm is a certain mystery andrepose--an undefined sense of the neighbouring Adriatic, a pervadingconsciousness of Venice unseen, but felt from far away. From theterraces of Arqua the eye ranges across olive-trees, laurels, andpomegranates on the southern slopes, to the misty level land thatmelts into the sea, with churches and tall campanili like giganticgalleys setting sail for fairyland over 'the foam of perilous seasforlorn. ' Let a blue-black shadow from a thunder-cloud be castupon this plain, and let one ray of sunlight strike a solitarybell-tower;--it burns with palest flame of rose against the steelydark, and in its slender shaft and shell-like tint of pink all Veniceis foreseen. 

The village church of Arqua stands upon one of these terraces, with afull stream of clearest water flowing by. On the little square beforethe church-door, where the peasants congregate at mass-time--open tothe skies with all their stars and storms, girdled by the hills, and within hearing of the vocal stream--is Petrarch's sepulchre. Fitresting-place for what remains to earth of such a poet's clay! It isas though archangels, flying, had carried the marble chest and set itdown here on the hillside, to be a sign and sanctuary for after-men. Asimple rectilinear coffin, of smooth Verona _mandorlato_, raisedon four thick columns, and closed by a heavy cippus-cover. Withoutemblems, allegories, or lamenting genii, this tomb of the great poet, the great awakener of Europe from mental lethargy, encircled by thehills, beneath the canopy of heaven, is impressive beyond the power ofwords. Bending here, we feel that Petrarch's own winged thoughtsand fancies, eternal and aërial, 'forms more real than living man, nurslings of immortality, ' have congregated to be the ever-ministeringand irremovable attendants on the shrine of one who, while he lived, was purest spirit in a veil of flesh. 

ON A MOUNTAIN

Milan is shining in sunset on those purple fields; and a score ofcities flash back the last red light, which shows each inequalityand undulation of Lombardy outspread four thousand feet beneath. Bothranges, Alps and Apennines, are clear to view; and all the silverylakes are over-canopied and brought into one picture by flame-littenmists. Monte Rosa lifts her crown of peaks above a belt of clouds intolight of living fire. The Mischabelhörner and the Dom rest stationaryangel-wings upon the rampart, which at this moment is the wall ofheaven. The pyramid of distant Monte Viso burns like solid amethystfar, far away. Mont Cervin beckons to his brother, the giganticFinsteraarhorn, across tracts of liquid ether. Bells are rising fromthe villages, now wrapped in gloom, between me and the glimmeringlake. A hush of evening silence falls upon the ridges, cliffs, andforests of this billowy hill, ascending into wave-like crests, andtoppling with awful chasms over the dark waters of Lugano. It is goodto be alone here at this hour. Yet I must rise and go--passing throughmeadows, where white lilies sleep in silvery drifts, and asphodel ispale with spires of faintest rose, and narcissus dreams of his ownbeauty, loading the air with fragrance sweet as some love-music ofMozart. These fields want only the white figure of Persephone to makethem poems: and in this twilight one might fancy that the queen hadleft her throne by Pluto's side, to mourn for her dead youth among theflowers uplifted between earth and heaven. Nay, they are poems now, these fields; with that unchanging background of history, romance, and human life--the Lombard plain, against whose violet breadth theblossoms bend their faint heads to the evening air. Downward wehurry, on pathways where the beeches meet, by silent farms, by meadowshoney-scented, deep in dew. The columbine stands tall and still onthose green slopes of shadowy grass. The nightingale sings now, andnow is hushed again. Streams murmur through the darkness, where thegrowth of trees, heavy with honeysuckle and wild rose, is thickest. Fireflies begin to flit above the growing corn. At last the plain isreached, and all the skies are tremulous with starlight. Alas, thatwe should vibrate so obscurely to these harmonies of earth andheaven! The inner finer sense of them seems somehow unattainable--thatspiritual touch of soul evoking soul from nature, which shouldtransfigure our dull mood of self into impersonal delight. Man needsto be a mytho-poet at some moments, or, better still, to be a mysticsteeped through half-unconsciousness in the vast wonder of the world. Gold and untouched to poetry or piety by scenes that ought to blendthe spirit in ourselves with spirit in the world without, we can butwonder how this phantom show of mystery and beauty will pass away fromus--how soon--and we be where, see what, use all our sensibilities onaught or nought?

SIC GENIUS

In the picture-gallery at Modena there is a masterpiece of DossoDossi. The frame is old and richly carved; and the painting, borderedby its beautiful dull gold, shines with the lustre of an emerald. Inhis happy moods Dosso set colour upon canvas, as no other painter outof Venice ever did; and here he is at his happiest. The picture is theportrait of a jester, dressed in courtly clothes and with a featheredcap upon his head. He holds a lamb in his arms, and carries thelegend, _Sic Genius_. Behind him is a landscape of exquisitebrilliancy and depth. His face is young and handsome. Dosso has madeit one most wonderful laugh. Even so perhaps laughed Yorick. Nowhereelse have I seen a laugh thus painted: not violent, not loud, althoughthe lips are opened to show teeth of dazzling whiteness;--but fine anddelicate, playing over the whole face like a ripple sent up from thedepths of the soul within. Who was he? What does the lamb mean? Howshould the legend be interpreted? We cannot answer these questions. Hemay have been the court-fool of Ferrara; and his genius, the spiritualessence of the man, may have inclined him to laugh at all things. That at least is the value he now has for us. He is the portrait ofperpetual irony, the spirit of the golden Sixteenth Century whichdelicately laughed at the whole world of thoughts and things, thequintessence of the poetry of Ariosto, the wit of Berni, all condensedinto one incarnation and immortalised by truthfullest art. With theGaul, the Spaniard, and the German at her gates, and in her cities, and encamped upon her fields, Italy still laughed; and when the voiceof conscience sounding through Savonarola asked her why, she onlysmiled--_Sic Genius_. 

One evening in May we rowed from Venice to Torcello, and at sunsetbroke bread and drank wine together among the rank grasses justoutside that ancient church. It was pleasant to sit in the so-calledchair of Attila and feel the placid stillness of the place. Then therecame lounging by a sturdy young fellow in brown country clothes, witha marvellous old wide-awake upon his head, and across his shoulders abunch of massive church-keys. In strange contrast to his uncouth garbhe flirted a pink Japanese fan, gracefully disposing it to cool hissunburned olive cheeks. This made us look at him. He was not ugly. Nay, there was something of attractive in his face--the smooth-curvedchin, the shrewd yet sleepy eyes, and finely cut thin lips--a curiousmixture of audacity and meekness blent upon his features. Yet thisimpression was but the prelude to his smile. When that first dawned, some breath of humour seeming to stir in him unbidden, the truemeaning was given to his face. Each feature helped to make a smilethat was the very soul's life of the man expressed. I broadened, showing brilliant teeth, and grew into a noiseless laugh; and then Isaw before me Dosso's jester, the type of Shakspere's fools, the lifeof that wild irony, now rude, now fine, which once delighted Courts. The laughter of the whole world and of all the centuries was silent inhis face. What he said need not be repeated. The charm was less in hiswords than in his personality; for Momus-philosophy lay deep in everylook and gesture of the man. The place lent itself to irony: partiesof Americans and English parsons, the former agape for anyrubbishy old things, the latter learned in the lore of obsoleteChurch-furniture, had thronged Torcello; and now they were all gone, and the sun had set behind the Alps, while an irreverent strangerdrank his wine in Attila's chair, and nature's jester smiled--_SicGenius_. 

When I slept that night I dreamed of an altar-piece in the Temple ofFolly. The goddess sat enthroned beneath a canopy hung with bellsand corals. On her lap was a beautiful winged smiling genius, whoflourished two bright torches. On her left hand stood the man ofModena with his white lamb, a new S. John. On her right stood the manof Torcello with his keys, a new S. Peter. Both were laughing aftertheir all-absorbent, divine, noiseless fashion; and under both waswritten, _Sic Genius_. Are not all things, even profanity, permissible in dreams?

 * * * * *

COMO AND IL MEDEGHINO

To which of the Italian lakes should the palm of beauty be accorded?This question may not unfrequently have moved the idle minds oftravellers, wandering through that loveliest region from Orta toGarda--from little Orta, with her gemlike island, rosy granite crags, and chestnut-covered swards above the Colma; to Garda, bluest of allwaters, surveyed in majestic length from Desenzano or poetic Sirmione, a silvery sleeping haze of hill and cloud and heaven and clear wavesbathed in modulated azure. And between these extreme points whatvaried lovelinesses lie in broad Maggiore, winding Como, Varese withthe laughing face upturned to heaven, Lugano overshadowed by thecrested crags of Monte Generoso, and Iseo far withdrawn among therocky Alps! He who loves immense space, cloud shadows slowly sailingover purple slopes, island gardens, distant glimpses of snow-cappedmountains, breadth, air, immensity, and flooding sunlight, will chooseMaggiore. But scarcely has he cast his vote for this, the Juno of thedivine rivals, when he remembers the triple lovelinesses of theLarian Aphrodite, disclosed in all their placid grace from VillaSerbelloni;--the green blue of the waters, clear as glass, opaquethrough depth; the _millefleurs_ roses clambering into cypressesby Cadenabbia; the laburnums hanging their yellow clusters from theclefts of Sasso Eancio; the oleander arcades of Varenna; the wildwhite limestone crags of San Martiuo, which he has climbed to feasthis eyes with the perspective, magical, serene, Lionardesquelyperfect, of the distant gates of Adda. Then while this modern Parisis yet doubting, perhaps a thought may cross his mind of sterner, solitary Lake Iseo--the Pallas of the three. She offers her ownattractions. The sublimity of Monte Adamello, dominating Lovere andall the lowland like Hesiod's hill of Virtue reared aloft above theplain of common life, has charms to tempt heroic lovers. Nor canVarese be neglected. In some picturesque respects, Varese is the mostperfect of the lakes. Those long lines of swelling hills that leadinto the level, yield an infinite series of placid foregrounds, pleasant to the eye by contrast with the dominant snow-summits, fromMonte Viso to Monte Leone: the sky is limitless to southward; the lowhorizons are broken by bell-towers and farmhouses; while armaments ofclouds are ever rolling in the interval of Alps and plain. 

Of a truth, to decide which is the queen of the Italian lakes, is butan _infinita quæstio_; and the mere raising of it is folly. Stilleach lover of the beautiful may give his vote; and mine, like that ofshepherd Paris, is already given to the Larian goddess. Words failin attempting to set forth charms which have to be enjoyed, or can atbest but lightly be touched with most consummate tact, even as greatpoets have already touched on Como Lake--from Virgil with his 'Larimaxume, ' to Tennyson and the Italian Manzoni. The threshold of theshrine is, however, less consecrated ground; and the Cathedral of Comomay form a vestibule to the temple where silence is more golden thanthe speech of a describer. 

The Cathedral of Como is perhaps the most perfect building in Italyfor illustrating the fusion of Gothic and Renaissance styles, both ofa good type and exquisite in their sobriety. The Gothic ends with thenave. The noble transepts and the choir, each terminating in a roundedtribune of the same dimensions, are carried out in a simple anddecorous Bramantesque manner. The transition from the one style to theother is managed so felicitously, and the sympathies between them areso well developed, that there is no discord. What we here callGothic, is conceived in a truly southern spirit, without fantasticefflorescence or imaginative complexity of multiplied parts; whilethe Renaissance manner, as applied by Tommaso Rodari, has not yetstiffened into the lifeless neo-Latinism of the later _cinquecento_:it is still distinguished by delicate inventiveness, and beautifulsubordination of decorative detail to architectural effect. Underthese happy conditions we feel that the Gothic of the nave, with itssuperior severity and sombreness, dilates into the lucid harmonies ofchoir and transepts like a flower unfolding. In the one the mind istuned to inner meditation and religious awe; in the other theworshipper passes into a temple of the clear explicit faith--as aninitiated neophyte might be received into the meaning of themysteries. 

After the collapse of the Roman Empire the district of Como seemsto have maintained more vividly than the rest of Northern Italy somememory of classic art. _Magistri Comacini_ is a title frequentlyinscribed upon deeds and charters of the earlier middle ages, assynonymous with sculptors and architects. This fact may help toaccount for the purity and beauty of the Duomo. It is the work of arace in which the tradition of delicate artistic invention hadnever been wholly interrupted. To Tommaso Rodari and his brothers, Bernardino and Jacopo, the world owes this sympathetic fusion of theGothic and the Bramantesque styles; and theirs too is the sculpturewith which the Duomo is so richly decorated. They were natives ofMaroggia, a village near Mendrisio, beneath the crests of MonteGeneroso, close to Campione, which sent so many able craftsmen outinto the world between the years 1300 and 1500. Indeed the name ofCampionesi would probably have been given to the Rodari, had they lefttheir native province for service in Eastern Lombardy. The body of theDuomo had been finished when Tommaso Rodari was appointed master ofthe fabric in 1487. To complete the work by the addition of a tribunewas his duty. He prepared a wooden model and exposed it, after thefashion of those times, for criticism in his _bottega_; andthe usual difference of opinion arose among the citizens of Comoconcerning its merits. Cristoforo Solaro, surnamed Il Gobbo, wascalled in to advise. It may be remembered that when Michelangelo firstplaced his Pietà in S. Peter's, rumour gave it to this celebratedLombard sculptor, and the Florentine was constrained to set his ownsignature upon the marble. The same Solaro carved the monument ofBeatrice Sforza in the Certosa of Pavia. He was indeed in allpoints competent to criticise or to confirm the design of hisfellow-craftsman. Il Gobbo disapproved of the proportions chosen byRodari, and ordered a new model to be made; but after much discussion, and some concessions on the part of Rodari, who is said to haveincreased the number of the windows and lightened the orders of hismodel, the work was finally entrusted to the master of Maroggia. 

Not less creditable than the general design of the tribune isthe sculpture executed by the brothers. The north side door is amaster-work of early Renaissance chiselling, combining mixed Christianand classical motives with a wealth of floral ornament. Inside, overthe same door, is a procession of children seeming to represent theTriumph of Bacchus, with perhaps some Christian symbolism. Opposite, above the south door, is a frieze of fighting Tritons--horsed seadeities pounding one another with bunches of fish and splashing thewater, in Mantegna's spirit. The doorways of the façade are decoratedwith the same rare workmanship; and the canopies, supported by nakedfauns and slender twisted figures, under which the two Plinies areseated, may be reckoned among the supreme achievements of delicateRenaissance sculpture. The Plinies are not like the work of the samemaster. They are older, stiffer, and more Gothic. The chief interestattaching to them is that they are habited and seated after thefashion of Humanists. This consecration of the two Pagan saints besidethe portals of the Christian temple is truly characteristic ofthe fifteenth century in Italy. Beneath, are little basreliefsrepresenting scenes from their respective lives, in the style ofcarved predellas on the altars of saints. 

The whole church is peopled with detached statues, among which aSebastian in the Chapel of the Madonna must be mentioned as singularlybeautiful. It is a finely modelled figure, with the full life andexuberant adolescence of Venetian inspiration. A peculiar feature ofthe external architecture is the series of Atlantes, bearing on theirshoulders urns, heads of lions, and other devices, and standing onbrackets round the upper cornice just below the roof. They are of allsorts; young and old, male and female; classically nude, and boldlyoutlined. These water-conduits, the work of Bernardo Bianco andFrancesco Rusca, illustrate the departure of the earlier Renaissancefrom the Gothic style. They are gargoyles; but they have lost thegrotesque element. At the same time the sculptor, while discardingGothic tradition, has not betaken himself yet to a servile imitationof the antique. He has used invention, and substituted for grinningdragons' heads something wild and bizarre of his own in harmony withclassic taste. 

The pictures in the chapels, chiefly by Luini and Ferrari--an idyllicNativity, with faun-like shepherds and choirs of angels--a sumptuousadoration of the Magi--a jewelled Sposalizio with abundance of goldenhair flowing over draperies of green and crimson--will interestthose who are as yet unfamiliar with Lombard painting. Yet theirarchitectural setting, perhaps, is superior to their intrinsic meritas works of art; and their chief value consists in adding rare dimflakes of colour to the cool light of the lovely church. More curious, because less easily matched, is the gilded woodwork above the altar ofS. Abondio, attributed to a German carver, but executed for themost part in the purest Luinesque manner. The pose of the enthronedMadonna, the type and gesture of S. Catherine, and the treatment ofthe Pietà above, are thoroughly Lombard, showing how Luini's ideal ofbeauty could be expressed in carving. Some of the choicest figures inthe Monastero Maggiore at Milan seem to have descended from the wallsand stepped into their tabernacles on this altar. Yet the style is notmaintained consistently. In the reliefs illustrating the life of S. Abondio we miss Luini's childlike grace, and find instead a somethingthat reminds us of Donatello--a seeking after the classical in dress, carriage, and grouping of accessory figures. It may have been that thecarver, recognising Luini's defective composition, and finding nothingin that master's manner adapted to the spirit of relief, had the goodtaste to render what was Luinesquely lovely in his female figures, andto fall back on a severer model for his basreliefs. 

The building-fund for the Duomo was raised in Como and its districts. Boxes were placed in all the churches to receive the alms of those whowished to aid the work. The clergy begged in Lent, and preached theduty of contributing on special days. Presents of lime and bricksand other materials were thankfully received. Bishops, canons, andmunicipal magistrates were expected to make costly gifts on takingoffice. Notaries, under penalty of paying 100 soldi if they neglectedtheir engagement, were obliged to persuade testators, _cum bonismodis dulciter_, to inscribe the Duomo on their wills. Fines forvarious offences were voted to the building by the city. Each newburgher paid a certain sum; while guilds and farmers of the taxesbought monopolies and privileges at the price of yearly subsidies. A lottery was finally established for the benefit of the fabric. Of course each payment to the good work carried with it spiritualprivileges; and so willingly did the people respond to the call of theChurch, that during the sixteenth century the sums subscribed amountedto 200, 000 golden crowns. Among the most munificent donators arementioned the Marchese Giacomo Gallio, who bequeathed 290, 000 lire, and a Benzi, who gave 10, 000 ducats. 

While the people of Como were thus straining every nerve to completea pious work, which at the same time is one of the most perfectmasterpieces of Italian art, their lovely lake was turned into apirate's stronghold, and its green waves stained with slaughter ofconflicting navies. So curious is this episode in the history of theLarian lake that it is worth while to treat of it at some length. Moreover, the lives of few captains of adventure offer matter morerich in picturesque details and more illustrative of their times thanthat of Gian Giacomo de' Medici, the Larian corsair, long known andstill remembered as Il Medeghino. He was born in Milan in 1498, atthe beginning of that darkest and most disastrous period of Italianhistory, when the old fabric of social and political existence went toruin under the impact of conflicting foreign armies. He lived on untilthe year 1555, witnessing and taking part in the dismemberment of theMilanese Duchy, playing a game of hazard at high stakes for his ownprofit with the two last Sforzas, the Empire, the French, and theSwiss. At the beginning of the century, while he was still a youth, the rich valley of the Valtelline, with Bormio and Chiavenna, hadbeen assigned to the Grisons. The Swiss Cantons at the same time hadpossessed themselves of Lugano and Bellinzona. By these two acts ofrobbery the mountaineers tore a portion of its fairest territory fromthe Duchy; and whoever ruled in Milan, whether a Sforza, or a Spanishviceroy, or a French general, was impatient to recover the lost jewelof the ducal crown. So much has to be premised, because the scene ofour hero's romantic adventures was laid upon the borderland betweenthe Duchy and the Cantons. Intriguing at one time with the Duke ofMilan, at another with his foes the French or Spaniards, Il Medeghinofound free scope for his peculiar genius in a guerilla warfare, carried on with the avowed purpose of restoring the Valtelline toMilan. To steer a plain course through that chaos of politics, inwhich the modern student, aided by the calm clear lights of historyand meditation, cannot find a clue, was of course impossible for anadventurer whose one aim was to gratify his passions and exalt himselfat the expense of others. It is therefore of little use to seekmotives of statecraft or of patriotism in the conduct of Il Medeghino. He was a man shaped according to Machiavelli's standard of politicalmorality--self-reliant, using craft and force with cold indifferenceto moral ends, bent only upon wringing for himself the largest shareof this world's power for men who, like himself, identified virtuewith unflinching and immitigable egotism. 

Il Medeghino's father was Bernardo de' Medici, a Lombard, who neitherclaimed nor could have proved cousinship with the great Mediceanfamily of Florence. His mother was Cecilia Serbelloni. The boy waseducated in the fashionable humanistic studies, nourishing his youngimagination with the tales of Roman heroes. The first exploit by whichhe proved his _virtù_, was the murder of a man he hated, at theage of sixteen. This 'virile act of vengeance, ' as it was called, brought him into trouble, and forced him to choose the congenialprofession of arms. At a time when violence and vigour passed formanliness, a spirited assassination formed the best of introductionsto the captains of mixed mercenary troops. Il Medeghino rose infavour with his generals, helped to reinstate Francesco Sforza in hiscapital, and, returning himself to Milan, inflicted severe vengeanceon the enemies who had driven him to exile. It was his ambition, atthis early period of his life, to be made governor of the Castle ofMusso, on the Lake of Como. While fighting in the neighbourhood, hehad observed the unrivalled capacities for defence presented by itssite; and some pre-vision of his future destinies now urged him toacquire it, as the basis for the free marauding life he planned. Theheadland of Musso lies about halfway between Gravedona and Menaggio, on the right shore of the Lake of Como. Planted on a pedestal ofrock, and surmounted by a sheer cliff, there then stood a very ancienttower, commanding this promontory on the side of the land. Between itand the water the Visconti, in more recent days, had built a squarefort; and the headland had been further strengthened by the additionof connecting walls and bastions pierced for cannon. Combiningprecipitous cliffs, strong towers, and easy access from the lakebelow, this fortress of Musso was exactly the fit station for apirate. So long as he kept the command of the lake, he had littleto fear from land attacks, and had a splendid basis for aggressiveoperations. Il Medeghino made his request to the Duke of Milan; butthe foxlike Sforza would not grant him a plain answer. At length hehinted that if his suitor chose to rid him of a troublesome subject, the noble and popular Astore Visconti, he should receive Mussofor payment. Crimes of bloodshed and treason sat lightly on theadventurer's conscience. In a short time he compassed the youngVisconti's death, and claimed his reward. The Duke despatched himthereupon to Musso, with open letters to the governor, commanding himto yield the castle to the bearer. Private advice, also entrusted toIl Medeghino, bade the governor, on the contrary, cut the bearer'sthroat. The young man, who had the sense to read the Duke's letter, destroyed the secret document, and presented the other, or, as oneversion of the story goes, forged a ducal order in his own favour. [12]At any rate, the castle was placed in his hands; and affecting to knownothing of the Duke's intended treachery, Il Medeghino took possessionof it as a trusted servant of the ducal crown. 

As soon as he was settled in his castle, the freebooter devoted allhis energies to rendering it still more impregnable by strengtheningthe walls and breaking the cliffs into more horrid precipices. In thiswork he was assisted by his numerous friends and followers; for Mussorapidly became, like ancient Rome, an asylum for the ruffians andoutlaws of neighbouring provinces. It is even said that his sisters, Clarina and Margherita, rendered efficient aid with manual labour. Themention of Clarina's name justifies a parenthetical side-glance at IlMedeghino's pedigree, which will serve to illustrate the exceptionalconditions of Italian society during this age. She was married tothe Count Giberto Borromeo, and became the mother of the pious CarloBorromeo, whose shrine is still adored at Milan in the Duomo. IlMedeghino's brother, Giovan Angelo, rose to the Papacy, assuming thetitle of Pius IV. Thus this murderous marauder was the brother of aPope and the uncle of a Saint; and these three persons of one familyembraced the various degrees and typified the several characters whichflourished with peculiar lustre in Renaissance Italy--the captain ofadventure soaked in blood, the churchman unrivalled for intrigue, andthe saint aflame with holiest enthusiasm. Il Medeghino was short ofstature, but well made and powerful; broad-chested; with a penetratingvoice and winning countenance. He dressed simply, like one of his ownsoldiers; slept but little; was insensible to carnal pleasure; andthough he knew how to win the affection of his men by jovial speech, he maintained strict discipline in his little army. In all points hewas an ideal bandit chief, never happy unless fighting or planningcampaigns, inflexible of purpose, bold and cunning in the execution ofhis schemes, cruel to his enemies, generous to his followers, sacrificing all considerations, human and divine, to the one aim ofhis life, self-aggrandisement by force and intrigue. He knew well howto make himself both feared and respected. One instance of his dealingwill suffice. A gentleman of Bellano, Polidoro Boldoni, in return tohis advances, coldly replied that he cared for neither amity norrelationship with thieves and robbers; whereupon Il Medeghinoextirpated his family, almost to a man. 

Soon after his settlement in Musso, Il Medeghino, wishing to securethe gratitude of the Duke, his master, began war with the Grisons. From Coire, from the Engadine, and from Davos, the Alpine pikemen werenow pouring down to swell the troops of Francis I. ; and their road laythrough the Lake of Como. Il Medeghino burned all the boats upon thelake, except those which he took into his own service, and thus madehimself master of the water passage. He then swept the 'length oflordly Lario' from Colico to Lecco, harrying the villages uponthe shore, and cutting off the bands of journeying Switzers at hispleasure. Not content with this guerilla, he made a descent uponthe territory of the Trepievi, and pushed far up towards Chiavenna, forcing the Grisons to recall their troops from the Milanese. Theseacts of prowess convinced the Duke that he had found a strong allyin the pirate chief. When Francis I. Continued his attacks upon theDuchy, and the Grisons still adhered to their French paymaster, theSforza formally invested Gian Giacomo de' Medici with the perpetualgovernorship of Musso, the Lake of Como, and as much as he could wrestfrom the Grisons above the lake. Furnished now with a just title forhis depredations, Il Medeghino undertook the siege of Chiavenna. Thattown is the key to the valleys of the Splügen and Bregaglia. Stronglyfortified and well situated for defence, the burghers of the Grisonswell knew that upon its possession depended their power in the Italianvalleys. To take it by assault was impossible, Il Medeghino usedcraft, entered the castle, and soon had the city at his disposition. Nor did he lose time in sweeping Val Bregaglia. The news of thisconquest recalled the Switzers from the Duchy; and as they hurriedhomeward just before the battle of Pavia, it may be affirmed that GianGiacomo de' Medici was instrumental in the defeat and capture of theFrench King. The mountaineers had no great difficulty in dislodgingtheir pirate enemy from Chiavenna, the Valtelline, and Val Bregaglia. But he retained his hold on the Trepievi, occupied the Valsassina, took Porlezza, and established himself still more strongly in Musso asthe corsair monarch of the lake. 

The tyranny of the Sforzas in Milan was fast going to pieces betweenFrance and Spain; and in 1526 the Marquis of Pescara occupied thecapital in the name of Charles V. The Duke, meanwhile, remained aprisoner in his Castello. Il Medeghino was now without a master; forhe refused to acknowledge the Spaniards, preferring to watch eventsand build his own power on the ruins of the dukedom. At the head of4, 000 men, recruited from the lakes and neighbouring valleys, heswept the country far and wide, and occupied the rich champaign of theBrianza. He was now lord of the lakes of Como and Lugano, and absolutein Lecco and the adjoining valleys. The town of Como itself alonebelonged to the Spaniards; and even Como was blockaded by the navy ofthe corsair. Il Medeghino had a force of seven big ships, with threesails and forty-eight oars, bristling with guns and carrying marines. His flagship was a large brigantine, manned by picked rowers, fromthe mast of which floated the red banner with the golden palle of theMedicean arms. Besides these larger vessels, he commanded a flotillaof countless small boats. It is clear that to reckon with him was anecessity. If he could not be put down with force, he might be boughtover by concessions. The Spaniards adopted the second course, and IlMedeghino, judging that the cause of the Sforza family was desperate, determined in 1528 to attach himself to the Empire. Charles V. Invested him with the Castle of Musso and the larger part of ComoLake, including the town of Lecco. He now assumed the titles ofMarquis of Musso and Count of Lecco: and in order to prove hissovereignty before the world, he coined money with his own name anddevices. 

It will be observed that Gian Giacomo de' Medici had hitherto actedwith a single-hearted view to his own interests. At the age of thirtyhe had raised himself from nothing to a principality, which, thoughpetty, might compare with many of some name in Italy--with Carpi, forexample, or Mirandola, or Camerino. Nor did he mean to remain quietin the prime of life. He regarded Como Lake as the mere basis for morearduous undertakings. Therefore, when the whirligig of events restoredFrancesco Sforza to his duchy in 1529, Il Medeghino refused to obeyhis old lord. Pretending to move under the Duke's orders, but reallyacting for himself alone, he proceeded to attack his ancientenemies, the Grisons. By fraud and force he worked his way intotheir territory, seized Morbegno, and overran the Valtelline. Hewas destined, however, to receive a serious check. Twelve thousandSwitzers rose against him on the one hand, on the other the Duke ofMilan sent a force by land and water to subdue his rebel subject, while Alessandro Gonzaga marched upon his castles in the Brianza. Hewas thus assailed by formidable forces from three quarters, convergingupon the Lake of Como, and driving him to his chosen element, thewater. Hastily quitting the Valtelline, he fell back to the Castle ofMandello on the lake, collected his navy, and engaged the ducal shipsin a battle off Menaggio. In this battle he was worsted. But he didnot lose his courage. From Bellagio, from Varenna, from Bellano hedrove forth his enemies, rolled the cannon of the Switzers into thelake, regained Lecco, defeated the troops of Alessandro Gonzaga, andtook the Duke of Mantua prisoner. Had he but held Como, it is probablethat he might have obtained such terms at this time as would haveconsolidated his tyranny. The town of Como, however, now belongedto the Duke of Milan, and formed an excellent basis for operationsagainst the pirate. Overmatched, with an exhausted treasury and brokenforces, Il Medeghino was at last compelled to give in. Yet he retiredwith all the honours of war. In exchange for Musso and the lake, theDuke agreed to give him 35, 000 golden crowns, together with the feudand marquisate of Marignano. A free pardon was promised not onlyto himself and his brothers, but to all his followers; and the Dukefurther undertook to transport his artillery and munitions of war athis own expense to Marignano. Having concluded this treaty under theauspices of Charles V. And his lieutenant, Il Medeghino, in March1532, set sail from Musso, and turned his back upon the lake forever. The Switzers immediately destroyed the towers, forts, walls, andbastions of the Musso promontory, leaving in the midst of their ruinsthe little chapel of S. Eufemia. 

Gian Giacomo de' Medici, henceforth known to Europe as the Marquisof Marignano, now took service under Spain; and through the favourof Anton de Leyva, Viceroy for the Duchy, rose to the rank ofField Marshal. When the Marquis del Vasto succeeded to the Spanishgovernorship of Milan in 1536, he determined to gratify an old grudgeagainst the ex-pirate, and, having invited him to a banquet, made himprisoner. II Medeghino was not, however, destined to languish in adungeon. Princes and kings interested themselves in his fate. Hewas released, and journeyed to the court of Charles V. In Spain. The Emperor received him kindly, and employed him first in the LowCountries, where he helped to repress the burghers of Ghent, and atthe siege of Landrecy commanded the Spanish artillery against otherItalian captains of adventure: for, Italy being now dismembered andenslaved, her sons sought foreign service where they found best payand widest scope for martial science. Afterwards the Medici ruledBohemia as Spanish Viceroy; and then, as general of the league formedby the Duke of Florence, the Emperor, and the Pope to repress theliberties of Tuscany, distinguished himself in that cruel war ofextermination, which turned the fair Contado of Siena into a poisonousMaremma. To the last Il Medeghino preserved the instincts and thepassions of a brigand chief. It was at this time that, acting for theGrand Duke of Tuscany, he first claimed open kinship with the Mediciof Florence. Heralds and genealogists produced a pedigree, whichseemed to authorise this pretension; he was recognised, together withhis brother, Pius IV. , as an offshoot of the great house which hadalready given Dukes to Florence, Kings to France, and two Popes tothe Christian world. In the midst of all this foreign service he neverforgot his old dream of conquering the Valtelline; and in 1547 hemade proposals to the Emperor for a new campaign against the Grisons. Charles V. Did not choose to engage in a war, the profits of whichwould have been inconsiderable for the master of half the civilisedworld, and which might have proved troublesome by stirring up thetameless Switzers. Il Medeghino was obliged to abandon a projectcherished from the earliest dawn of his adventurous manhood. 

When Gian Giacomo died in 1555, his brother Battista succeeded to hisclaims upon Lecco and the Trepievi. His monument, magnificent withfive bronze figures, the masterpiece of Leone Lioni, from Menaggio, Michelangelesque in style, and of consummate workmanship, still adornsthe Duomo of Milan. It stands close by the door that leads to theroof. This mausoleum, erected to the memory of Gian Giacomo andhis brother Gabrio, is said to have cost 7800 golden crowns. On theoccasion of the pirate's funeral the Senate of Milan put on mourning, and the whole city followed the great robber, the hero of Renaissance_virtù_, to the grave. 

Between the Cathedral of Como and the corsair Medeghino there is buta slight link. Yet so extraordinary were the social circumstances ofRenaissance Italy, that almost at every turn, on her seaboard, in hercities, from her hill-tops, we are compelled to blend our admirationfor the loveliest and purest works of art amid the choicest scenesof nature with memories of execrable crimes and lawless characters. Sometimes, as at Perugia, the _nexus_ is but local. At others, one single figure, like that of Cellini, unites both points of view ina romance of unparalleled dramatic vividness. Or, again, beneaththe vaults of the Certosa, near Pavia, a masterpiece of the serenestbeauty carries our thoughts perforce back to the hideous crueltiesand snake-like frauds of its despotic founder. This is the excusefor combining two such diverse subjects in one study. 

 * * * * *

_BERGAMO AND BARTOLOMMEO COLLEONI_

From the new town of commerce to the old town of history upon thehill, the road is carried along a rampart lined, with horse-chestnuttrees--clumps of massy foliage, and snowy pyramids of bloom, expandedin the rapture of a southern spring. Each pair of trees between theirstems and arch of intermingling leaves includes a space of plain, checkered with cloud-shadows, melting blue and green in amethystinehaze. To right and left the last spurs of the Alps descend, juttinglike promontories, heaving like islands from the misty breadth below:and here and there are towers, half-lost in airy azure; and citiesdwarfed to blots; and silvery lines where rivers flow; and distant, vapour-drowned, dim crests of Apennines. The city walls above us wavewith snapdragons and iris among fig-trees sprouting from the rivenstones. There are terraces over-rioted with pergolas of vine, andhouses shooting forward into balconies and balustrades, from which aRomeo might launch himself at daybreak, warned by the lark's song. A sudden angle in the road is turned, and we pass from airspace andfreedom into the old town, beneath walls of dark brown masonry, wherewild valerians light their torches of red bloom in immemorial shade. Squalor and splendour live here side by side. Grand Renaissanceportals grinning with Satyr masks are flanked by tawdry frescoesshamming stonework, or by doorways where the withered bush hangs outa promise of bad wine. The Cappella Colleoni is our destination, thatmasterpiece of the sculptor-architect's craft, with its variegatedmarbles, --rosy and white and creamy yellow and jet-black, --inpatterns, basreliefs, pilasters, statuettes, encrusted on the fancifuldomed shrine. Upon the façade are mingled, in the true Renaissancespirit of genial acceptance, motives Christian and Pagan with supremeimpartiality. Medallions of emperors and gods alternate with virtues, angels and cupids in a maze of loveliest arabesque; and round thebase of the building are told two stories--the one of Adam from hiscreation to his fall, the other of Hercules and his labours. Italiancraftsmen of the _quattrocento_ were not averse to settingthus together, in one framework, the myths of our first parents andAlemena's son: partly perhaps because both subjects gave scope tothe free treatment of the nude; but partly also, we may venture tosurmise, because the heroism of Hellas counterbalanced the sin ofEden. Here then we see how Adam and Eve were made and tempted andexpelled from Paradise and set to labour, how Cain killed Abel, andLamech slew a man to his hurt, and Isaac was offered on the mountain. The tale of human sin and the promise of redemption are epitomisedin twelve of the sixteen basreliefs. The remaining four show Herculeswrestling with Antæus, taming the Nemean lion, extirpating the Hydra, and bending to his will the bull of Crete. Labour, appointed for apunishment to Adam, becomes a title to immortality for the hero. The dignity of man is reconquered by prowess for the Greek, as it isrepurchased for the Christian by vicarious suffering. Many may thinkthis interpretation of Amadeo's basreliefs far-fetched; yet, such asit is, it agrees with the spirit of Humanism, bent ever on harmonisingthe two great traditions of the past. Of the workmanship little needbe said, except that it is wholly Lombard, distinguished from thesimilar work of Della Quercia at Bologna and Siena by a more imperfectfeeling for composition, and a lack of monumental gravity, yetgraceful, rich in motives, and instinct with a certain wayward_improvvisatore_ charm. 

This Chapel was built by the great Condottiere Bartolommeo Colleoni, to be the monument of his puissance even in the grave. It had beenthe Sacristy of S. Maria Maggiore, which, when the Consiglio dellaMisericordia refused it to him for his half-proud, half-pious purpose, he took and held by force. The structure, of costliest materials, reared by Gian Antonio Amadeo, cost him 50, 000 golden florins. Anequestrian statue of gilt wood, voted to him by the town of Bergamo, surmounts his monument inside the Chapel. This was the work of twoGerman masters, called 'Sisto figlio di Enrico Syri da Norimberga'and 'Leonardo Tedesco. ' The tomb itself is of marble, executed for themost part in a Lombard style resembling Amadeo's, but scarcelyworthy of his genius. The whole effect is disappointing. Five figuresrepresenting Mars, Hercules, and three sons-in-law of Colleoni, whosurround the sarcophagus of the buried general, are indeed almostgrotesque. The angularity and crumpled draperies of the Milanesemanner, when so exaggerated, produce an impression of caricature. Yetmany subordinate details--a row of _putti_ in a _cinquecento_ frieze, for instance--and much of the low relief work--especially theCrucifixion with its characteristic episodes of the fainting Mariesand the soldiers casting dice--are lovely in their unaffectedLombardism. 

There is another portrait of Colleoni in a round above the great door, executed with spirit, though in a _bravura_ style that curiouslyanticipates the decline of Italian sculpture. Gaunt, hollow-eyed, with prominent cheek bones and strong jaws, this animated, half-lengthstatue of the hero bears the stamp of a good likeness; but when or bywhom it was made, I do not know. 

Far more noteworthy than Colleoni's own monument is that of hisdaughter Medea. She died young in 1470, and her father caused hertomb, carved of Carrara marble, to be placed in the Dominican Churchof Basella, which he had previously founded. It was not until 1842that this most precious masterpiece of Antonio Amadeo's skill wastransferred to Bergamo. _Hic jacet Medea virgo. _ Her hands areclasped across her breast. A robe of rich brocade, gathered to thewaist and girdled, lies in simple folds upon the bier. Her throat, exceedingly long and slender, is circled with a string of pearls. Her face is not beautiful, for the features, especially the nose, are large and prominent; but it is pure and expressive of vividindividuality. The hair curls in crisp short clusters, and the ear, fine and shaped almost like a Faun's, reveals the scrupulous fidelityof the sculptor. Italian art has, in truth, nothing more exquisitethan this still sleeping figure of the girl, who, when she lived, mustcertainly have been so rare of type and lovable in personality. IfBusti's Lancinus Curtius be the portrait of a humanist, careworn withstudy, burdened by the laurel leaves that were so dry and dusty--ifGaston de Foix in the Brera, smiling at death and beautiful inthe cropped bloom of youth, idealise the hero of romance--ifMichelangelo's Penseroso translate in marble the dark broodings of adespot's soul--if Della Porta's Julia Farnese be the Roman courtesanmagnificently throned in nonchalance at a Pope's footstool--ifVerocchio's Colleoni on his horse at Venice impersonate the pompand circumstance of scientific war--surely this Medea exhales theflower-like graces, the sweet sanctities of human life, that even inthat turbid age were found among high-bred Italian ladies. Such powerhave mighty sculptors, even in our modern world, to make the mutestone speak in poems and clasp the soul's life of a century in somefive or six transcendent forms. 

The Colleoni, or Coglioni, family were of considerable antiquity andwell-authenticated nobility in the town of Bergamo. Two lions' headsconjoined formed one of their canting ensigns; another was borrowedfrom the vulgar meaning of their name. Many members of the house heldimportant office during the three centuries preceding the birth of thefamous general, Bartolommeo. He was born in the year 1400 at Solza, inthe Bergamasque Contado. His father Paolo, or Pùho as he was commonlycalled, was poor and exiled from the city, together with the rest ofthe Guelf nobles, by the Visconti. Being a man of daring spirit, andlittle inclined to languish in a foreign state as the dependent onsome patron, Pùho formed the bold design of seizing the Castle ofTrezzo. This he achieved in 1405 by fraud, and afterwards held it ashis own by force. Partly with the view of establishing himself morefirmly in his acquired lordship, and partly out of family affection, Pùho associated four of his first-cousins in the government of Trezzo. They repaid his kindness with an act of treason and cruelty, only toocharacteristic of those times in Italy. One day while he was playingat draughts in a room of the Castle, they assaulted him and killedhim, seized his wife and the boy Bartolommeo, and flung them intoprison. The murdered Pùho had another son, Antonio, who escaped andtook refuge with Giorgio Benzone, the tyrant of Crema. After a shorttime the Colleoni brothers found means to assassinate him also;therefore Bartolommeo alone, a child of whom no heed was taken, remained to be his father's avenger. He and his mother lived togetherin great indigence at Solza, until the lad felt strong enough to enterthe service of one of the numerous petty Lombard princes, and tomake himself if possible a captain of adventure. His name alone was asufficient introduction, and the Duchy of Milan, dismembered upon thedeath of Gian Maria Visconti, was in such a state that all the minordespots were increasing their forces and preparing to defend by armsthe fragments they had seized from the Visconti heritage. Bartolommeotherefore had no difficulty in recommending himself to Filippod'Arcello, sometime general in the pay of the Milanese, but now thenew lord of Piacenza. With this master he remained as page for two orthree years, learning the use of arms, riding, and training himselfin the physical exercises which were indispensable to a young Italiansoldier. Meanwhile Filippo Maria Visconti reacquired his hereditarydominions; and at the age of twenty, Bartolommeo found it prudentto seek a patron stronger than d'Arcello. The two great Condottieri, Sforza Attendolo and Braccio, divided the military glories of Italy atthis period; and any youth who sought to rise in his profession, had to enrol himself under the banners of the one or the other. Bartolommeo chose Braccio for his master, and was enrolled among hismen as a simple trooper, or _ragazzo_, with no better prospectsthan he could make for himself by the help of his talents and hisborrowed horse and armour. Braccio at this time was in Apulia, prosecuting the war of the Neapolitan Succession disputed betweenAlfonso of Aragon and Louis of Anjou under the weak sovereignty ofQueen Joan. On which side of a quarrel a Condottiere fought matteredbut little: so great was the confusion of Italian politics, and socomplete was the egotism of these fraudful, violent, and treacherousparty leaders. Yet it may be mentioned that Braccio had espousedAlfonso's cause. Bartolommeo Colleoni early distinguished himselfamong the ranks of the Bracceschi. But he soon perceived that hecould better his position by deserting to another camp. Accordinglyhe offered his services to Jacopo Caldora, one of Joan's generals, andreceived from him a commission of twenty men-at-arms. It may herebe parenthetically said that the rank and pay of an Italian captainvaried with the number of the men he brought into the field. His title'Condottiere' was derived from the circumstance that he was said tohave received a _Condotta di venti cavalli_, and so forth. Each _cavallo_ was equal to one mounted man-at-arms and twoattendants, who were also called _ragazzi_. It was his businessto provide the stipulated number of men, to keep them in gooddiscipline, and to satisfy their just demands. Therefore an Italianarmy at this epoch consisted of numerous small armies varying insize, each held together by personal engagements to a captain, and alldependent on the will of a general-in-chief, who had made a bargainwith some prince or republic for supplying a fixed contingent offighting-men. The _Condottiere_ was in other words a contractoror _impresario_, undertaking to do a certain piece of work for acertain price, and to furnish the requisite forces for the businessin good working order. It will be readily seen upon this system howimportant were the personal qualities of the captain, and what greatadvantages those Condottieri had, who, like the petty princesof Romagna and the March, the Montefeltri, Ordelaffi, Malatesti, Manfredi, Orsini, and Vitelli, could rely upon a race of hardy vassalsfor their recruits. 

It is not necessary to follow Colleoni's fortunes in the Regno, atAquila, Ancona, and Bologna. He continued in the service of Caldora, who was now General of the Church, and had his _Condotta_gradually increased. Meanwhile his cousins, the murderers of hisfather, began to dread his rising power, and determined, if possible, to ruin him. He was not a man to be easily assassinated; so they senta hired ruffian to Caldora's camp to say that Bartolommeo had takenhis name by fraud, and that he was himself the real son of PùhoColleoni. Bartolommeo defied the liar to a duel; and this would havetaken place before the army, had not two witnesses appeared, who knewthe fathers of both Colleoni and the _bravo_, and who gave suchevidence that the captains of the army were enabled to ascertain thetruth. The impostor was stripped and drummed out of the camp. 

At the conclusion of a peace between the Pope and the Bolognese, Bartolommeo found himself without occupation. He now offered himselfto the Venetians, and began to fight again under the great Carmagnolaagainst Filippo Visconti. His engagement allowed him forty men, which, after the judicial murder of Carmagnola at Venice in 1432, wereincreased to eighty. Erasmo da Narni, better known as Gattamelata, wasnow his general-in-chief--a man who had risen from the lowest fortunesto one of the most splendid military positions in Italy. Colleonispent the next years of his life, until 1443, in Lombardy, manoeuvringagainst Il Piccinino, and gradually rising in the Venetian service, until his Condotta reached the number of 800 men. Upon Gattamelata'sdeath at Padua in 1440, Colleoni became the most important of thegenerals who had fought with Caldora in the March. The lordships ofRomano in the Bergamasque and of Covo and Antegnate in the Cremonesehad been assigned to him; and he was in a position to make independentengagements with princes. What distinguished him as a general, was acombination of caution with audacity. He united the brilliant systemof his master Braccio with the more prudent tactics of the Sforzeschi;and thus, though he often surprised his foes by daring stratagemsand vigorous assaults, he rarely met with any serious check. He was acaptain who could be relied upon for boldly seizing an advantage, no less than for using a success with discretion. Moreover he hadacquired an almost unique reputation for honesty in dealing with hismasters, and for justice combined with humane indulgence to his men. His company was popular, and he could always bring capital troops intothe field. 

In the year 1443 Colleoni quitted the Venetian service on account of aquarrel with Gherardo Dandolo, the Provoditore of the Republic. Henow took a commission from Filippo Maria Visconti, who received him atMilan with great honour, bestowed on him the Castello Adorno at Pavia, and sent him into the March of Ancona upon a military expedition. Ofall Italian tyrants this Visconti was the most difficult to serve. Constitutionally timid, surrounded with a crowd of spies and baseinformers, shrinking from the sight of men in the recesses of hispalace, and controlling the complicated affairs of his Duchy by meansof correspondents and intelligencers, this last scion of the Milanesedespots lived like a spider in an inscrutable network of suspicionand intrigue. His policy was one of endless plot and counterplot. Hetrusted no man; his servants were paid to act as spies on one another;his bodyguard consisted of mutually hostile mercenaries; his captainsin the field were watched and thwarted by commissioners appointed tocheck them at the point of successful ambition or magnificent victory. The historian has a hard task when he tries to fathom the Visconti'sschemes, or to understand his motives. Half the Duke's time seems tohave been spent in unravelling the webs that he had woven, in undoinghis own work, and weakening the hands of his chosen ministers. Conscious that his power was artificial, that the least breath mightblow him back into the nothingness from which he had arisen on thewrecks of his father's tyranny, he dreaded the personal eminence ofhis generals above all things. His chief object was to establish asystem of checks, by means of which no one whom he employed shouldat any moment be great enough to threaten him. The most formidableof these military adventurers, Francesco Sforza, had been secured bymarriage with Bianca Maria Visconti, his master's only daughter, in1441; but the Duke did not even trust his son-in-law. The last sixyears of his life were spent in scheming to deprive Sforza of hislordships; and the war in the March, on which he employed Colleoni, had the object of ruining the principality acquired by this daringcaptain from Pope Eugenius IV. In 1443. 

Colleoni was by no means deficient in those foxlike qualities whichwere necessary to save the lion from the toils spread for him byItalian intriguers. He had already shown that he knew how to push hisown interests, by changing sides and taking service with the highestbidder, as occasion prompted. Nor, though his character for probityand loyalty stood exceptionally high among the men of his profession, was he the slave to any questionable claims of honour or of duty. Inthat age of confused politics and extinguished patriotism, therewas not indeed much scope for scrupulous honesty. But Filippo MariaVisconti proved more than a match for him in craft. While Colleoniwas engaged in pacifying the revolted population of Bologna, the Dukeyielded to the suggestion of his parasites at Milan, who whisperedthat the general was becoming dangerously powerful. He recalled him, and threw him without trial into the dungeons of the Forni at Monza. Here Colleoni remained a prisoner more than a year, until theDuke's death in 1447, when he made his escape, and profited by thedisturbance of the Duchy to reacquire his lordships in the Bergamasqueterritory. The true motive for his imprisonment remains still buriedin obscure conjecture. Probably it was not even known to the Visconti, who acted on this, as on so many other occasions, by a mere spasm ofsuspicious jealousy, for which he could have given no account. 

From the year 1447 to the year 1455, it is difficult to followColleoni's movements, or to trace his policy. First, we findhim employed by the Milanese Republic, during its brief space ofindependence; then he is engaged by the Venetians, with a commissionfor 1500 horse; next, he is in the service of Francesco Sforza; oncemore in that of the Venetians, and yet again in that of the Duke ofMilan. His biographer relates with pride that, during this period, he was three times successful against French troops in Piedmont andLombardy. It appears that he made short engagements, and changed hispaymasters according to convenience. But all this time he rose inpersonal importance, acquired fresh lordships in the Bergamasque, andaccumulated wealth. He reached the highest point of his prosperityin 1455, when the Republic of S. Mark elected him General-in-Chief oftheir armies, with the fullest powers, and with a stipend of 100, 000florins. For nearly twenty-one years, until the day of his death, in1475, Colleoni held this honourable and lucrative office. In his willhe charged the Signory of Venice that they should never again commitinto the hands of a single captain such unlimited control over theirmilitary resources. It was indeed no slight tribute to Colleoni'sreputation for integrity, that the jealous Republic, which hadsignified its sense of Carmagnola's untrustworthiness by capitalpunishment, should have left him so long in the undisturbed disposalof their army. The Standard and the Bâton of S. Mark were conveyed toColleoni by two ambassadors, and presented to him at Brescia on June24, 1455. Three years later he made a triumphal entry into Venice, andreceived the same ensigns of military authority from the hands of thenew Doge, Pasquale Malipiero. On this occasion his staff consisted ofsome two hundred officers, splendidly armed, and followed by a trainof serving-men. Noblemen from Bergamo, Brescia, and other cities ofthe Venetian territory, swelled the cortege. When they embarked on thelagoons, they found the water covered with boats and gondolas, bearingthe population of Venice in gala attire, to greet the illustriousguest with instruments of music. Three great galleys of the Republic, called Bucentaurs, issued from the crowd of smaller craft. On thefirst was the Doge in his state robes, attended by the government inoffice, or the Signoria of S. Mark. On the second were members of theSenate and minor magistrates. The third carried the ambassadors offoreign powers. Colleoni was received into the first state-galley, and placed by the side of the Doge. The oarsmen soon cleared thespace between the land and Venice, passed the small canals, andswept majestically up the Canalozzo among the plaudits of the crowdsassembled on both sides to cheer their General. Thus they reached thepiazzetta, where Colleoni alighted between the two great pillars, and, conducted by the Doge in person, walked to the Church of S. Mark. Here, after Mass had been said, and a sermon had been preached, kneeling before the high altar he received the truncheon from theDoge's hands. The words of his commission ran as follows:--

'By authority and decree of this most excellent City of Venice, ofus the Prince, and of the Senate, you are to be Commander and CaptainGeneral of all our forces and armaments on terra firma. Take fromour hands this truncheon, with good augury and fortune, as sign andwarrant of your power. Be it your care and effort, with dignity andsplendour to maintain and to defend the Majesty, the Loyalty, and thePrinciples of this Empire. Neither provoking, not yet provoked, unlessat our command, shall you break into open warfare with our enemies. Free jurisdiction and lordship over each one of our soldiers, exceptin cases of treason, we hereby commit to you. '

After the ceremony of his reception, Colleoni was conducted withno less pomp to his lodgings, and the next ten days were spent infestivities of all sorts. 

The commandership-in-chief of the Venetian forces was perhaps thehighest military post in Italy. It placed Colleoni on the pinnacleof his profession, and made his camp the favourite school of youngsoldiers. Among his pupils or lieutenants we read of Ercole d'Este, the future Duke of Ferrara; Alessandro Sforza, lord of Pesaro;Boniface, Marquis of Montferrat; Cicco and Pino Ordelaffi, princesof Forli; Astorre Manfredi, the lord of Faenza; three Counts ofMirandola; two princes of Carpi; Deifobo, the Count of Anguillara;Giovanni Antonio Caldora, lord of Jesi in the March; and many othersof less name. Honours came thick upon him. When one of the manyineffectual leagues against the infidel was formed in 1468, during thepontificate of Paul II. , he was named Captain-General for the Crusade. Pius II. Designed him for the leader of the expedition he had plannedagainst the impious and savage despot, Sigismondo Malatesta. King Renéof Anjou, by special patent, authorised him to bear his name andarms, and made him a member of his family. The Duke of Burgundy, bya similar heraldic fiction, conferred upon him his name and armorialbearings. This will explain why Colleoni is often styled 'di Andegaviae Borgogna. ' In the case of René, the honour was but a barren show. But the patent of Charles the Bold had more significance. In 1473 heentertained the project of employing the great Italian General againsthis Swiss foes; nor does it seem reasonable to reject a statement madeby Colleoni's biographer, to the effect that a secret compact had beendrawn up between him and the Duke of Burgundy, for the conquest andpartition of the Duchy of Milan. The Venetians, in whose serviceColleoni still remained, when they became aware of this project, metit with peaceful but irresistible opposition. 

Colleoni had been engaged continually since his earliest boyhood inthe trade of war. It was not therefore possible that he should havegained a great degree of literary culture. Yet the fashion of thetimes made it necessary that a man in his position should seek thesociety of scholars. Accordingly his court and camp were crowded withstudents, in whose wordy disputations he is said to have delighted. Itwill be remembered that his contemporaries, Alfonso the Magnanimous, Francesco Sforza, Federigo of Urbino, and Sigismondo PandolfoMalatesta, piqued themselves at least as much upon their patronage ofletters, as upon their prowess in the field. 

Colleoni's court, like that of Urbino, was a model of good manners. Asbecame a soldier, he was temperate in food and moderate in slumber. Itwas recorded of him that he had never sat more than one hour at meatin his own house, and that he never overslept the sunrise. Afterdinner he would converse with his friends, using commonly his nativedialect of Bergamo, and entertaining the company now with stories ofadventure, and now with pithy sayings. In another essential point heresembled his illustrious contemporary, the Duke of Urbino; for he wassincerely pious in an age which, however it preserved the decenciesof ceremonial religion, was profoundly corrupt at heart. His principallordships in the Bergamasque territory owed to his munificence theirfairest churches and charitable institutions. At Martinengo, forexample, he rebuilt and re-endowed two monasteries, the one dedicatedto S. Chiara, the other to S. Francis. In Bergamo itself he founded anestablishment named' La Pieta, ' for the good purpose of dowering andmarrying poor girls. This house he endowed with a yearly income of3000 ducats. The Sulphur baths of Trescorio, at some distance from thecity, were improved and opened to poor patients by a hospital whichhe provided. At Rumano he raised a church to S. Peter, and erectedbuildings of public utility, which on his death he bequeathed tothe society of the Misericordia in that town. All the places of hisjurisdiction owed to him such benefits as good water, new walls, andirrigation works. In addition to these munificent foundations mustbe mentioned the Basella, or Monastery of Dominican friars, which heestablished not far from Bergamo, upon the river Serio, in memory ofhis beloved daughter Medea. Last, not least, was the Chapel of S. Johnthe Baptist, attached to the Church of S. Maria Maggiore, which heendowed with fitting maintenance for two priests and deacons. 

The one defect acknowledged by his biographer was his partialityfor women. Early in life he married Tisbe, of the noble house of theBrescian Martinenghi, who bore him one daughter, Caterina, wedded toGasparre Martinengo. Two illegitimate daughters, Ursina and Isotta, were recognised and treated by him as legitimate. The first he gave inmarriage to Gherardo Martinengo, and the second to Jacopo of thesame family. Two other natural children, Doratina and Ricardona, werementioned in his will: he left them four thousand ducats a piece fordowry. Medea, the child of his old age (for she was born to him whenhe was sixty), died before her father, and was buried, as we haveseen, in the Chapel of Basella. 

Throughout his life he was distinguished for great physical strengthand agility. When he first joined the troop of Braccio, he could race, with his corselet on, against the swiftest runner of the army; andwhen he was stripped, few horses could beat him in speed. Far on intoold age he was in the habit of taking long walks every morning for thesake of exercise, and delighted in feats of arms and jousting matches. 'He was tall, straight, and full of flesh, well proportioned, andexcellently made in all his limbs. His complexion inclined somewhat tobrown, but was coloured with sanguine and lively carnation. His eyeswere black; in look and sharpness of light, they were vivid, piercing, and terrible. The outlines of his nose and all his countenanceexpressed a certain manly nobleness, combined with goodness andprudence. ' Such is the portrait drawn of Colleoni by his biographer;and it well accords with the famous bronze statue of the general atVenice. 

Colleoni lived with a magnificence that suited his rank. His favouriteplace of abode was Malpaga, a castle built by him at the distance ofabout an hour's drive from Bergamo. The place is worth a visit, thoughits courts and gates and galleries have now been turned into a monsterfarm, and the southern rooms, where Colleoni entertained his guests, are given over to the silkworms. Half a dozen families, employed upona vast estate of the Martinengo family, occupy the still substantialhouse and stables. The moat is planted with mulberry-trees; the upperrooms are used as granaries for golden maize; cows, pigs, and horseslitter in the spacious yard. Yet the walls of the inner court and ofthe ancient state rooms are brilliant with frescoes, executed by somegood Venetian hand, which represent the chief events of Colleoni'slife--his battles, his reception by the Signory of Venice, his tournaments and hawking parties, and the great series ofentertainments with which he welcomed Christiern of Denmark. This kinghad made his pilgrimage to Rome and was returning westward, when thefame of Colleoni and his princely state at Malpaga induced him to turnaside and spend some days as the general's guest. In order to dohim honour, Colleoni left his castle at the king's disposal andestablished himself with all his staff and servants in a camp at somedistance from Malpaga. The camp was duly furnished with tents andtrenches, stockades, artillery, and all the other furniture of war. Onthe king's approach, Colleoni issued with trumpets blowing and bannersflying to greet his guest, gratifying him thus with a spectacle of thepomp and circumstance of war as carried on in Italy. The visitwas further enlivened by sham fights, feats of arms, and trials ofstrength. When it ended, Colleoni presented the king with one ofhis own suits of armour, and gave to each of his servants a completelivery of red and white, his colours. Among the frescoes at Malpaganone are more interesting, and none, thanks to the silkworms ratherthan to any other cause, are fortunately in a better state ofpreservation, than those which represent this episode in the historyof the Castle. 

Colleoni died in the year 1475, at the age of seventy-five. Since heleft no male representative, he constituted the Republic of S. Markhis heir-in-chief, after properly providing for his daughters and hisnumerous foundations. The Venetians received under this testament asum of 100, 000 ducats, together with all arrears of pay due to him, and 10, 000 ducats owed him by the Duke of Ferrara. It set forth thetestator's intention that this money should be employed in defence ofthe Christian faith against the Turk. One condition was attached tothe bequest. The legatees were to erect a statue to Colleoni on thePiazza of S. Mark. This, however, involved some difficulty; for theproud Republic had never accorded a similar honour, nor did theychoose to encumber their splendid square with a monument. They evadedthe condition by assigning the Campo in front of the Scuola di S. Marco, where also stands the Church of S. Zanipolo, to the purpose. Here accordingly the finest bronze equestrian statue in Italy, if weexcept the Marcus Aurelius of the Capitol, was reared upon its marblepedestal by Andrea Verocchio and Alessandro Leopardi. 

Colleoni's liberal expenditure of wealth found its reward in theimmortality conferred by art. While the names of Braccio, his masterin the art of war, and of Piccinino, his great adversary, are familiarto few but professed students, no one who has visited either Bergamoor Venice can fail to have learned something about the founder of theChapel of S. John and the original of Leopardi's bronze. The annalsof sculpture assign to Verocchio, of Florence, the principal share inthis statue: but Verocchio died before it was cast; and even grantingthat he designed the model, its execution must be attributed to hiscollaborator, the Venetian Leopardi. For my own part, I am loth toadmit that the chief credit of this masterpiece belongs to a man whoseundisputed work at Florence shows but little of its living spirit andsplendour of suggested motion. That the Tuscan science of Verocchiosecured conscientious modelling for man and horse may be assumed; butI am fain to believe that the concentrated fire which animates themboth is due in no small measure to the handling of his northernfellow-craftsman. 

While immersed in the dreary records of crimes, treasons, cruelties, and base ambitions, which constitute the bulk of fifteenth-centuryItalian history, it is refreshing to meet with a character so frankand manly, so simply pious and comparatively free from stain, asColleoni. The only general of his day who can bear comparison withhim for purity of public life and decency in conduct, was Federigo diMontefeltro. Even here, the comparison redounds to Colleoni's credit;for he, unlike the Duke of Urbino, rose to eminence by his ownexertion in a profession fraught with peril to men of ambition andenergy. Federigo started with a principality sufficient to satisfyhis just desires for power. Nothing but his own sense of right andprudence restrained Colleoni upon the path which brought FrancescoSforza to a duchy by dishonourable dealings, and Carmagnola to thescaffold by questionable practice against his masters. 

 * * * * *

_CREMA AND THE CRUCIFIX_

Few people visit Crema. It is a little country town of Lombardy, between Cremona and Treviglio, with no historic memories but verymisty ones belonging to the days of the Visconti dynasty. On everyside around the city walls stretch smiling vineyards and rich meadows, where the elms are married to the mulberry-trees by long festoons offoliage hiding purple grapes, where the sunflowers droop their heavygolden heads among tall stems of millet and gigantic maize, and hereand there a rice-crop ripens in the marshy loam. In vintage timethe carts, drawn by their white oxen, come creaking townward inthe evening, laden with blue bunches. Down the long straight roads, between rows of poplars, they creep on; and on the shafts beneaththe pyramid of fruit lie contadini stained with lees of wine. Far offacross that 'waveless sea' of Lombardy, which has been the battlefieldof countless generations, rise the dim grey Alps, or else pearleddomes of thunder-clouds in gleaming masses over some tall solitarytower. Such backgrounds, full of peace, suggestive of almost infinitedistance, and dignified with colours of incomparable depth andbreadth, the Venetian painters loved. No landscape in Europe is morewonderful than this--thrice wonderful in the vastness of its archingheavens, in the stillness of its level plain, and in the bulwark ofhuge crested mountains, reared afar like bastions against the northernsky. The little town is all alive in this September weather. At everycorner of the street, under rustling abeles and thick-foliaged planes, at the doors of palaces and in the yards of inns, men, naked from thethighs downward, are treading the red must into vats and tuns; whiletheir mild-eyed oxen lie beneath them in the road, peaceably chewingthe cud between one journey to the vineyard and another. It must notbe imagined that the scene of Alma Tadema's 'Roman Vintage, ' or whatwe fondly picture to our fancy of the Athenian Lenaea, is repeated inthe streets of Crema. This modern treading of the wine-press is avery prosaic affair. The town reeks with a sour smell of old casks andcrushed grape-skins, and the men and women at work bear no resemblancewhatever to Bacchus and his crew. Yet even as it is, the Lombardvintage, beneath floods of sunlight and a pure blue sky, is beautiful;and he who would fain make acquaintance with Crema, should time hisentry into the old town, if possible, on some still golden afternoonof autumn. It is then, if ever, that he will learn to love the glowingbrickwork of its churches and the quaint terra-cotta traceries thatform its chief artistic charm. 

How the unique brick architecture of the Lombard cities took itsorigin--whether from the precepts of Byzantine aliens in the earliestmiddle ages, or from the native instincts of a mixed race composed ofGallic, Ligurian, Roman, and Teutonic elements, under the leadershipof Longobardic rulers--is a question for antiquarians to decide. There can, however, be no doubt that the monuments of the Lombardstyle, as they now exist, are no less genuinely local, no lesscharacteristic of the country they adorn, no less indigenous to thesoil they sprang from, than the Attic colonnades of Mnesicles andIctinus. What the marble quarries of Pentelicus were to the Athenianbuilders, the clay beneath their feet was to those Lombard craftsmen. From it they fashioned structures as enduring, towers as majestic, andcathedral aisles as solemn, as were ever wrought from chiselled stone. There is a true sympathy between those buildings and the Lombardlandscape, which by itself might suffice to prove the originalityof their almost unknown architects. The rich colour of the bakedclay--finely modulated from a purplish red, through russet, crimson, pink, and orange, to pale yellow and dull grey--harmonises with thebrilliant greenery of Lombard vegetation and with the deep azureof the distant Alpine range. Reared aloft above the flat expanse ofplain, those square _torroni_, tapering into octagons andcrowned with slender cones, break the long sweeping lines andinfinite horizons with a contrast that affords relief, and yields aresting-place to tired eyes; while, far away, seen haply from somebridge above Ticino, or some high-built palace loggia, they gleam likecolumns of pale rosy fire against the front of mustering storm-cloudsblue with rain. In that happy orchard of Italy, a pergola of vinesin leaf, a clump of green acacias, and a campanile soaring above itschurch roof, brought into chance combination with the reaches of theplain and the dim mountain range, make up a picture eloquent in itssuggestive beauty. 

Those ancient builders wrought cunningly with their material. Thebricks are fashioned and fixed to last for all time. Exposed to theicy winds of a Lombard winter, to the fierce fire of a Lombard summer, and to the moist vapours of a Lombard autumn; neglected by unheedinggenerations; with flowers clustering in their crannies, and birdsnesting in their eaves, and mason-bees filling the delicate network oftheir traceries--they still present angles as sharp as when they werebut finished, and joints as nice as when the mortar dried in the firstmonths of their building. This immunity from age and injury they owepartly to the imperishable nature of baked clay; partly to the care ofthe artists who selected and mingled the right sorts of earth, burnedthem with scrupulous attention, and fitted them together with apatience born of loving service. Each member of the edifice wasdesigned with a view to its ultimate place. The proper curve wasascertained for cylindrical columns and for rounded arches. Largerbricks were moulded for the supporting walls, and lesser pieces wereadapted to the airy vaults and lanterns. In the brickfield and thekiln the whole church was planned and wrought out in its details, before the hands that made a unity of all these scattered elementswere set to the work of raising it in air. When they came to put thepuzzle together, they laid each brick against its neighbour, fillingup the almost imperceptible interstices with liquid cement composedof quicklime and fine sand in water. After five centuries the seamsbetween the layers of bricks that make the bell-tower of S. Gottardoat Milan, yield no point of vantage to the penknife or the chisel. 

Nor was it in their welding of the bricks alone that these craftsmenshowed their science. They were wont to enrich the surface withmarble, sparingly but effectively employed--as in those slenderdetached columns, which add such beauty to the octagon of S. Gottardo, or in the string-courses of strange beasts and reptiles that adorn thechurch fronts of Pavia. They called to their aid the _mandorlato_of Verona, supporting their porch pillars on the backs of couchantlions, inserting polished slabs on their façades, and building hugesarcophagi into their cloister alleys. Between terra-cotta and thismarble of Verona there exists a deep and delicate affinity. It tookthe name of _mandorlato_, I suppose, from a resemblance to almondblossoms. But it is far from having the simple beauty of a single hue. Like all noble veined stones, it passes by a series of modulations andgradations through a gamut of associated rather than contrasted tints. Not the pink of the almond blossom only, but the creamy whiteness ofthe almond kernel, and the dull yellow of the almond nut may be foundin it; and yet these colours are so blent and blurred to all-pervadingmellowness, that nowhere is there any shock of contrast or violence ofa preponderating tone. The veins which run in labyrinths of crossing, curving, and contorted lines all over its smooth surface add, nodoubt, to this effect of unity. The polish, lastly, which it takes, makes the _mandorlato_ shine like a smile upon the sober faceof the brickwork: for, serviceable as terra-cotta is for nearly allartistic purposes, it cannot reflect light or gain the illuminationwhich comes from surface brightness. 

What the clay can do almost better than any crystalline material, maybe seen in the mouldings so characteristic of Lombard architecture. Geometrical patterns of the rarest and most fanciful device; scrollsof acanthus foliage, and traceries of tendrils; Cupids swinging infestoons of vines; angels joining hands in dance, with flutteringskirts and windy hair, and mouths that symbol singing; grave faces ofold men and beautiful profiles of maidens leaning from medallions;wide-winged genii filling the spandrils of cloister arches, andcherubs clustered in the rondure of rose-windows--ornaments likethese, wrought from the plastic clay, and adapted with true taste tothe requirements of the architecture, are familiar to every one whohas studied the church front of Crema, the cloisters of the Certosa, the courts of the Ospedale Maggiore at Milan, or the public palace ofCremona. 

If the _mandorlato_ gives a smile to those majestic Lombardbuildings, the terra-cotta decorations add the element of lifeand movement. The thought of the artist in its first freshnessand vivacity is felt in them. They have all the spontaneity ofimprovisation, the seductive melody of unpremeditated music. Moulding the supple earth with 'hand obedient to the brain, ' the_plasticatore_ has impressed his most fugitive dreams of beautyon it without effort; and what it cost him but a few fatiguelesshours to fashion, the steady heat of the furnace has gifted withimperishable life. Such work, no doubt, has the defects of itsqualities. As there are few difficulties to overcome, it suffersfrom a fatal facility--_nec pluteum coedit nec demorsos sapitungues_. It is therefore apt to be unequal, touching at times thehighest point of inspiration, as in the angels of Guccio at Perugia, and sinking not unfrequently into the commonplace of easygoingtriviality, as in the common floral traceries of Milanese windows. But it is never laboured, never pedantic, never dulled by the painfuleffort to subdue an obstinate material to the artist's will. If marbleis required to develop the strength of the few supreme sculptors, terra-cotta saves intact the fancies of a crowd of lesser men. 

When we reflect that all the force, solemnity, and beauty of theLombard buildings was evoked from clay, we learn from them thislesson: that the thought of man needs neither precious material noryet stubborn substance for the production of enduring masterpieces. The red earth was enough for God when He made man in His own image;and mud dried in the sun suffices for the artist, who is next to Godin his creative faculty--since _non merita nome di creatore senon Iddio ed il poeta_. After all, what is more everlasting thanterra-cotta? The hobnails of the boys who ran across the brickfieldsin the Roman town of Silchester, may still be seen, mingled withthe impress of the feet of dogs and hoofs of goats, in the tilesdiscovered there. Such traces might serve as a metaphor for thefootfall of artistic genius, when the form-giver has stamped histhought upon the moist clay, and fire has made that imprint permanent. 

Of all these Lombard edifices, none is more beautiful than theCathedral of Crema, with its delicately finished campanile, builtof choicely tinted yellow bricks, and ending in a lantern of thegracefullest, most airily capricious fancy. This bell-tower does notdisplay the gigantic force of Cremona's famous torrazzo, shooting396 feet into blue ether from the city square; nor can it rival theoctagon of S. Gottardo for warmth of hue. Yet it has a character ofelegance, combined with boldness of invention, that justifies thecitizens of Crema in their pride. It is unique; and he who has notseen it does not know the whole resources of the Lombard style. Thefaçade of the Cathedral displays that peculiar blending of Byzantineor Romanesque round arches with Gothic details in the windows, and with the acute angle of the central pitch, which forms thecharacteristic quality of the late _trecento_ Lombard manner. Inits combination of purity and richness it corresponds to the best ageof decorated work in English Gothic. What, however, strikes a Northernobserver is the strange detachment of this elaborate façade from themain structure of the church. Like a frontispiece cut out of cardboardand pierced with ornamental openings, it shoots far above the lowroof of the nave; so that at night the moon, rising above the southernaisle, shines through its topmost window, and casts the shadow ofits tracery upon the pavement of the square. This is a constructiveblemish to which the Italians in no part of the peninsula weresensitive. They seem to have regarded their church fronts asindependent of the edifice, capable of separate treatment, and worthyin themselves of being made the subject of decorative skill. 

In the so-called Santuario of Crema--a circular church dedicated toS. Maria della Croce, outside the walls--the Lombard style has beenadapted to the manner of the Mid-Renaissance. This church was raisedin the last years of the fifteenth century by Gian Battista Battagli, an architect of Lodi, who followed the pure rules of taste, bequeathedto North Italian builders by Bramante. The beauty of the edificeis due entirely to its tranquil dignity and harmony of parts, thelightness of its circling loggia, and the just proportion maintainedbetween the central structure and the four projecting porticoes. Thesharp angles of these vestibules afford a contrast to the simplicityof the main building, while their clustered cupolas assist the generaleffect of roundness aimed at by the architect. Such a church asthis proves how much may be achieved by the happy distribution ofarchitectural masses. It was the triumph of the best Renaissance styleto attain lucidity of treatment, and to produce beauty by geometricalproportion. When Leo Battista Alberti complained to his friend, Matteodi Bastia, that a slight alteration of the curves in his design forS. Francesco at Rimini would 'spoil his music, ' _ciò che tu mutidiscorda tutta quella musica_, this is what he meant. The melodyof lines and the harmony of parts made a symphony to his eyes no lessagreeable than a concert of tuned lutes and voices to his ears; and tothis concord he was so sensitive that any deviation was a discord. 

After visiting the churches of Crema and sauntering about the streetsawhile, there is nothing left to do but to take refuge in the oldAlbergo del Pozzo. This is one of those queer Italian inns, whichcarry you away at once into a scene of Goldoni. It is part of somepalace, where nobles housed their _bravi_ in the sixteenthcentury, and which the lesser people of to-day have turned into adozen habitations. Its great stone staircase leads to a saloon uponwhich the various bedchambers open; and round its courtyard runs anopen balcony, and from the court grows up a fig-tree poking ripe fruitagainst a bedroom window. Oleanders in tubs and red salvias in pots, and kitchen herbs in boxes, flourish on the pavement, where the ostlercomes to wash his carriages, and where the barber shaves the poodle ofthe house. Visitors to the Albergo del Pozzo are invariably asked ifthey have seen the Museo; and when they answer in the negative, theyare conducted with some ceremony to a large room on the ground-floorof the inn, looking out upon the courtyard and the fig-tree. It washere that I gained the acquaintance of Signor Folcioni, and becamepossessor of an object that has made the memory of Crema doublyinteresting to me ever since. 

When we entered the Museo, we found a little old man, gentle, grave, and unobtrusive, varnishing the ugly portrait of some Signor of the_cinquecento_. Round the walls hung pictures, of mediocre value, in dingy frames; but all of them bore sounding titles. Titians, Lionardos, Guido Renis, and Luinis, looked down and waited for apurchaser. In truth this museum was a _bric-à-brac_ shop of asort that is common enough in Italy, where treasures of old lace, glass, armour, furniture, and tapestry, may still be met with. SignorFolcioni began by pointing out the merits of his pictures; and aftermaking due allowance for his zeal as amateur and dealer, it waspossible to join in some of his eulogiums. A would-be Titian, forinstance, bought in Verona from a noble house in ruins, showedVenetian wealth of colour in its gemmy greens and lucid crimsonsshining from a background deep and glowing. Then he led us to awalnut-wood bureau of late Renaissance work, profusely carved withnymphs and Cupids, and armed men, among festoons of fruits embossedin high relief. Deeply drilled worm-holes set a seal of antiquity uponthe blooming faces and luxuriant garlandslike the touch of Time who'delves the parallels in beauty's brow. ' On the shelves of an ebonycabinet close by he showed us a row of cups cut out of rock-crystaland mounted in gilt silver, with heaps of engraved gems, oldsnuff-boxes, coins, medals, sprays of coral, and all the indescribablelumber that one age flings aside as worthless for the next to pickup from the dust-heap and regard as precious. Surely the genius ofculture in our century might be compared to a chiffonnier of Paris, who, when the night has fallen, goes into the streets, bag on backand lantern in hand, to rake up the waifs and strays a day of whirlinglife has left him. 

The next curiosity was an ivory carving of S. Anthony preaching to thefishes, so fine and small you held it on your palm, and used a lensto look at it. Yet there stood the Santo gesticulating, and therewere the fishes in rows--the little fishes first, and then themiddle-sized, and last of all the great big fishes almost out at sea, with their heads above the water and their mouths wide open, just asthe _Fioretti di San Francesco_ describes them. After thiscame some original drawings of doubtful interest, and then a case offifty-two _nielli_. These were of unquestionable value; for hasnot Cicognara engraved them on a page of his classic monograph?The thin silver plates, over which once passed the burin of MasoFiniguerra, cutting lines finer than hairs, and setting here a shadowin dull acid-eaten grey, and there a high light of exquisite polish, were far more delicate than any proofs impressed from them. Thesefrail masterpieces of Florentine art--the first beginnings of lineengraving--we held in our hands while Signor Folcioni read outCicognara's commentary in a slow impressive voice, breaking off nowand then to point at the originals before us. 

The sun had set, and the room was almost dark, when he laid his bookdown, and said: 'I have not much left to show--yet stay! Here arestill some little things of interest. ' He then opened the doorinto his bedroom, and took down from a nail above his bed awooden Crucifix. Few things have fascinated me more than thisCrucifix--produced without parade, half negligently, from the dregs ofhis collection by a dealer in old curiosities at Crema. The cross was, or is--for it is lying on the table now before me--twenty-one inchesin length, made of strong wood, covered with coarse yellow parchment, and shod at the four ends with brass. The Christ is roughly hewn inreddish wood, coloured scarlet, where the blood streams from the fivewounds. Over the head an oval medallion, nailed into the cross, servesas framework to a miniature of the Madonna, softly smiling with aCorreggiesque simper. The whole Crucifix is not a work of art, butsuch as may be found in every convent. Its date cannot be earlier thanthe beginning of the eighteenth century. As I held it in my hand, Ithought--perhaps this has been carried to the bedside of the sickand dying; preachers have brandished it from the pulpit overconscience-stricken congregations; monks have knelt before it on thebrick floor of their cells, and novices have kissed it in the vaindesire to drown their yearnings after the relinquished world; perhapsit has attended criminals to the scaffold, and heard the secretsof repentant murderers; but why should it be shown me as a thing ofrarity? These thoughts passed through my mind, while Signor Folcioniquietly remarked: 'I bought this Cross from the Frati when theirconvent was dissolved in Crema. ' Then he bade me turn it round, andshowed a little steel knob fixed into the back between the arms. Thiswas a spring. He pressed it, and the upper and lower parts of thecross came asunder; and holding the top like a handle, I drew out asfrom a scabbard a sharp steel blade, concealed in the thickness of thewood, behind the very body of the agonising Christ. What had been acrucifix became a deadly poniard in my grasp, and the rust upon it inthe twilight looked like blood. 'I have often wondered, ' said SignorFolcioni, 'that the Frati cared to sell me this. '

There is no need to raise the question of the genuineness of thisstrange relic, though I confess to having had my doubts about it, or to wonder for what nefarious purposes the impious weapon wasdesigned--whether the blade was inserted by some rascal monk who nevertold the tale, or whether it was used on secret service by thefriars. On its surface the infernal engine carries a dark certainty oftreason, sacrilege, and violence. Yet it would be wrong to incriminatethe Order of S. Francis by any suspicion, and idle to seek the actualhistory of this mysterious weapon. A writer of fiction could indeedproduce some dark tale in the style of De Stendhal's 'Nouvelles, ' andchristen it 'The Crucifix of Crema. ' And how delighted would Websterhave been if he had chanced to hear of such a sword-sheath! He mighthave placed it in the hands of Bosola for the keener torment of hisDuchess. Flamineo might have used it; or the disguised friars, whomade the deathbed of Bracciano hideous, might have plunged it in theDuke's heart after mocking his eyes with the figure of the sufferingChrist. To imagine such an instrument of moral terror mingled withmaterial violence, lay within the scope of Webster's sinister andpowerful genius. But unless he had seen it with his eyes, what poetwould have ventured to devise the thing and display it even in thedumb show of a tragedy? Fact is more wonderful than romance. Noapocalypse of Antichrist matches what is told of Roderigo Borgia; andthe crucifix of Crema exceeds the sombre fantasy of Webster. 

Whatever may be the truth about this cross, it has at any rate thevalue of a symbol or a metaphor. The idea which it materialises, thehistorical events of which it is a sign, may well arrest attention. Asword concealed in the crucifix--what emblem brings more forciblyto mind than this that two-edged glaive of persecution which Dominicunsheathed to mow down the populations of Provence and to make Spaindestitute of men? Looking upon the crucifix of Crema, we may seemto see pestilence-stricken multitudes of Moors and Jews dying on thecoasts of Africa and Italy. The Spaniards enter Mexico; and this isthe cross they carry in their hands. They take possession of Peru; andwhile the gentle people of the Incas come to kiss the bleeding browsof Christ, they plunge this dagger in their sides. What, again, wasthe temporal power of the Papacy but a sword embedded in a cross?Each Papa Rè, when he ascended the Holy Chair, was forced to take thecrucifix of Crema and to bear it till his death. A long procession ofwar-loving Pontiffs, levying armies and paying captains with the penceof S. Peter, in order to keep by arms the lands they had acquired byfraud, defiles before our eyes. First goes the terrible Sixtus IV. , who died of grief when news was brought him that the Italian princeshad made peace. He it was who sanctioned the conspiracy to murderthe Medici in church, at the moment of the elevation of the Host. The brigands hired to do this work refused at the last moment. Thesacrilege appalled them. 'Then, ' says the chronicler, 'was found apriest, who, being used to churches, had no scruple. ' The poignardthis priest carried was this crucifix of Crema. After Sixtus came theblood-stained Borgia; and after him Julius II. , whom the Romansin triumphal songs proclaimed a second Mars, and who turned, asMichelangelo expressed it, the chalices of Rome into swords and helms. Leo X. , who dismembered Italy for his brother and nephew; and ClementVII. , who broke the neck of Florence and delivered the Eternal City tothe spoiler, follow. Of the antinomy between the Vicariate of Christand an earthly kingdom, incarnated by these and other Holy Fathers, what symbol could be found more fitting than a dagger with a crucifixfor case and covering?

It is not easy to think or write of these matters without rhetoric. When I laid my head upon my pillow that night in the Albergo del Pozzoat Crema, it was full of such thoughts; and when at last sleep came, it brought with it a dream begotten doubtless by the perturbation ofmy fancy. For I thought that a brown Franciscan, with hollow cheeks, and eyes aflame beneath his heavy cowl, sat by my bedside, and, as heraised the crucifix in his lean quivering hands, whispered a tale ofdeadly passion and of dastardly revenge. His confession carried meaway to a convent garden of Palermo; and there was love in the story, and hate that is stronger than love, and, for the ending of the wholematter, remorse which dies not even in the grave. Each new possessorof the crucifix of Crema, he told me, was forced to hear from him indreams his dreadful history. But, since it was a dream and nothingmore, why should I repeat it? I have wandered far enough alreadyfrom the vintage and the sunny churches of the little Lombard town. 

 * * * * *

_CHERUBINO AT THE SCALA THEATRE_

I

It was a gala night. The opera-house of Milan was one blaze of lightand colour. Royalty in field-marshal's uniform and diamonds, attendedby decorated generals and radiant ladies of the court, occupied thegreat box opposite the stage. The tiers from pit to gallery werefilled with brilliantly dressed women. From the third row, where wewere fortunately placed, the curves of that most beautiful of theatrespresented to my gaze a series of retreating and approaching lines, composed of noble faces, waving feathers, sparkling jewels, sculpturedshoulders, uniforms, robes of costly stuffs and every conceivablebright colour. Light poured from the huge lustre in the centre of theroof, ran along the crimson velvet cushions of the boxes, and flashedupon the gilded frame of the proscenium--satyrs and acanthus scrollscarved in the manner of a century ago. Pit and orchestra scarcelycontained the crowd of men who stood in lively conversation, theirbacks turned to the stage, their lorgnettes raised from time to timeto sweep the boxes. This surging sea of faces and sober costumesenhanced by contrast the glitter, variety, and luminous tranquillityof the theatre above it. 

No one took much thought of the coming spectacle, till the conductor'srap was heard upon his desk, and the orchestra broke into the overtureto Mozart's _Nozze_. Before they were half through, it was clearthat we should not enjoy that evening the delight of perfect musicadded to the enchantment of so brilliant a scene. The execution of theoverture was not exactly bad. But it lacked absolute precision, thecomplete subordination of all details to the whole. In renderingGerman music Italians often fail through want of discipline, orthrough imperfect sympathy with a style they will not take the painsto master. Nor, when the curtain lifted and the play began, was thevocalisation found in all parts satisfactory. The Contessa had ameagre _mezza voce_. Susanna, though she did not sing false, hovered on the verge of discords, owing to the weakness of an organwhich had to be strained in order to make any effect on that enormousstage. On the other hand, the part of Almaviva was played withdramatic fire, and Figaro showed a truly Southern sense of comicfun. The scenes were splendidly mounted, and something of a princelygrandeur--the largeness of a noble train of life--was added to thedrama by the vast proportions of the theatre. It was a performancewhich, in spite of drawbacks, yielded pleasure. 

And yet it might have left me frigid but for the artist who playedCherubino. This was no other than Pauline Lucca, in the prime of youthand petulance. From her first appearance to the last note she sang, she occupied the stage. The opera seemed to have been written for her. The mediocrity of the troupe threw her commanding merits--the richnessof her voice, the purity of her intonation, her vivid conception ofcharacter, her indescribable brusquerie of movement and emotion--intothat relief which a sapphire gains from a setting of pearls. I can seeher now, after the lapse of nearly twenty years, as she stood theresinging in blue doublet and white mantle, with the slouched Spanishhat and plume of ostrich feathers, a tiny rapier at her side, and bluerosettes upon her white silk shoes! The _Nozze di Figaro_ wasfollowed by a Ballo. This had for its theme the favourite legend ofa female devil sent from the infernal regions to ruin a young man. Instead of performing the part assigned her, Satanella falls in lovewith the hero, sacrifices herself, and is claimed at last by thepowers of goodness. _Quia multum amavit_, her lost soul is saved. If the opera left much to be desired, the Ballo was perfection. Thatvast stage of the Scala Theatre had almost overwhelmed the actorsof the play. Now, thrown open to its inmost depths, crowded withglittering moving figures, it became a fairyland of fantasticloveliness. Italians possess the art of interpreting a seriousdramatic action by pantomime. A Ballo with them is no mere affair ofdancing--fine dresses, evolutions performed by brigades of pink-leggedwomen with a fixed smile on their faces. It takes the rank of highexpressive art. And the motive of this Ballo was consistently workedout in an intelligible sequence of well-ordered scenes. To moraliseupon its meaning would be out of place. It had a conflict of passions, a rhythmical progression of emotions, a tragic climax in the triumphof good over evil. 

II

At the end of the performance there were five persons in our box--thebeautiful Miranda, and her husband, a celebrated English man ofletters; a German professor of biology; a young Milanese gentleman, whom we called Edoardo; and myself. Edoardo and the professor hadjoined us just before the ballet. I had occupied a seat behind Mirandaand my friend the critic from the commencement. We had indeed dinedtogether first at their hotel, the Rebecchino; and they now proposedthat we should all adjourn together there on foot for supper. From theScala Theatre to the Rebecchino is a walk of some three minutes. 

When we were seated at the supper-table and had talked some while uponindifferent topics, the enthusiasm roused in me by Pauline Lucca burstout. I broke a moment's silence by exclaiming, 'What a wonder-worldmusic creates! I have lived this evening in a sphere of intellectualenjoyment raised to rapture. I never lived so fast before!' 'Doyou really think so?' said Miranda. She had just finished a_beccafico_, and seemed disposed for conversation. 'Do you reallythink so? For my part, music is in a wholly different region fromexperience, thought, or feeling. What does it communicate to you?' Andshe hummed to herself the _motif_ of Cherubino's 'Non so piùcosa son cosa faccio. '--'What does it teach me?' I broke in upon themelody. 'Why, to-night, when I heard the music, and saw her there, andfelt the movement of the play, it seemed to me that a new existencewas revealed. For the first time I understood what love might be inone most richly gifted for emotion. ' Miranda bent her eyes on thetable-cloth and played with her wineglass. 'I don't follow you at all. I enjoyed myself to-night. The opera, indeed, might have been betterrendered. The ballet, I admit, was splendid. But when I remember themusic--even the best of it--even Pauline Lucca's part'--here shelooked up, and shot me a quick glance across the table--'I have meremusic in my ears. Nothing more. Mere music!' The professor ofbiology, who was gifted with, a sense of music and had studied itscientifically, had now crunched his last leaf of salad. Wiping hislips with his napkin, he joined our _tête-à-tête_. 'Graciousmadam, I agree with you. He who seeks from music more than musicgives, is on the quest--how shall I put it?--of the Holy Grail. ' 'Andwhat, ' I struck in, 'is this minimum or maximum that music gives?''Dear young friend, ' replied the professor, 'music gives melodies, harmonies, the many beautiful forms to which sound shall be fashioned. Just as in the case of shells and fossils, lovely in themselves, interesting for their history and classification, so is it withmusic. You must not seek an intellectual meaning. No; there is no_Inhalt_ in music' And he hummed contentedly the air of 'Voiche sapete. ' While he was humming, Miranda whispered to me across thetable, 'Separate the Lucca from the music. ' 'But, ' I answered ratherhotly, for I was nettled by Miranda's argument _ad hominem_, 'Butit is not possible in an opera to divide the music from the words, thescenery, the play, the actor. Mozart, when he wrote the score to DaPonte's libretto, was excited to production by the situations. He didnot conceive his melodies out of connection with a certain cast ofcharacters, a given ethical environment. ' 'I do not know, my dearyoung friend, ' responded the professor, 'whether you have readMozart's Life and letters. It is clearly shown in them how he composedairs at times and seasons when he had no words to deal with. These heafterwards used as occasion served. Whence I conclude that music wasfor him a free and lovely play of tone. The words of our excellentDa Ponte were a scaffolding to introduce his musical creations to thepublic. But without that carpenter's work, the melodies of Cherubinoare _Selbst-ständig_, sufficient in themselves to vindicate theirplace in art. Do I interpret your meaning, gracious lady?' This hesaid bending to Miranda. 'Yes, ' she replied. But she still played withher wineglass, and did not look as though she were quite satisfied. I meanwhile continued: 'Of course I have read Mozart's Life, and knowhow he went to work. But Mozart was a man of feeling, of experience, of ardent passions. How can you prove to me that the melodies he gaveto Cherubino had not been evolved from situations similar to thosein which Cherubino finds himself? How can you prove he did not feela natural appropriateness in the _motifs_ he selected from hismemory for Cherubino? How can you be certain that the part itself didnot stimulate his musical faculty to fresh and still more appropriatecreativeness? And if we must fall back on documents, do you rememberwhat he said himself about the love-music in _Die Entführung?_ Ithink he tells us that he meant it to express his own feeling for thewoman who had just become his wife. ' Miranda looked up as though shewere almost half-persuaded. Yet she hummed again 'Non so più, ' thensaid to herself, 'Yes, it is wiser to believe with the professor thatthese are sequences of sounds, and nothing more. ' Then she sighed. Inthe pause which followed, her husband, the famous critic, filled hisglass, stretched his legs out, and began: 'You have embarked, I see, upon the ocean of æsthetics. For my part, to-night I was thinkinghow much better fitted for the stage Beaumarchais' play was than thismusical mongrel--this operatic adaptation. The wit, observe, is lost. And Cherubino--that sparkling little _enfant terrible_--becomes asentimental fellow--a something I don't know what--between a girl anda boy--a medley of romance and impudence--anyhow a being quite unlikethe sharply outlined playwright's page. I confess I am not a musician;the drama is my business, and I judge things by their fitness forthe stage. My wife agrees with me to differ. She likes music, I likeplays. To-night she was better pleased than I was; for she got goodmusic tolerably well rendered, while I got nothing but a mangledcomedy. '

We bore the critic's monologue with patience. But once again thespirit, seeking after something which neither Miranda, nor herhusband, nor the professor could be got to recognise, moved within me. I cried out at a venture, 'People who go to an opera must forgetmusic pure and simple, must forget the drama pure and simple. Youmust welcome a third species of art, in which the play, the music, thesingers with their voices, the orchestra with its instruments--PaulineLucca, if you like, with her fascination' (and here I shot aside-glance at Miranda), 'are so blent as to create a world beyond thescope of poetry or music or acting taken by themselves. I give Mozartcredit for having had insight into this new world, for having broughtit near to us. And I hold that every fresh representation of his workis a fresh revelation of its possibilities. '

To this the critic answered, 'You now seem to me to be confounding thelimits of the several arts. ' 'What!' I continued, 'is the drama butemotion presented in its most external forms as action? And what ismusic but emotion, in its most genuine essence, expressed by sound?Where then can a more complete artistic harmony be found than in theopera?'

'The opera, ' replied our host, 'is a hybrid. You will probably learnto dislike artistic hybrids, if you have the taste and sense I giveyou credit for. My own opinion has been already expressed. In the_Nozze_, Beaumarchais' _Mariage de Figaro_ is simply spoiled. Myfriend the professor declares Mozart's music to be sufficient byitself, and the libretto to be a sort of machinery for its display. Miranda, I think, agrees with him. You plead eloquently for thehybrid. You have a right to your own view. These things are matters, in the final resort, of individual taste rather than of demonstrableprinciples. But I repeat that you are very young. ' The critic drainedhis Lambrusco, and smiled at me. 

'Yes, he is young, ' added Miranda. 'He must learn to distinguishbetween music, his own imagination, and a pretty woman. At present hemixes them all up together. It is a sort of transcendental omelette. But I think the pretty woman has more to do with it than metaphysics!'

All this while Edoardo had bestowed devout attention on his supper. But it appeared that the drift of our discourse had not been lost byhim. 'Well, ' he said, 'you finely fibred people dissect and analyse. I am content with the _spettacolo_. That pleases. What does a manwant more? The _Nozze_ is a comedy of life and manners. The musicis adorable. To-night the women were not bad to look at--the Luccawas divine; the scenes--ingenious. I thought but little. I came awaydelighted. You could have a better play, Caro Signore!' (with a bowto our host). 'That is granted. You might have better music, CaraSignora!' (with a bow to Miranda). 'That too is granted. But when theplay and the music come together--how shall I say?--the music helpsthe play, and the play helps the music; and we--well we, I suppose, must help both!'

Edoardo's little speech was so ingenuous, and, what is more, so trueto his Italian temperament, that it made us all laugh and leave theargument just where we found it. The bottles of Lambrusco supplied useach with one more glass; and while we were drinking them, Miranda, woman-like, taking the last word, but contradicting herself, softlyhummed 'Non so più cosa son, ' and 'Ah!' she said, 'I shall dream oflove to-night!'

We rose and said good-night. But when I had reached my bedroom in theHôtel de la Ville, I sat down, obstinate and unconvinced, and pennedthis rhapsody, which I have lately found among papers of nearly twentyyears ago. I give it as it stands. 

III

Mozart has written the two melodramas of love--the one a melo-tragedy, the other a melo-comedy. But in really noble art, Comedy and Tragedyhave faces of equal serenity and beauty. In the Vatican thereare marble busts of the two Muses, differing chiefly in theirhead-dresses: that of Tragedy is an elaborately built-up structure offillets and flowing hair, piled high above the forehead and descendingin long curls upon the shoulders; while Comedy wears a similaradornment, with the addition of a wreath of vine-leaves andgrape-bunches. The expression of the sister goddesses is no lessfinely discriminated. Over the mouth of Comedy plays a subtle smile, and her eyes are relaxed in a half-merriment. A shadow rests uponthe slightly heavier brows of Tragedy, and her lips, though notcompressed, are graver. So delicately did the Greek artist indicatethe division between two branches of one dramatic art. And since allgreat art is classical, Mozart's two melodramas, _Don Giovanni_and the _Nozze di Figaro_, though the one is tragic and the othercomic, are twin-sisters, similar in form and feature. 

The central figure of the melo-tragedy is Don Juan, the heroof unlimited desire, pursuing the unattainable through tortuousinterminable labyrinths, eager in appetite yet never satisfied, 'forever following and for ever foiled. ' He is the incarnation of lustthat has become a habit of the soul--rebellious, licentious, selfish, even cruel. His nature, originally noble and brave, has assumed thequalities peculiar to lust--rebellion, license, cruelty, defiantegotism. Yet, such as he is, doomed to punishment and execration, Don Juan remains a fit subject for poetry and music, because he iscomplete, because he is impelled by some demonic influence, spurred onby yearnings after an unsearchable delight. In his death, the spiritof chivalry survives, metamorphosed, it is true, into the spirit ofrevolt, yet still tragic, such as might animate the desperate sinnerof a haughty breed. 

The central figure of the melo-comedy is Cherubino, the genius oflove, no less insatiable, but undetermined to virtue or to vice. Thisis the point of Cherubino, that the ethical capacities in him arestill potential. His passion still hovers on the borderland of goodand bad. And this undetermined passion is beautiful because of extremefreshness; of infinite, immeasurable expansibility. Cherubino is theepitome of all that belongs to the amorous temperament in a state ofstill ascendant adolescence. He is about sixteen years of age--a boyyesterday, a man to-morrow--to-day both and neither--somethingbeyond boyhood, but not yet limited by man's responsibility and man'sabsorbing passions. He partakes of both ages in the primal awakeningto self-consciousness. Desire, which in Don Juan has become a fiend, hovers before him like a fairy. His are the sixteen years, not of aNorthern climate, but of Spain or Italy, where manhood appears in aflash, and overtakes the child with sudden sunrise of new faculties. _Nondum amabam, sed amare amabam, quaerebam quod amarem, amansamare_--'I loved not yet, but was in love with loving; I soughtwhat I should love, being in love with loving. ' That sentence, pennedby S. Augustine and consecrated by Shelley, describes the mood ofCherubino. He loves at every moment of his life, with every pulse ofhis being. His object is not a beloved being, but love itself--thesatisfaction of an irresistible desire, the paradise of bliss whichmerely loving has become for him. What love means he hardly knows. Heonly knows that he must love. And women love him--half as a playthingto be trifled with, half as a young god to be wounded by. This risingof the star of love as it ascends into the heaven of youthful fancy, is revealed in the melodies Mozart has written for him. How shall wedescribe their potency? Who shall translate those curiously perfectwords to which tone and rhythm have been indissolubly wedded? _Epur mi piace languir cosi.... E se non ho chi m' oda, parlo d'amor conme. _

But if this be so, it may be asked, Who shall be found worthy to actCherubino on the stage? You cannot have seen and heard Pauline Lucca, or you would not ask this question. 

Cherubino is by no means the most important person in the plot of the_Nozze_. But he strikes the keynote of the opera. His love is thestandard by which we measure the sad, retrospective, stately love ofthe Countess, who tries to win back an alienated husband. By Cherubinowe measure the libertine love of the Count, who is a kind of Don Juanwithout cruelty, and the humorous love of Figaro and his sprightlybride Susanna. Each of these characters typifies one of the manyspecies of love. But Cherubino anticipates and harmonises all. Theyare conscious, experienced, world-worn, disillusioned, trivial. He isall love, foreseen, foreshadowed in a dream of life to be; all love, diffused through brain and heart and nerves like electricity; alllove, merging the moods of ecstasy, melancholy, triumph, regret, jealousy, joy, expectation, in a hazy sheen, as of some Venetiansunrise. What will Cherubino be after three years? A Romeo, aLovelace, a Lothario, a Juan? a disillusioned rake, a sentimentalist, an effete fop, a romantic lover? He may become any one of these, forhe contains the possibilities of all. As yet, he is the dear gladangel of the May of love, the nightingale of orient emotion. This moment in the unfolding of character Mozart has arrested andeternalised for us in Cherubino's melodies; for it is the privilege ofart to render things most fugitive and evanescent fixed imperishablyin immortal form. 

IV

This is indeed a rhapsodical production. Miranda was probably right. Had it not been for Pauline Lucca, I might not have philosophised the_Nozze_ thus. Yet, in the main, I believe that my instinct waswell grounded. Music, especially when wedded to words, more especiallywhen those words are dramatic, cannot separate itself from emotion. Itwill not do to tell us that a melody is a certain sequence of sounds;that the composer chose it for its beauty of rhythm, form, and tune, and only used the words to get it vocalised. We are forced to gofarther back, and ask ourselves, What suggested it in the first placeto the composer? why did he use it precisely in connection withthis dramatic situation? How can we answer these questions except bysupposing that music was for him the utterance through art of someemotion? The final fact of human nature is emotion, crystallisingitself in thought and language, externalising itself in action andart. 'What, ' said Novalis, 'are thoughts but pale dead feelings?'Admitting this even in part, we cannot deny to music an emotionalcontent of some kind. I would go farther, and assert that, while amerely mechanical musician may set inappropriate melodies to words, and render music inexpressive of character, what constitutes a musicaldramatist is the conscious intention of fitting to the words of hislibretto such melody as shall interpret character, and the power to dothis with effect. 

That the Cherubino of Mozart's _Nozze_ is quite different fromBeaumarchais' Cherubin does not affect this question. He is a newcreation, just because Mozart could not, or would not, conceive thecharacter of the page in Beaumarchais' sprightly superficial spirit. He used the part to utter something unutterable except by music aboutthe soul of the still adolescent lover. The libretto-part and themelodies, taken together, constitute a new romantic ideal, consistentwith experience, but realised with the intensity and universalitywhereby art is distinguished from life. Don Juan was a myth beforeMozart touched him with the magic wand of music. Cherubino becamea myth by the same Prospero's spell. Both characters have theuniversality, the symbolic potency, which belongs to legendary beings. That there remains a discrepancy between the boy-page and the musicmade for him, can be conceded without danger to my theory; forthe music made for Cherubino is meant to interpret his psychicalcondition, and is independent of his boyishness of conduct. 

This further explains why there may be so many renderings ofCherubino's melodies. Mozart idealised an infinite emotion. Thesinger is forced to define; the actor also is forced to define. Eachintroduces his own limit on the feeling. When the actor and the singermeet together in one personality, this definition of emotion becomesof necessity doubly specific. The condition of all music is that itdepends in a great measure on the temperament of the interpreter forits momentary shade of expression, and this dependence is of courseexaggerated when the music is dramatic. Furthermore, the subjectivityof the audience enters into the problem as still another element ofdefinition. It may therefore be fairly said that, in estimating anyimpression produced by Cherubino's music, the original character ofthe page, transplanted from French comedy to Italian opera, Mozart'sconception of that character, Mozart's specific quality of emotionand specific style of musical utterance, together with the contralto'sinterpretation of the character and rendering of the music, accordingto her intellectual capacity, artistic skill, and timbre of voice, have collaborated with the individuality of the hearer. Some of theconstituents of the ever-varying product--a product which is new eachtime the part is played--are fixed. Da Ponte's Cherubino and Mozart'smelodies remain unalterable. All the rest is undecided; the singer andthe listener change on each occasion. 

To assert that the musician Mozart meant nothing by his music, toassert that he only cared about it _quâ_ music, is the same asto say that the painter Tintoretto, when he put the Crucifixion uponcanvas, the sculptor Michelangelo, when he carved Christ upon the lapof Mary, meant nothing, and only cared about the beauty of theirforms and colours. Those who take up this position prove, not that theartist has no meaning to convey, but that for them the artist's natureis unintelligible, and his meaning is conveyed in an unknown tongue. It seems superfluous to guard against misinterpretation by saying thatto expect clear definition from music--the definition which belongsto poetry--would be absurd. The sphere of music is in sensuousperception; the sphere of poetry is in intelligence. Music, dealingwith pure sound, must always be vaguer in significance than poetry, dealing with words. Nevertheless, its effect upon the sentient subjectmay be more intense and penetrating for this very reason. We cannotfail to understand what words are intended to convey; we may veryeasily interpret in a hundred different ways the message of sound. But this is not because words are wider in their reach and more alive;rather because they are more limited, more stereotyped, more dead. They symbolise something precise and unmistakable; but this precisionis itself attenuation of the something symbolised. The exact value ofthe counter is better understood when it is a word than when it is achord, because all that a word conveys has already become a thought, while all that musical sounds convey remains within the region ofemotion which has not been intellectualised. Poetry touches emotionthrough the thinking faculty. If music reaches the thinking faculty atall, it is through fibres of emotion. But emotion, when it has becomethought, has already lost a portion of its force, and has taken toitself a something alien to its nature. Therefore the message of musiccan never rightly be translated into words. It is the very largenessand vividness of the sphere of simple feeling which makes itssymbolical counterpart in sound so seeming vague. But in spite of thisincontestable defect of seeming vagueness, emotion expressed by musicis nearer to our sentient self, if we have ears to take it in, thanthe same emotion limited by language. It is intenser, it is moreimmediate, as compensation for being less intelligible, lessunmistakable in meaning. It is an infinite, an indistinct, where eachconsciousness defines and sets a limitary form. 

V

A train of thought which begins with the concrete not unfrequentlyfinds itself finishing, almost against its will, in abstractions. Thisis the point to which the performance of Cherubino's part by PaulineLucca at the Scala twenty years ago has led me--that I have to settlewith myself what I mean by art in general, and what I take to be theproper function of music as one of the fine arts. 

'Art, ' said Goethe, 'is but form-giving. ' We might vary thisdefinition, and say, 'Art is a method of expression or presentation. 'Then comes the question: If art gives form, if it is a method ofexpression or presentation, to what does it give form, what does itexpress or present? The answer certainly must be: Art gives form tohuman consciousness; expresses or presents the feeling or the thoughtof man. Whatever else art may do by the way, in the communicationof innocent pleasures, in the adornment of life and the softening ofmanners, in the creation of beautiful shapes and sounds, this, at allevents, is its prime function. 

While investing thought, the spiritual subject-matter of all art, withform, or finding for it proper modes of presentation, each of the artsemploys a special medium, obeying the laws of beauty proper to thatmedium. The vehicles of the arts, roughly speaking, are materialsubstances (like stone, wood, metal), pigments, sounds, and words. The masterly handling of these vehicles and the realisation oftheir characteristic types of beauty have come to be regarded as thecraftsman's paramount concern. And in a certain sense this is a rightconclusion; for dexterity in the manipulation of the chosen vehicleand power to create a beautiful object, distinguish the successfulartist from the man who may have had like thoughts and feelings. Thisdexterity, this power, are the properties of the artist _quâ_artist. Yet we must not forget that the form created by the artistfor the expression of a thought or feeling is not the final end of artitself. That form, after all, is but the mode of presentation throughwhich the spiritual content manifests itself. Beauty, in like manner, is not the final end of art, but is the indispensable condition underwhich the artistic manifestation of the spiritual content must hemade. It is the business of art to create an ideal world, in whichperception, emotion, understanding, action, all elements of human lifesublimed by thought, shall reappear in concrete forms as beauty. Thisbeing so, the logical criticism of art demands that we should notonly estimate the technical skill of artists and their faculty forpresenting beauty to the æsthetic sense, but that we should also askourselves what portion of the human spirit he has chosen to investwith form, and how he has conceived his subject. It is not necessarythat the ideas embodied in a work of art should be the artist'sown. They may be common to the race and age: as, for instance, theconception of sovereign deity expressed in the Olympian Zeus ofPheidias, or the conception of divine maternity expressed in Raphael's'Madonna di San Sisto. ' Still the personality of the artist, hisown intellectual and moral nature, his peculiar way of thinking andfeeling, his individual attitude towards the material given to him inideas of human consciousness, will modify his choice of subject andof form, and will determine his specific type of beauty. To take anexample: supposing that an idea, common to his race and age, is givento the artist for treatment; this will be the final end of the workof art which he produces. But his personal qualities and technicalperformance determine the degree of success or failure to which heattains in presenting that idea and in expressing it with beauty. Signorelli fails where Perugino excels, in giving adequate and lovelyform to the religious sentiment. Michelangelo is sure of the sublime, and Raphael of the beautiful. 

Art is thus the presentation of the human spirit by the artist to hisfellow-men. The subject-matter of the arts is commensurate with whatman thinks and feels and does. It is as deep as religion, as wide aslife. But what distinguishes art from religion or from life is, thatthis subject-matter must assume beautiful form, and must be presenteddirectly or indirectly to the senses. Art is not the school or thecathedral, but the playground, the paradise of humanity. It does notteach, it does not preach. Nothing abstract enters into art's domain. Truth and goodness are transmuted into beauty there, just as inscience beauty and goodness assume the shape of truth, and inreligion truth and beauty become goodness. The rigid definitions, theunmistakable laws of science, are not to be found in art. Whatever arthas touched acquires a concrete sensuous embodiment, and thus ideaspresented to the mind in art have lost a portion of their purethought-essence. It is on this account that the religious conceptionsof the Greeks were so admirably fitted for the art of sculpture, andcertain portions of the mediæval Christian mythology lent themselvesso well to painting. For the same reason the metaphysics ofecclesiastical dogma defy the artist's plastic faculty. Art, in aword, is a middle term between reason and the senses. Its secondaryaim, after the prime end of presenting the human spirit in beautifulform has been accomplished, is to give tranquil and innocentenjoyment. 

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From what has gone before it will be seen that no human being canmake or mould a beautiful form without incorporating in that form someportion of the human mind, however crude, however elementary. In otherwords, there is no work of art without a theme, without a motive, without a subject. The presentation of that theme, that motive, thatsubject, is the final end of art. The art is good or bad according asthe subject has been well or ill presented, consistently with the lawsof beauty special to the art itself. Thus we obtain two standardsfor æsthetic criticism. We judge a statue, for example, both bythe sculptor's intellectual grasp upon his subject, and also by histechnical skill and sense of beauty. In a picture of the Last Judgmentby Fra Angelico we say that the bliss of the righteous has been moresuccessfully treated than the torments of the wicked, because theformer has been better understood, although the painter's skill ineach is equal. In the Perseus of Cellini we admire the sculptor'sspirit, finish of execution, and originality of design, while wedeplore that want of sympathy with the heroic character which makeshis type of physical beauty slightly vulgar and his facial expressionvacuous. If the phrase 'Art for art's sake' has any meaning, thismeaning is simply that the artist, having chosen a theme, thinksexclusively in working at it of technical dexterity or the quality ofbeauty. There are many inducements for the artist thus to narrow hisfunction, and for the critic to assist him by applying the canons ofa soulless connoisseurship to his work; for the conception of thesubject is but the starting-point in art-production, and the artist'sdifficulties and triumphs as a craftsman lie in the region oftechnicalities. He knows, moreover, that, however deep or noble hisidea may be, his work of art will be worthless if it fail in skillor be devoid of beauty. What converts a thought into a statue ora picture, is the form found for it; and so the form itself seemsall-important. The artist, therefore, too easily imagines that he mayneglect his theme; that a fine piece of colouring, a well-balancedcomposition, or, as Cellini put it, 'un bel corpo ignudo, ' is enough. And this is especially easy in an age which reflects much upon thearts, and pursues them with enthusiasm, while its deeper thoughts andfeelings are not of the kind which translate themselves readilyinto artistic form. But, after all, a fine piece of colouring, awell-balanced composition, a sonorous stanza, a learned essay incounterpoint, are not enough. They are all excellent good things, yielding delight to the artistic sense and instruction to the student. Yet when we think of the really great statues, pictures, poems, musicof the world, we find that these are really great because of somethingmore--and that more is their theme, their presentation of a nobleportion of the human soul. Artists and art-students may be satisfiedwith perfect specimens of a craftsman's skill, independent of histheme; but the mass of men will not be satisfied; and it is as wrongto suppose that art exists for artists and art-students, as to talkof art for art's sake. Art exists for humanity. Art transmutes thoughtand feeling into terms of beautiful form. Art is great and lastingin proportion as it appeals to the human consciousness at large, presenting to it portions of itself in adequate and lovely form. 

VI

It was necessary in the first place firmly to apprehend the truth thatthe final end of all art is the presentation of a spiritual content;it is necessary in the next place to remove confusions by consideringthe special circumstances of the several arts. 

Each art has its own vehicle of presentation. What it can present andhow it must present it, depends upon the nature of this vehicle. Thus, though architecture, sculpture, painting, music, poetry, meet uponthe common ground of spiritualised experience--though the works of artproduced by the architect, sculptor, painter, musician, poet, emanatefrom the spiritual nature of the race, are coloured by the spiritualnature of the men who make them, and express what is spiritual inhumanity under concrete forms invented for them by the artist--yet itis certain that all of these arts do not deal exactly with the sameportions of this common material in the same way or with the sameresults. Each has its own department. Each exhibits qualities ofstrength and weakness special to itself. To define these severaldepartments, to explain the relation of these several vehiclesof presentation to the common subject-matter, is the next step incriticism. 

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Of the fine arts, architecture alone subserves utility. We build foruse. But the geometrical proportions which the architect observes, contain the element of beauty and powerfully influence the soul. Intothe language of arch and aisle and colonnade, of cupola and façade andpediment, of spire and vault, the architect translates emotion, vagueperhaps but deep, mute but unmistakable. When we say that a buildingis sublime or graceful, frivolous or stern, we mean that sublimityor grace, frivolity or sternness, is inherent in it. The emotionsconnected with these qualities are inspired in us when we contemplateit, and are presented to us by its form. Whether the architectdeliberately aimed at the sublime or graceful--whether the dignifiedserenity of the Athenian genius sought to express itself in theParthenon, and the mysticism of mediæval Christianity in the gloom ofChartres Cathedral--whether it was Renaissance paganism which gave itsmundane pomp and glory to S. Peter's, and the refined selfishness ofroyalty its specious splendour to the palace of Versailles--need notbe curiously questioned. The fact that we are impelled to raise thesepoints, that architecture more almost than any art connects itselfindissolubly with the life, the character, the moral being of a nationand an epoch, proves that we are justified in bringing it beneathour general definition of the arts. In a great measure because itsubserves utility, and is therefore dependent upon the necessities oflife, does architecture present to us through form the human spirit. Comparing the palace built by Giulio Romano for the Dukes of Mantuawith the contemporary castle of a German prince, we cannot fail atonce to comprehend the difference of spiritual conditions, as thesedisplayed themselves in daily life, which then separated Italy fromthe Teutonic nations. But this is not all. Spiritual quality inthe architect himself finds clear expression in his work. Coldnesscombined with violence marks Brunelleschi's churches; a certainsuavity and well-bred taste the work of Bramante; while Michelangeloexhibits wayward energy in his Library of S. Lorenzo, and Amadeoself-abandonment to fancy in his Lombard chapels. I have chosenexamples from one nation and one epoch in order that the point I seekto make, the demonstration of a spiritual quality in buildings, may befairly stated. 

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Sculpture and painting distinguish themselves from the other finearts by the imitation of concrete existences in nature. They copy thebodies of men and animals, the aspects of the world around us, and thehandiwork of men. Yet, in so far as they are rightly arts, they donot make imitation an object in itself. The grapes of Zeuxis at whichbirds pecked, the painted dog at which a cat's hair bristles--if suchgrapes or such a dog were ever put on canvas--are but evidences of theartist's skill, not of his faculty as artist. These two plastic, or, as I prefer to call them, figurative arts, use their imitation ofthe external world for the expression, the presentation of internal, spiritual things. The human form is for them the outward symbol of theinner human spirit, and their power of presenting spirit is limited bythe means at their disposal. 

Sculpture employs stone, wood, clay, the precious metals, to modelforms, detached and independent, or raised upon a flat surfacein relief. Its domain is the whole range of human character andconsciousness, in so far as these can be indicated by fixed facialexpression, by physical type, and by attitude. If we dwell for aninstant on the greatest historical epoch of sculpture, we shallunderstand the domain of this art in its range and limitation. At acertain point of Greek development the Hellenic Pantheon began to betranslated by the sculptors into statues; and when the genius of theGreeks expired in Rome, the cycle of their psychological conceptionshad been exhaustively presented through this medium. During that longperiod of time, the most delicate gradations of human personality, divinised, idealised, were presented to the contemplation of theconsciousness which gave them being, in appropriate types. Strengthand swiftness, massive force and airy lightness, contemplative reposeand active energy, voluptuous softness and refined grace, intellectualsublimity and lascivious seductiveness--the whole rhythm of qualitieswhich can be typified by bodily form--were analysed, selected, combined in various degrees, to incarnate the religious conceptions ofZeus, Aphrodite, Herakles, Dionysus, Pallas, Fauns and Satyrs, Nymphsof woods and waves, Tritons, the genius of Death, heroes and hunters, lawgivers and poets, presiding deities of minor functions, man'slustful appetites and sensual needs. All that men think, or do, orare, or wish for, or imagine in this world, had found exact corporealequivalents. Not physiognomy alone, but all the portions of the bodyupon which the habits of the animating soul are wont to stampthemselves, were studied and employed as symbolism. Uranian Aphroditewas distinguished from her Pandemic sister by chastened lust-repellingloveliness. The muscles of Herakles were more ponderous than the tensesinews of Achilles. The Hermes of the palæstra bore a torso ofmajestic depth; the Hermes, who carried messages from heaven, hadlimbs alert for movement. The brows of Zeus inspired awe; the breastsof Dionysus breathed delight. 

A race accustomed, as the Greeks were, to read this symbolism, accustomed, as the Greeks were, to note the individuality of nakedform, had no difficulty in interpreting the language of sculpture. Nor is there now much difficulty in the task. Our surest guide tothe subject of a basrelief or statue is study of the physical typeconsidered as symbolical of spiritual quality. From the fragment ofa torso the true critic can say whether it belongs to the athletic orthe erotic species. A limb of Bacchus differs from a limb of Poseidon. The whole psychological conception of Aphrodite Pandemos enters intoevery muscle, every joint, no less than into her physiognomy, herhair, her attitude. 

There is, however, a limit to the domain of sculpture. This art dealsmost successfully with personified generalities. It is also strong inthe presentation of incarnate character. But when it attempts to tella story, we often seek in vain its meaning. Battles of Amazons orCentaurs upon basreliefs, indeed, are unmistakable. The subject isindicated here by some external sign. The group of Laocoon appealsat once to a reader of Virgil, and the divine vengeance of Leto'schildren upon Niobe is manifest in the Uffizzi marbles. But who arethe several heroes of the Æginetan pediment, and what was the subjectof the Pheidian statues on the Parthenon? Do the three gracefulfigures of a basrelief which exists at Naples and in the Villa Albani, represent Orpheus, Hermes, and Eurydice, or Antiope and her two sons?Was the winged and sworded genius upon the Ephesus column meant for agenius of Death or a genius of Love?

This dimness of significance indicates the limitation of sculpture, and inclines some of those who feel its charm to assert that thesculptor seeks to convey no intellectual meaning, that he is satisfiedwith the creation of beautiful form. There is sense in this revoltagainst the faith which holds that art is nothing but a mode ofspiritual presentation. Truly the artist aims at producing beauty, issatisfied if he conveys delight. But it is impossible to escape fromthe certainty that, while he is creating forms of beauty, he meanssomething; and that something, that theme for which he finds the form, is part of the world's spiritual heritage. Only the crudest works ofplastic art, capricci and arabesques, have no intellectual content;and even these are good in so far as they convey the playfulness offancy. 

Painting employs colours upon surfaces--walls, panels, canvas. Whathas been said about sculpture will apply in a great measure to thisart. The human form, the world around us, the works of man's hands, are represented in painting, not for their own sake merely, but witha view to bringing thought, feeling, action, home to the consciousnessof the spectator from the artist's consciousness on which they havebeen impressed. Painting can tell a story better than sculpture, canrepresent more complicated feelings, can suggest thoughts of a subtlerintricacy. Through colour, it can play, like music, directly onpowerful but vague emotion. It is deficient in fulness and roundnessof concrete reality. A statue stands before us, the soul incarnate inideal form, fixed and frozen for eternity. The picture is a reflectioncast upon a magic glass; not less permanent, but reduced to a shadowof reality. To follow these distinctions farther would be alien fromthe present purpose. It is enough to repeat that, within their severalspheres, according to their several strengths and weaknesses, bothsculpture and painting present the spirit to us only as the spiritshows itself immersed in things of sense. The light of a lamp enclosedwithin an alabaster vase is still lamplight, though shorn of lustreand toned to coloured softness. Even thus the spirit, immersed inthings of sense presented to us by the figurative arts, is stillspirit, though diminished in its intellectual clearness and investedwith hues not its own. To fashion that alabaster form of art withutmost skill, to make it beautiful, to render it transparent, is theartist's function. But he will have failed of the highest if thelight within burns dim, or if he gives the world a lamp in which nospiritual flame is lighted. 

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Music transports us to a different region. It imitates nothing. Ituses pure sound, and sound of the most wholly artificial kind--soartificial that the musical sounds of one race are unmusical, andtherefore unintelligible, to another. Like architecture, music reliesupon mathematical proportions. Unlike architecture, music serves noutility. It is the purest art of pleasure--the truest paradise andplayground of the spirit. It has less power than painting, even lesspower than sculpture, to tell a story or to communicate an idea. Forwe must remember that when music is married to words, the words, andnot the music, reach our thinking faculty. And yet, in spite of all, music presents man's spirit to itself through form. The domain of thespirit over which music reigns, is emotion--not defined emotion, notfeeling even so defined as jealousy or anger--but those broad bases ofman's being out of which emotions spring, defining themselves throughaction into this or that set type of feeling. Architecture, we havenoticed, is so connected with specific modes of human existence, thatfrom its main examples we can reconstruct the life of men who usedit. Sculpture and painting, by limiting their presentation to theimitation of external things, have all the help which experienceand, association render. The mere artificiality of music's vehicleseparates it from life and makes its message untranslatable. Yet, as Ihave already pointed out, this very disability under which it laboursis the secret of its extraordinary potency. Nothing intervenes betweenthe musical work of art and the fibres of the sentient being itimmediately thrills. We do not seek to say what music means. We feelthe music. And if a man should pretend that the music has not passedbeyond his ears, has communicated nothing but a musical delight, hesimply tells us that he has not felt music. The ancients on this pointwere wiser than some moderns when, without pretending to assign anintellectual significance to music, they held it for an axiom thatone type of music bred one type of character, another type another. A change in the music of a state, wrote Plato, will be followed bychanges in its constitution. It is of the utmost importance, saidAristotle, to provide in education for the use of the ennobling andthe fortifying moods. These philosophers knew that music creates aspiritual world, in which the spirit cannot live and move withoutcontracting habits of emotion. In this vagueness of significance butintensity of feeling lies the magic of music. A melody occurs to thecomposer, which he certainly connects with no act of the reason, whichhe is probably unconscious of connecting with any movement of hisfeeling, but which nevertheless is the form in sound of an emotionalmood. When he reflects upon the melody secreted thus impromptu, heis aware, as we learn from his own lips, that this work hascorrespondence with emotion. Beethoven calls one symphony Heroic, another Pastoral; of the opening of another he says, 'Fate knocks atthe door. ' Mozart sets comic words to the mass-music of a friend, inorder to mark his sense of its inaptitude for religious sentiment. Allcomposers use phrases like Maestoso, Pomposo, Allegro, Lagrimoso, ConFuoco, to express the general complexion of the mood their music oughtto represent. 

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Before passing to poetry, it may be well to turn aside and considertwo subordinate arts, which deserve a place in any system ofæsthetics. These are dancing and acting. Dancing uses the living humanform, and presents feeling or action, the passions and the deeds ofmen, in artificially educated movements of the body. The element ofbeauty it possesses, independently of the beauty of the dancer, isrhythm. Acting or the art of mimicry presents the same subject-matter, no longer under the conditions of fixed rhythm but as an idealreproduction of reality. The actor is what he represents, and theelement of beauty in his art is perfection of realisation. It is hisduty as an artist to show us Orestes or Othello, not perhaps exactlyas Othello and Orestes were, but as the essence of their tragedies, ideally incorporate in action, ought to be. The actor can do thisin dumb show. Some of the greatest actors of the ancient world weremimes. But he usually interprets a poet's thought, and attempts topresent an artistic conception in a secondary form of art, which hasfor its advantage his own personality in play. 

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The last of the fine arts is literature; or, in the narrower sphereof which it will be well to speak here only, is poetry. Poetry employswords in fixed rhythms, which we call metres. Only a small portion ofits effect is derived from the beauty of its sound. It appeals to thesense of hearing far less immediately than music does. It makes noappeal to the eyesight, and takes no help from the beauty of colour. It produces no tangible object. But language being the storehouseof all human experience, language being the medium whereby spiritcommunicates with spirit in affairs of life, the vehicle whichtransmits to us the thoughts and feelings of the past, and on which werely for continuing our present to the future, it follows that, of allthe arts, poetry soars highest, flies widest, and is most at home inthe region of the spirit. What poetry lacks of sensuous fulness, itmore than balances by intellectual intensity. Its significance isunmistakable, because it employs the very material men use in theirexchange of thoughts and correspondence of emotions. To the bounds ofits empire there is no end. It embraces in its own more abstractbeing all the arts. By words it does the work in turn of architecture, sculpture, painting, music. It is the metaphysic of the fine arts. Philosophy finds place in poetry; and life itself, refined to its lastutterance, hangs trembling on this thread which joins our earthto heaven, this bridge between experience and the realms whereunattainable and imperceptible will have no meaning. 

If we are right in defining art as the manifestation of the humanspirit to man by man in beautiful form, poetry, more incontestablythan any other art, fulfils this definition and enables us to gaugeits accuracy. For words are the spirit, manifested to itself insymbols with no sensual alloy. Poetry is therefore the presentation, through words, of life and all that life implies. Perception, emotion, thought, action, find in descriptive, lyrical, reflective, dramatic, and epical poetry their immediate apocalypse. In poetry we are nolonger puzzled with problems as to whether art has or has not ofnecessity a spiritual content. There cannot be any poetry whatsoeverwithout a spiritual meaning of some sort: good or bad, moral, immoral, or non-moral, obscure or lucid, noble or ignoble, slight orweighty--such distinctions do not signify. In poetry we are not met byquestions whether the poet intended to convey a meaning when he madeit. Quite meaningless poetry (as some critics would fain find melodyquite meaningless, or a statue meaningless, or a Venetian picturemeaningless) is a contradiction in terms. In poetry, life, or aportion of life, lives again, resuscitated and presented to our mentalfaculty through art. The best poetry is that which reproduces the mostof life, or its intensest moments. Therefore the extensive species ofthe drama and the epic, the intensive species of the lyric, have beenever held in highest esteem. Only a half-crazy critic flaunts theparadox that poetry is excellent in so far as it assimilates thevagueness of music, or estimates a poet by his power of translatingsense upon the borderland of nonsense into melodious words. Wherepoetry falls short in the comparison with other arts, is in thequality of form-giving, in the quality of sensuous concreteness. Poetry can only present forms to the mental eye and to theintellectual sense, stimulate the physical senses by indirectsuggestion. Therefore dramatic poetry, the most complicated kind ofpoetry, relies upon the actor; and lyrical poetry, the intensest kindof poetry, seeks the aid of music. But these comparative deficienciesare overbalanced, for all the highest purposes of art, by thewidth and depth, the intelligibility and power, the flexibility andmultitudinous associations, of language. The other arts are limited inwhat they utter. There is nothing which has entered into the life ofman which poetry cannot express. Poetry says everything in man's ownlanguage to the mind. The other arts appeal imperatively, each in itsown region, to man's senses; and the mind receives art's messageby the help of symbols from the world of sense. Poetry lacks thisimmediate appeal to sense. But the elixir which it offers to the mind, its quintessence extracted from all things of sense, reacts throughintellectual perception upon all the faculties that make men what theyare. 

VII

I used a metaphor in one of the foregoing paragraphs to indicate thepresence of the vital spirit, the essential element of thought orfeeling, in the work of art. I said it radiated through the form, aslamplight through an alabaster vase. Now the skill of the artist isdisplayed in modelling that vase, in giving it shape, rich and rare, and fashioning its curves with subtlest workmanship. In so far as heis a craftsman, the artist's pains must be bestowed upon this preciousvessel of the animating theme. In so far as he has power over beauty, he must exert it in this plastic act. It is here that he displaysdexterity; here that he creates; here that he separates himself fromother men who think and feel. The poet, more perhaps than any otherartist, needs to keep this steadily in view; for words being our dailyvehicle of utterance, it may well chance that the alabaster vase oflanguage should be hastily or trivially modelled. This is the truereason why 'neither gods nor men nor the columns either suffermediocrity in singers. ' Upon the poet it is specially incumbent to seethat he has something rare to say and some rich mode of saying it. Thefigurative arts need hardly be so cautioned. They run their risk inquite a different direction. For sculptor and for painter, the dangeris lest he should think that alabaster vase his final task. He may tooeasily be satisfied with moulding a beautiful but empty form. 

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The last word on the topic of the arts is given in one sentence. Letus remember that every work of art enshrines a spiritual subject, andthat the artist's power is shown in finding for that subject a form ofideal loveliness. Many kindred points remain to be discussed; as whatwe mean by beauty, which is a condition indispensable to noble art;and what are the relations of the arts to ethics. These questionscannot now be raised. It is enough in one essay to have tried tovindicate the spirituality of art in general. 

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_A VENETIAN MEDLEY_

I. --FIRST IMPRESSIONS AND FAMILIARITY

It is easy to feel and to say something obvious about Venice. Theinfluence of this sea-city is unique, immediate, and unmistakable. Butto express the sober truth of those impressions which remain when thefirst astonishment of the Venetian revelation has subsided, when thespirit of the place has been harmonised through familiarity with ourhabitual mood, is difficult. 

Venice inspires at first an almost Corybantic rapture. From ourearliest visits, if these have been measured by days rather thanweeks, we carry away with us the memory of sunsets emblazoned in goldand crimson upon cloud and water; of violet domes and bell-towersetched against the orange of a western sky; of moonlight silveringbreeze-rippled breadths of liquid blue; of distant islands shimmeringin sun-litten haze; of music and black gliding boats; of labyrinthinedarkness made for mysteries of love and crime; of statue-frettedpalace fronts; of brazen clangour and a moving crowd; of pictures byearth's proudest painters, cased in gold on walls of council chamberswhere Venice sat enthroned a queen, where nobles swept the floors withrobes of Tyrian brocade. These reminiscences will be attended by anever-present sense of loneliness and silence in the world around; thesadness of a limitless horizon, the solemnity of an unbroken arch ofheaven, the calm and greyness of evening on the lagoons, the pathos ofa marble city crumbling to its grave in mud and brine. 

These first impressions of Venice are true. Indeed they areinevitable. They abide, and form a glowing background for allsubsequent pictures, toned more austerely, and painted in more lastinghues of truth upon the brain. Those have never felt Venice at all whohave not known this primal rapture, or who perhaps expected more ofcolour, more of melodrama, from a scene which nature and the art ofman have made the richest in these qualities. Yet the mood engenderedby this first experience is not destined to be permanent. It containsan element of unrest and unreality which vanishes upon familiarity. From the blare of that triumphal bourdon of brass instruments emergethe delicate voices of violin and clarinette. To the contrastedpassions of our earliest love succeed a multitude of sweet andfanciful emotions. It is my present purpose to recapture some of theimpressions made by Venice in more tranquil moods. Memory mightbe compared to a kaleidoscope. Far away from Venice I raise thewonder-working tube, allow the glittering fragments to settle as theyplease, and with words attempt to render something of the patterns Ibehold. 

II. --A LODGING IN SAN VIO

I have escaped from the hotels with their bustle of tourists andcrowded _tables-d'hôte_. My garden stretches down to the GrandCanal, closed at the end with a pavilion, where I lounge and smoke andwatch the cornice of the Prefettura fretted with gold in sunset light. My sitting-room and bed-room face the southern sun. There is a canalbelow, crowded with gondolas, and across its bridge the good folkof San Vio come and go the whole day long--men in blue shirts withenormous hats, and jackets slung on their left shoulder; women inkerchiefs of orange and crimson. Barelegged boys sit upon the parapet, dangling their feet above the rising tide. A hawker passes, balancinga basket full of live and crawling crabs. Barges filled with Brentawater or Mirano wine take up their station at the neighbouring steps, and then ensues a mighty splashing and hurrying to and fro of men withtubs upon their heads. The brawny fellows in the wine-barge are redfrom brows to breast with drippings of the vat. And now there is abustle in the quarter. A _barca_ has arrived from S. Erasmo, theisland of the market-gardens. It is piled with gourds and pumpkins, cabbages and tomatoes, pomegranates and pears--a pyramid of gold andgreen and scarlet. Brown men lift the fruit aloft, and women bendingfrom the pathway bargain for it. A clatter of chaffering tongues, aring of coppers, a Babel of hoarse sea-voices, proclaim the sharpnessof the struggle. When the quarter has been served, the boat sheersoff diminished in its burden. Boys and girls are left seasoning theirpolenta with a slice of _zucca_, while the mothers of a score offamilies go pattering up yonder courtyard with the material for theirhusbands' supper in their handkerchiefs. Across the canal, or morecorrectly the _Rio_, opens a wide grass-grown court. It islined on the right hand by a row of poor dwellings, swarming withgondoliers' children. A garden wall runs along the other side, overwhich I can see pomegranate-trees in fruit and pergolas of vines. Farbeyond are more low houses, and then the sky, swept with sea-breezes, and the masts of an ocean-going ship against the dome and turrets ofPalladio's Redentore. 

This is my home. By day it is as lively as a scene in_Masaniello_. By night, after nine o'clock, the whole stir of thequarter has subsided. Far away I hear the bell of some church tellthe hours. But no noise disturbs my rest, unless perhaps a belatedgondolier moors his boat beneath the window. My one maid, Catina, sings at her work the whole day through. My gondolier, Francesco, acts as valet. He wakes me in the morning, opens the shutters, bringssea-water for my bath, and takes his orders for the day. 'Will it dofor Chioggia, Francesco?' 'Sissignore! The Signorino has set off inhis _sandolo_ already with Antonio. The Signora is to go with usin the gondola. ' 'Then get three more men, Francesco, and see that allof them can sing. '

III. --TO CHIOGGIA WITH OAR AND SAIL

The _sandolo_ is a boat shaped like the gondola, but smallerand lighter, without benches, and without the high steel prow or_ferro_ which distinguishes the gondola. The gunwale is only justraised above the water, over which the little craft skims with a rapidbounding motion, affording an agreeable variation from the statelyswanlike movement of the gondola. In one of these boats--called byhim the _Fisolo_ or Seamew--my friend Eustace had started withAntonio, intending to row the whole way to Chioggia, or, if the breezefavoured, to hoist a sail and help himself along. After breakfast, when the crew for my gondola had been assembled, Francesco and Ifollowed with the Signora. It was one of those perfect mornings whichoccur as a respite from broken weather, when the air is windless andthe light falls soft through haze on the horizon. As we broke into thelagoon behind the Redentore, the islands in front of us, S. Spirito, Poveglia, Malamocco, seemed as though they were just lifted from thesea-line. The Euganeans, far away to westward, were bathed in mist, and almost blent with the blue sky. Our four rowers put their backsinto their work; and soon we reached the port of Malamocco, where abreeze from the Adriatic caught us sideways for a while. This isthe largest of the breaches in the Lidi, or raised sand-reefs, whichprotect Venice from the sea: it affords an entrance to vessels ofdraught like the steamers of the Peninsular and Oriental Company. Wecrossed the dancing wavelets of the port; but when we passed under thelee of Pelestrina, the breeze failed, and the lagoon was once again asheet of undulating glass. At S. Pietro on this island a halt was madeto give the oarsmen wine, and here we saw the women at their cottagedoorways making lace. The old lace industry of Venice has recentlybeen revived. From Burano and Pelestrina cargoes of hand-madeimitations of the ancient fabrics are sent at intervals to Jesurun'smagazine at S. Marco. He is the chief _impresario_ of the trade, employing hundreds of hands, and speculating for a handsome profit inthe foreign market on the price he gives his workwomen. 

Now we are well lost in the lagoons--Venice no longer visible behind;the Alps and Euganeans shrouded in a noonday haze; the lowlands at themouth of Brenta marked by clumps of trees ephemerally faint in silversilhouette against the filmy, shimmering horizon. Form and colourhave disappeared in light-irradiated vapour of an opal hue. And yetinstinctively we know that we are not at sea; the different qualityof the water, the piles emerging here and there above the surface, thesuggestion of coast-lines scarcely felt in this infinity of lustre, all remind us that our voyage is confined to the charmed limits of aninland lake. At length the jutting headland of Pelestrina was reached. We broke across the Porto di Chioggia, and saw Chioggia itselfahead--a huddled mass of houses low upon the water. One by one, aswe rowed steadily, the fishing-boats passed by, emerging from theirharbour for a twelve hours' cruise upon the open sea. In a longline they came, with variegated sails of orange, red, and saffron, curiously chequered at the corners, and cantled with devices incontrasted tints. A little land-breeze carried them forward. Thelagoon reflected their deep colours till they reached the port. Then, slightly swerving eastward on their course, but still in single file, they took the sea and scattered, like beautiful bright-plumaged birds, who from a streamlet float into a lake, and find their way at largeaccording as each wills. 

The Signorino and Antonio, though want of wind obliged them to row thewhole way from Venice, had reached Chioggia an hour before, and stoodwaiting to receive us on the quay. It is a quaint town this Chioggia, which has always lived a separate life from that of Venice. Languageand race and customs have held the two populations apart from thosedistant years when Genoa and the Republic of S. Mark fought their duelto the death out in the Chioggian harbours, down to these days, whenyour Venetian gondolier will tell you that the Chioggoto loves hispipe more than his _donna_ or his wife. The main canal is linedwith substantial palaces, attesting to old wealth and comfort. Butfrom Chioggia, even more than from Venice, the tide of modern luxuryand traffic has retreated. The place is left to fishing folk andbuilders of the fishing craft, whose wharves still form the liveliestquarter. Wandering about its wide deserted courts and _calli_, we feel the spirit of the decadent Venetian nobility. Passages fromGoldoni's and Casanova's Memoirs occur to our memory. It seems easy torealise what they wrote about the dishevelled gaiety and lawlesslicense of Chioggia in the days of powder, sword-knot, and _soprani_. Baffo walks beside us in hypocritical composure of bag-wig andsenatorial dignity, whispering unmentionable sonnets in his dialect of_Xe_ and _Ga_. Somehow or another that last dotage of S. Mark'sdecrepitude is more recoverable by our fancy than the heroism ofPisani in the fourteenth century. From his prison in blockaded Venicethe great admiral was sent forth on a forlorn hope, and blockedvictorious Doria here with boats on which the nobles of the GoldenBook had spent their fortunes. Pietro Doria boasted that with his ownhands he would bridle the bronze horses of S. Mark. But now he foundhimself between the navy of Carlo Zeno in the Adriatic and theflotilla led by Vittore Pisani across the lagoon. It was in vain thatthe Republic of S. George strained every nerve to send him succourfrom the Ligurian sea; in vain that the lords of Padua kept openingcommunications with him from the mainland. From the 1st of January1380 till the 21st of June the Venetians pressed the blockade evercloser, grappling their foemen in a grip that if relaxed one momentwould have hurled him at their throats. The long and breathlessstruggle ended in the capitulation at Chioggia of what remained ofDoria's forty-eight galleys and fourteen thousand men. 

These great deeds are far away and hazy. The brief sentences ofmediæval annalists bring them less near to us than the _chroniquesscandaleuses_ of good-for-nothing scoundrels, whose vulgar adventuresmight be revived at the present hour with scarce a change of setting. Such is the force of _intimité_ in literature. And yet Baffo andCasanova are as much of the past as Doria and Pisani. It is onlyperhaps that the survival of decadence in all we see around us, formsa fitting framework for our recollections of their vividly describedcorruption. 

Not far from the landing-place a balustraded bridge of ample breadthand large bravura manner spans the main canal. Like everything atChioggia, it is dirty and has fallen from its first estate. Yetneither time nor injury can obliterate style or wholly degrade marble. Hard by the bridge there are two rival inns. At one of these weordered a seadinner--crabs, cuttlefishes, soles, and turbots--whichwe ate at a table in the open air. Nothing divided us from the streetexcept a row of Japanese privet-bushes in hooped tubs. Our banquetsoon assumed a somewhat unpleasant similitude to that of Dives; forthe Chioggoti, in all stages of decrepitude and squalor, crowded roundto beg for scraps--indescribable old women, enveloped in their ownpetticoats thrown over their heads; girls hooded with sombre blackmantles; old men wrinkled beyond recognition by their nearestrelatives; jabbering, half-naked boys; slow, slouching fishermen withclay pipes in their mouths and philosophical acceptance on their soberforeheads. 

That afternoon the gondola and sandolo were lashed together sideby side. Two sails were raised, and in this lazy fashion we stolehomewards, faster or slower according as the breeze freshened orslackened, landing now and then on islands, sauntering along thesea-walls which bulwark Venice from the Adriatic, and singing--thoseat least of us who had the power to sing. Four of our Venetians hadtrained voices and memories of inexhaustible music. Over the levelwater, with the ripple plashing at our keel, their songs went abroad, and mingled with the failing day. The barcaroles and serenadespeculiar to Venice were, of course, in harmony with the occasion. But some transcripts from classical operas were even more attractive, through the dignity with which these men invested them. By thepeculiarity of their treatment the _recitativo_ of the stageassumed a solemn movement, marked in rhythm, which removed it fromthe commonplace into antiquity, and made me understand how cultivatedmusic may pass back by natural, unconscious transition into the realmof popular melody. 

The sun sank, not splendidly, but quietly in banks of clouds abovethe Alps. Stars came out, uncertainly at first, and then in strength, reflected on the sea. The men of the Dogana watch-boat challenged usand let us pass. Madonna's lamp was twinkling from her shrine upon theharbour-pile. The city grew before us. Stealing into Venice in thatcalm--stealing silently and shadowlike, with scarce a ruffle of thewater, the masses of the town emerging out of darkness into twilight, till San Giorgio's gun boomed with a flash athwart our stern, and thegas-lamps of the Piazzetta swam into sight; all this was like a longenchanted chapter of romance. And now the music of our men had sunk toone faint whistling from Eustace of tunes in harmony with whispers atthe prow. 

Then came the steps of the Palazzo Venier and the deep-scenteddarkness of the garden. As we passed through to supper, I plucked aspray of yellow Banksia rose, and put it in my buttonhole. The dew wason its burnished leaves, and evening had drawn forth its perfume. 

IV. --MORNING RAMBLES

A story is told of Poussin, the French painter, that when he was askedwhy he would not stay in Venice, he replied, 'If I stay here, Ishall become a colourist!' A somewhat similar tale is reported of afashionable English decorator. While on a visit to friends in Venice, he avoided every building which contains a Tintoretto, averring thatthe sight of Tintoretto's pictures would injure his carefully trainedtaste. It is probable that neither anecdote is strictly true. Yetthere is a certain epigrammatic point in both; and I have oftenspeculated whether even Venice could have so warped the genius ofPoussin as to shed one ray of splendour on his canvases, or whethereven Tintoretto could have so sublimed the prophet of Queen Anne as tomake him add dramatic passion to a London drawing-room. Anyhow, it isexceedingly difficult to escape from colour in the air of Venice, orfrom Tintoretto in her buildings. Long, delightful mornings may bespent in the enjoyment of the one and the pursuit of the other by folkwho have no classical or pseudo-mediæval theories to oppress them. 

Tintoretto's house, though changed, can still be visited. It formedpart of the Fondamenta dei Mori, so called from having been thequarter assigned to Moorish traders in Venice. A spirited carving of aturbaned Moor leading a camel charged with merchandise, remains abovethe waterline of a neighbouring building; and all about the crumblingwalls sprout flowering weeds--samphire and snapdragon and the spikedcampanula, which shoots a spire of sea-blue stars from chinks ofIstrian stone. 

The house stands opposite the Church of Santa Maria dell' Orto, whereTintoretto was buried, and where four of his chief masterpieces areto be seen. This church, swept and garnished, is a triumph of modernItalian restoration. They have contrived to make it as commonplace ashuman ingenuity could manage. Yet no malice of ignorant industry canobscure the treasures it contains--the pictures of Cima, Gian Bellini, Palma, and the four Tintorettos, which form its crowning glory. Herethe master may be studied in four of his chief moods: as the painterof tragic passion and movement, in the huge 'Last Judgment;' as thepainter of impossibilities, in the 'Vision of Moses upon Sinai;'as the painter of purity and tranquil pathos, in the 'Miracle of S. Agnes;' as the painter of Biblical history brought home to daily life, in the 'Presentation of the Virgin. ' Without leaving the Madonna dell'Orto, a student can explore his genius in all its depth and breadth;comprehend the enthusiasm he excites in those who seek, as theessentials of art, imaginative boldness and sincerity; understand whatis meant by adversaries who maintain that, after all, Tintoretto wasbut an inspired Gustave Doré. Between that quiet canvas of the'Presentation, ' so modest in its cool greys and subdued gold, and thetumult of flying, running? doesn't make much sense, but can't figureout a plausible alternative, ascending figures in the 'Judgment, ' whatan interval there is! How strangely the white lamb-like maiden, kneeling beside her lamb in the picture of S. Agnes, contrasts withthe dusky gorgeousness of the Hebrew women despoiling themselves ofjewels for the golden calf! Comparing these several manifestations ofcreative power, we feel ourselves in the grasp of a painter who wasessentially a poet, one for whom his art was the medium for expressingbefore all things thought and passion. Each picture is executed in themanner suited to its tone of feeling, the key of its conception. 

Elsewhere than in the Madonna dell' Orto there are more distinguishedsingle examples of Tintoretto's realising faculty. The 'Last Supper'in San Giorgio, for instance, and the 'Adoration of the Shepherds'in the Scuola di San Rocco illustrate his unique power of presentingsacred history in a novel, romantic framework of familiar things. The commonplace circumstances of ordinary life have been employed toportray in the one case a lyric of mysterious splendour; in the other, an idyll of infinite sweetness. Divinity shines through the raftersof that upper chamber, where round a low large table the Apostlesare assembled in a group translated from the social customs of thepainter's days. Divinity is shed upon the straw-spread manger, whereChrist lies sleeping in the loft, with shepherds crowding through theroom beneath. 

A studied contrast between the simplicity and repose of the centralfigure and the tumult of passions in the multitude around, may beobserved in the 'Miracle of S. Agnes. ' It is this which gives dramaticvigour to the composition. But the same effect is carried to itshighest fulfilment, with even a loftier beauty, in the episode ofChrist before the judgment-seat of Pilate, at San Rocco. Of allTintoretto's religious pictures, that is the most profoundly felt, themost majestic. No other artist succeeded as he has here succeeded inpresenting to us God incarnate. For this Christ is not merely thejust man, innocent, silent before his accusers. The stationary, white-draped figure, raised high above the agitated crowd, withtranquil forehead slightly bent, facing his perplexed and fussy judge, is more than man. We cannot say perhaps precisely why he is divine. But Tintoretto has made us feel that he is. In other words, histreatment of the high theme chosen by him has been adequate. 

We must seek the Scuola di San Rocco for examples of Tintoretto'sliveliest imagination. Without ceasing to be Italian in his attentionto harmony and grace, he far exceeded the masters of his nation in thepower of suggesting what is weird, mysterious, upon the borderlandof the grotesque. And of this quality there are three remarkableinstances in the Scuola. No one but Tintoretto could have evokedthe fiend in his 'Temptation of Christ. ' It is an indescribablehermaphroditic genius, the genius of carnal fascination, withoutspread downy rose-plumed wings, and flaming bracelets on the fullbut sinewy arms, who kneels and lifts aloft great stones, smilingentreatingly to the sad, grey Christ seated beneath a ruggedpent-house of the desert. No one again but Tintoretto could havedashed the hot lights of that fiery sunset in such quivering flakesupon the golden flesh of Eve, half hidden among laurels, as shestretches forth the fruit of the Fall to shrinking Adam. No one butTintoretto, till we come to Blake, could have imagined yonder Jonah, summoned by the beck of God from the whale's belly. The monstrousfish rolls over in the ocean, blowing portentous vapour from histrump-shaped nostril. The prophet's beard descends upon his nakedbreast in hoary ringlets to the girdle. He has forgotten the pastperil of the deep, although the whale's jaws yawn around him. Betweenhim and the outstretched finger of Jehovah calling him again to life, there runs a spark of unseen spiritual electricity. 

To comprehend Tintoretto's touch upon the pastoral idyll we must turnour steps to San Giorgio again, and pace those meadows by therunning river in company with his Manna-Gatherers. Or we may seek theAccademia, and notice how he here has varied the 'Temptation of Adamby Eve, ' choosing a less tragic motive of seduction than the one sopowerfully rendered at San Rocco. Or in the Ducal Palace we maytake our station, hour by hour, before the 'Marriage of Bacchus andAriadne. ' It is well to leave the very highest achievements of artuntouched by criticism, undescribed. And in this picture we have themost perfect of all modern attempts to realise an antique myth--moreperfect than Raphael's 'Galatea, ' or Titian's 'Meeting of Bacchuswith Ariadne, ' or Botticelli's 'Birth of Venus from the Sea. ' It maysuffice to marvel at the slight effect which melodies so powerful andso direct as these produce upon the ordinary public. Sitting, as is mywont, one Sunday morning, opposite the 'Bacchus, ' four Germans with acicerone sauntered by. The subject was explained to them. They waitedan appreciable space of time. Then the youngest opened his lips andspake: 'Bacchus war der Wein-Gott. ' And they all moved heavily away. _Bos locutus est_. 'Bacchus was the wine-god!' This, apparently, is what a picture tells to one man. To another it presents divineharmonies, perceptible indeed in nature, but here by the painter-poetfor the first time brought together and cadenced in a work of art. Foranother it is perhaps the hieroglyph of pent-up passions and desiredimpossibilities. For yet another it may only mean the unapproachableinimitable triumph of consummate craft. 

Tintoretto, to be rightly understood, must be sought all overVenice--in the church as well as the Scuola di San Rocco; inthe 'Temptation of S. Anthony' at S. Trovaso no less than in theTemptations of Eve and Christ; in the decorative pomp of the Sala delSenato, and in the Paradisal vision of the Sala del Gran Consiglio. Yet, after all, there is one of his most characteristic moods, toappreciate which fully we return to the Madonna dell' Orto. I havecalled him 'the painter of impossibilities. ' At rare moments herendered them possible by sheer imaginative force. If we wish torealise this phase of his creative power, and to measure our ownsubordination to his genius in its most hazardous enterprise, wemust spend much time in the choir of this church. Lovers of art whomistrust this play of the audacious fancy--aiming at sublimity insupersensual regions, sometimes attaining to it by stupendous effortor authentic revelation, not seldom sinking to the verge of bathos, and demanding the assistance of interpretative sympathy in thespectator--such men will not take the point of view required of themby Tintoretto in his boldest flights, in the 'Worship of the GoldenCalf' and in the 'Destruction of the World by Water. ' It is for themto ponder well the flying archangel with the scales of judgment in hishand, and the seraph-charioted Jehovah enveloping Moses upon Sinai inlightnings. 

The gondola has had a long rest. Were Francesco but a little moreimpatient, he might be wondering what had become of the padrone. I bidhim turn, and we are soon gliding into the Sacca della Misericordia. This is a protected float, where the wood which comes from Cadoreand the hills of the Ampezzo is stored in spring. Yonder square whitehouse, standing out to sea, fronting Murano and the Alps, they callthe Oasa degli Spiriti. No one cares to inhabit it; for here, in olddays, it was the wont of the Venetians to lay their dead for a night'srest before their final journey to the graveyard of S. Michele. Somany generations of dead folk had made that house their inn, that itis now no fitting home for living men. San Michele is the island closebefore Murano, where the Lombardi built one of their most romanticallygraceful churches of pale Istrian stone, and where the Campo Santo hasfor centuries received the dead into its oozy clay. The cemetery is atpresent undergoing restoration. Its state of squalor and abandonmentto cynical disorder makes one feel how fitting for Italians would bethe custom of cremation. An island in the lagoons devoted to funeralpyres is a solemn and ennobling conception. This graveyard, withits ruinous walls, its mangy riot of unwholesome weeds, its corpsesfestering in slime beneath neglected slabs in hollow chambers, and themephitic wash of poisoned waters that surround it, inspires the horrorof disgust. 

The morning has not lost its freshness. Antelao and Tofana, guardingthe vale above Cortina, show faint streaks of snow upon theiramethyst. Little clouds hang in the still autumn sky. There are mendredging for shrimps and crabs through shoals uncovered by the ebb. Nothing can be lovelier, more resting to eyes tired with pictures thanthis tranquil, sunny expanse of the lagoon. As we round the point ofthe Bersaglio, new landscapes of island and Alp and low-lying mainlandmove into sight at every slow stroke of the oar. A luggage-traincomes lumbering along the railway bridge, puffing white smoke intothe placid blue. Then we strike down Cannaregio, and I muse uponprocessions of kings and generals and noble strangers, entering Veniceby this water-path from Mestre, before the Austrians built theircauseway for the trains. Some of the rare scraps of fresco upon housefronts, still to be seen in Venice, are left in Cannaregio. Theyare chiaroscuro allegories in a bold bravura manner of the sixteenthcentury. From these and from a few rosy fragments on the Fondacodei Tedeschi, the Fabbriche Nuove, and precious fading figures in acertain courtyard near San Stefano, we form some notion how Venicelooked when all her palaces were painted. Pictures by Gentile Bellini, Mansueti, and Carpaccio help the fancy in this work of restoration. And here and there, in back canals, we come across coloured sectionsof old buildings, capped by true Venetian chimneys, which for a momentseem to realise our dream. 

A morning with Tintoretto might well be followed by a morning withCarpaccio or Bellini. But space is wanting in these pages. Nor wouldit suit the manner of this medley to hunt the Lombardi through palacesand churches, pointing out their singularities of violet and yellowpanellings in marble, the dignity of their wide-opened arches, or thedelicacy of their shallow chiselled traceries in cream-whiteIstrian stone. It is enough to indicate the goal of many a pleasantpilgrimage: warrior angels of Vivarini and Basaiti hidden in a darkchapel of the Frari; Fra Francesco's fantastic orchard of fruits andflowers in distant S. Francesco della Vigna; the golden Gian Belliniin S. Zaccaria; Palma's majestic S. Barbara in S. Maria Formosa; SanGiobbe's wealth of sculptured frieze and floral scroll; the Pontedi Paradiso, with its Gothic arch; the painted plates in the MuseoCivico; and palace after palace, loved for some quaint piece oftracery, some moulding full of mediæval symbolism, some fierceimpossible Renaissance freak of fancy. 

Bather than prolong this list, I will tell a story which drew me oneday past the Public Gardens to the metropolitan Church of Venice, SanPietro di Castello. The novella is related by Bandello. It has, aswill be noticed, points of similarity to that of 'Romeo and Juliet. '

V. --A VENETIAN NOVELLA

At the time when Carpaccio and Gentile Bellini were painting thosehandsome youths in tight jackets, parti-coloured hose, and littleround caps placed awry upon their shocks of well-combed hair, therelived in Venice two noblemen, Messer Pietro and Messer Paolo, whosepalaces fronted each other on the Grand Canal. Messer Paolo was awidower, with one married daughter, and an only son of twenty years orthereabouts, named Gerardo. Messer Pietro's wife was still living; andthis couple had but one child, a daughter, called Elena, of exceedingbeauty, aged fourteen. Gerardo, as is the wont of gallants, was payinghis addresses to a certain lady; and nearly every day he had to crossthe Grand Canal in his gondola, and to pass beneath the house of Elenaon his way to visit his Dulcinea; for this lady lived some distanceup a little canal on which the western side of Messer Pietro's palacelooked. 

Now it so happened that at the very time when the story opens, MesserPietro's wife fell ill and died, and Elena was left alone at home withher father and her old nurse. Across the little canal of which I spokethere dwelt another nobleman, with four daughters, between the yearsof seventeen and twenty-one. Messer Pietro, desiring to provideamusement for poor little Elena, besought this gentleman that hisdaughters might come on feast-days to play with her. For you must knowthat, except on festivals of the Church, the custom of Venice requiredthat gentlewomen should remain closely shut within the privateapartments of their dwellings. His request was readily granted; and onthe next feast-day the five girls began to play at ball together forforfeits in the great saloon, which opened with its row of Gothicarches and balustraded balcony upon the Grand Canal. The four sisters, meanwhile, had other thoughts than for the game. One or other of them, and sometimes three together, would let the ball drop, and run to thebalcony to gaze upon their gallants, passing up and down in gondolasbelow; and then they would drop flowers or ribands for tokens. Whichnegligence of theirs annoyed Elena much; for she thought only of thegame. Wherefore she scolded them in childish wise, and one of themmade answer, 'Elena, if you only knew how pleasant it is to play as weare playing on this balcony, you would not care so much for ball andforfeits!'

On one of those feast-days the four sisters were prevented fromkeeping their little friend company. Elena, with nothing to do, andfeeling melancholy, leaned upon the window-sill which overlooked thenarrow canal. And it chanced that just then Gerardo, on his way toDulcinea, went by; and Elena looked down at him, as she had seen thosesisters look at passers-by. Gerardo caught her eye, and glances passedbetween them, and Gerardo's gondolier, bending from the poop, saidto his master, 'O master! methinks that gentle maiden is better worthyour wooing than Dulcinea. ' Gerardo pretended to pay no heed to thesewords; but after rowing a little way, he bade the man turn, and theywent slowly back beneath the window. This time Elena, thinking to playthe game which her four friends had played, took from her hair a clovecarnation and let it fall close to Gerardo on the cushion of thegondola. He raised the flower and put it to his lips, acknowledgingthe courtesy with a grave bow. But the perfume of the clove and thebeauty of Elena in that moment took possession of his heart together, and straightway he forgot Dulcinea. 

As yet he knew not who Elena was. Nor is this wonderful; for thedaughters of Venetian nobles were but rarely seen or spoken of. But the thought of her haunted him awake and sleeping; and everyfeast-day, when there was the chance of seeing her, he rowed hisgondola beneath her windows. And there she appeared to him in companywith her four friends; the five girls clustering together like sisterroses beneath the pointed windows of the Gothic balcony. Elena, on herside, had no thought of love; for of love she had heard no one speak. But she took pleasure in the game those friends had taught her, ofleaning from the balcony to watch Gerardo. He meanwhile grew love-sickand impatient, wondering how he might declare his passion. Until oneday it happened that, talking through a lane or _calle_ whichskirted Messer Pietro'a palace, he caught sight of Elena's nurse, whowas knocking at the door, returning from some shopping she hadmade. This nurse had been his own nurse in childhood; therefore heremembered her, and cried aloud, 'Nurse, Nurse!' But the old woman didnot hear him, and passed into the house and shut the door behind her. Whereupon Gerardo, greatly moved, still called to her, and when hereached the door, began to knock upon it violently. And whether itwas the agitation of finding himself at last so near the wish of hisheart, or whether the pains of waiting for his love had weakened him, I know not; but, while he knocked, his senses left him, and he fellfainting in the doorway. Then the nurse recognised the youth to whomshe had given suck, and brought him into the courtyard by the help ofhandmaidens, and Elena came down and gazed upon him. The house was nowfull of bustle, and Messer Pietro heard the noise, and seeing the sonof his neighbour in so piteous a plight, he caused Gerardo to be laidupon a bed. But for all they could do with him, he recovered not fromhis swoon. And after a while force was that they should place him ina gondola and ferry him across to his father's house. The nurse wentwith him, and informed Messer Paolo of what had happened. Doctors weresent for, and the whole family gathered round Gerardo's bed. Aftera while he revived a little; and thinking himself still upon thedoorstep of Pietro's palace, called again, 'Nurse, Nurse!' She wasnear at hand, and would have spoken to him. But while he summoned hissenses to his aid, he became gradually aware of his own kinsfolkand dissembled the secret of his grief. They beholding him in bettercheer, departed on their several ways, and the nurse still sat alonebeside him. Then he explained to her what he had at heart, and how hewas in love with a maiden whom he had seen on feast-days in thehouse of Messer Pietro. But still he knew not Elena's name; and she, thinking it impossible that such a child had inspired this passion, began to marvel which of the four sisters it was Gerardo loved. Thenthey appointed the next Sunday, when all the five girls should betogether, for Gerardo by some sign, as he passed beneath the window, to make known to the old nurse his lady. 

Elena, meanwhile, who had watched Gerardo lying still and pale inswoon beneath her on the pavement of the palace, felt the stirringof a new unknown emotion in her soul. When Sunday came, she devisedexcuses for keeping her four friends away, bethinking her that shemight see him once again alone, and not betray the agitation which shedreaded. This ill suited the schemes of the nurse, who neverthelesswas forced to be content. But after dinner, seeing how restless wasthe girl, and how she came and went, and ran a thousand times to thebalcony, the nurse began to wonder whether Elena herself were not inlove with some one. So she feigned to sleep, but placed herself withinsight of the window. And soon Gerardo came by in his gondola; andElena, who was prepared, threw to him her nosegay. The watchful nursehad risen, and peeping behind the girl's shoulder, saw at a glance howmatters stood. Thereupon she began to scold her charge, and say, 'Isthis a fair and comely thing, to stand all day at balconies and throwflowers at passers-by? Woe to you if your father should come to knowof this! He would make you wish yourself among the dead!' Elena, soretroubled at her nurse's rebuke, turned and threw her arms about herneck, and called her 'Nanna!' as the wont is of Venetian children. Then she told the old woman how she had learned that game from thefour sisters, and how she thought it was not different, but farmore pleasant, than the game of forfeits; whereupon her nurse spokegravely, explaining what love is, and how that love should lead tomarriage, and bidding her search her own heart if haply she couldchoose Gerardo for her husband. There was no reason, as she knew, whyMesser Paolo's son should not mate with Messer Pietro's daughter. Butbeing a romantic creature, as many women are, she resolved to bringthe match about in secret. 

Elena took little time to reflect, but told her nurse that she waswilling, if Gerardo willed it too, to have him for her husband. Thenwent the nurse and made the young man know how matters stood, andarranged with him a day, when Messer Pietro should be in the Councilof the Pregadi, and the servants of the palace otherwise employed, for him to come and meet his Elena. A glad man was Gerardo, nor didhe wait to think how better it would be to ask the hand of Elena inmarriage from her father. But when the day arrived, he sought thenurse, and she took him to a chamber in the palace, where there stoodan image of the Blessed Virgin. Elena was there, pale and timid; andwhen the lovers clasped hands, neither found many words to say. Butthe nurse bade them take heart, and leading them before Our Lady, joined their hands, and made Gerardo place his ring on his bride'sfinger. After this fashion were Gerardo and Elena wedded. And for somewhile, by the assistance of the nurse, they dwelt together in muchlove and solace, meeting often as occasion offered. 

Messer Paolo, who knew nothing of these things, took thought meanwhilefor his son's career. It was the season when the Signiory of Venicesends a fleet of galleys to Beirut with merchandise; and the noblemenmay bid for the hiring of a ship, and charge it with wares, andsend whomsoever they list as factor in their interest. One of thesegalleys, then, Messer Paolo engaged, and told his son that he hadappointed him to journey with it and increase their wealth. 'On thyreturn, my son, ' he said, 'we will bethink us of a wife for thee. 'Gerardo, when he heard these words, was sore troubled, and first hetold his father roundly that he would not go, and flew off in thetwilight to pour out his perplexities to Elena. But she, who wasprudent and of gentle soul, besought him to obey his father in thisthing, to the end, moreover, that, having done his will and increasedhis wealth, he might afterwards unfold the story of their secretmarriage. To these good counsels, though loth, Gerardo consented. His father was overjoyed at his son's repentance. The galley wasstraightway laden with merchandise, and Gerardo set forth on hisvoyage. 

The trip to Beirut and back lasted usually six months or at the mostseven. Now when Gerardo had been some six months away, Messer Pietro, noticing how fair his daughter was, and how she had grown intowomanhood, looked about him for a husband for her. When he had found ayouth suitable in birth and wealth and years, he called for Elena, andtold her that the day had been appointed for her marriage. She, alas!knew not what to answer. She feared to tell her father that she wasalready married, for she knew not whether this would please Gerardo. For the same reason she dreaded to throw herself upon the kindness ofMesser Paolo. Nor was her nurse of any help in counsel; for the oldwoman repented her of what she had done, and had good cause to believethat, even if the marriage with Gerardo were accepted by the twofathers, they would punish her for her own part in the affair. Therefore she bade Elena wait on fortune, and hinted to her that, ifthe worst came to the worst, no one need know she had been wedded withthe ring to Gerardo. Such weddings, you must know, were binding; buttill they had been blessed by the Church, they had not taken the forceof a religious sacrament. And this is still the case in Italy amongthe common folk, who will say of a man, 'Si, è ammogliato; ma ilmatrimonio non è stato benedetto. ' 'Yes, he has taken a wife, but themarriage has not yet been blessed. '

So the days flew by in doubt and sore distress for Elena. Then on thenight before her wedding, she felt that she could bear this life nolonger. But having no poison, and being afraid to pierce her bosomwith a knife, she lay down on her bed alone, and tried to die byholding in her breath. A mortal swoon came over her; her senses fled;the life in her remained suspended. And when her nurse came nextmorning to call her, she found poor Elena cold as a corpse. MesserPietro and all the household rushed, at the nurse's cries, into theroom, and they all saw Elena stretched dead upon her bed undressed. Physicians were called, who made theories to explain the cause ofdeath. But all believed that she was really dead, beyond all helpof art or medicine. Nothing remained but to carry her to church forburial instead of marriage. Therefore, that very evening, a funeralprocession was formed, which moved by torchlight up the Grand Canal, along the Riva, past the blank walls of the Arsenal, to the Campobefore San Pietro in Castello. Elena lay beneath the black felzein one gondola, with a priest beside her praying, and other boatsfollowed bearing mourners. Then they laid her in a marble chestoutside the church, and all departed, still with torches burning, totheir homes. 

Now it so fell out that upon that very evening Gerardo's galley hadreturned from Syria, and was anchoring within the port of Lido, whichlooks across to the island of Castello. It was the gentle custom ofVenice at that time that, when a ship arrived from sea, the friends ofthose on board at once came out to welcome them, and take and give thenews. Therefore many noble youths and other citizens were on the deckof Gerardo's galley, making merry with him over the safe conductof his voyage. Of one of these he asked, 'Whose is yonder funeralprocession returning from San Pietro?' The young man made answer, 'Alas, for poor Elena, Messer Pietro's daughter! She should have beenmarried this day. But death took her, and to-night they buried herin the marble monument outside the church. ' A woeful man was Gerardo, hearing suddenly this news, and knowing what his dear wife musthave suffered ere she died. Yet he restrained himself, daring not todisclose his anguish, and waited till his friends had left the galley. Then he called to him the captain of the oarsmen, who was his friend, and unfolded to him all the story of his love and sorrow, and saidthat he must go that night and see his wife once more, if even heshould have to break her tomb. The captain tried to dissuade him, butin vain. Seeing him so obstinate, he resolved not to desert Gerardo. The two men took one of the galley's boats, and rowed together towardSan Pietro. It was past midnight when they reached the Campo and brokethe marble sepulchre asunder. Pushing back its lid, Gerardo descendedinto the grave and abandoned himself upon the body of his Elena. Onewho had seen them at that moment could not well have said which of thetwo was dead and which was living--Elena or her husband. Meantime thecaptain of the oarsmen, fearing lest the watch (set by the Masters ofthe Night to keep the peace of Venice) might arrive, was calling onGerardo to come back. Gerardo heeded him no whit. But at the last, compelled by his entreaties, and as it were astonied, he arose, bearing his wife's corpse in his arms, and carried her clasped againsthis bosom to the boat, and laid her therein, and sat down by herside and kissed her frequently, and suffered not his friend'sremonstrances. Force was for the captain, having brought himself intothis scrape, that he should now seek refuge by the nearest way fromjustice. Therefore he hoved gently from the bank, and plied his oar, and brought the gondola apace into the open waters. Gerardo stillclasped Elena, dying husband by dead wife. But the sea-breezefreshened towards daybreak; and the captain, looking down upon thatpair, and bringing to their faces the light of his boat's lantern, judged their case not desperate at all. On Elena's cheek there was aflush of life less deadly even than the pallor of Gerardo's forehead. Thereupon the good man called aloud, and Gerardo started from hisgrief; and both together they chafed the hands and feet of Elena; and, the sea-breeze aiding with its saltness, they awoke in her the sparkof life. 

Dimly burned the spark. But Gerardo, being aware of it, became a managain. Then, having taken counsel with the captain, both resolvedto bear her to that brave man's mother's house. A bed was soon madeready, and food was brought; and after due time, she lifted up herface and knew Gerardo. The peril of the grave was past, but thoughthad now to be taken for the future. Therefore Gerardo, leaving hiswife to the captain's mother, rowed back to the galley and prepared tomeet his father. With good store of merchandise and with great gainsfrom his traffic, he arrived in that old palace on the Grand Canal. Then having opened to Messer Paolo the matters of his journey, andshown him how he had fared, and set before him tables of disbursementsand receipts, he seized the moment of his father's gladness. 'Father, 'he said, and as he spoke he knelt upon his knees, 'Father, I bring younot good store of merchandise and bags of gold alone; I bring you alsoa wedded wife, whom I have saved this night from death. ' And whenthe old man's surprise was quieted, he told him the whole story. NowMesser Paolo, desiring no better than that his son should wed theheiress of his neighbour, and knowing well that Messer Pietro wouldmake great joy receiving back his daughter from the grave, badeGerardo in haste take rich apparel and clothe Elena therewith, andfetch her home. These things were swiftly done; and after evenfallMesser Pietro was bidden to grave business in his neighbour's palace. With heavy heart he came, from a house of mourning to a house ofgladness. But there, at the banquet-table's head he saw his dead childElena alive, and at her side a husband. And when the whole truth hadbeen declared, he not only kissed and embraced the pair who kneltbefore him, but of his goodness forgave the nurse, who in herturn came trembling to his feet. Then fell there joy and bliss inovermeasure that night upon both palaces of the Canal Grande. And withthe morrow the Church blessed the spousals which long since had beenon both sides vowed and consummated. 

VI. --ON THE LAGOONS

The mornings are spent in study, sometimes among pictures, sometimesin the Marcian Library, or again in those vast convent chambers ofthe Frari, where the archives of Venice load innumerable shelves. Theafternoons invite us to a further flight upon the water. Both sandoloand gondola await our choice, and we may sail or row, according as thewind and inclination tempt us. 

Yonder lies San Lazzaro, with the neat red buildings of the Armenianconvent. The last oleander blossoms shine rosy pink above its wallsagainst the pure blue sky as we glide into the little harbour. Boatspiled with coal-black grapes block the landing-place, for the Padriare gathering their vintage from the Lido, and their presses runwith new wine. Eustace and I have not come to revive memories ofByron--that curious patron saint of the Armenian colony--or toinspect the printing-press, which issues books of little value forour studies. It is enough to pace the terrace, and linger half anhour beneath the low broad arches of the alleys pleached with vines, through which the domes and towers of Venice rise more beautiful bydistance. 

Malamocco lies considerably farther, and needs a full hour of stoutrowing to reach it. Alighting there, we cross the narrow strip ofland, and find ourselves upon the huge sea-wall--block piledon block--of Istrian stone in tiers and ranks, with cunningbreathing-places for the waves to wreak their fury on and foam theirforce away in fretful waste. The very existence of Venice may be saidto depend sometimes on these _murazzi_, which were finished atan immense cost by the Republic in the days of its decadence. Theenormous monoliths which compose them had to be brought across theAdriatic in sailing vessels. Of all the Lidi, that of Malamocco is theweakest; and here, if anywhere, the sea might effect an entrance intothe lagoon. Our gondoliers told us of some places where the _murazzi_were broken in a gale, or _sciroccale_, not very long ago. Lying awakein Venice, when the wind blows hard, one hears the sea thundering uponits sandy barrier, and blesses God for the _murazzi_. On such a nightit happened once to me to dream a dream of Venice overwhelmed bywater. I saw the billows roll across the smooth lagoon like a giganticEager. The Ducal Palace crumbled, and San Marco's domes went down. TheCampanile rocked and shivered like a reed. And all along the GrandCanal the palaces swayed helpless, tottering to their fall, whileboats piled high with men and women strove to stem the tide, and savethemselves from those impending ruins. It was a mad dream, born of thesea's roar and Tintoretto's painting. But this afternoon no suchvisions are suggested. The sea sleeps, and in the moist autumn air webreak tall branches of the seeded yellowing samphire from hollows ofthe rocks, and bear them homeward in a wayward bouquet mixed with cobsof Indian-corn. 

Fusina is another point for these excursions. It lies at the mouthof the Canal di Brenta, where the mainland ends in marsh andmeadows, intersected by broad renes. In spring the ditches bloom withfleurs-de-lys; in autumn they take sober colouring from lilac daisiesand the delicate sea-lavender. Scores of tiny plants are turningscarlet on the brown moist earth; and when the sun goes down behindthe Euganean hills, his crimson canopy of cloud, reflected on theseshallows, muddy shoals, and wilderness of matted weeds, converts thecommon earth into a fairyland of fabulous dyes. Purple, violet, androse are spread around us. In front stretches the lagoon, tintedwith a pale light from the east, and beyond this pallid mirror shinesVenice--a long low broken line, touched with the softest roseateflush. Ere we reach the Giudecca on our homeward way, sunset hasfaded. The western skies have clad themselves in green, barred withdark fire-rimmed clouds. The Euganean hills stand like stupendouspyramids, Egyptian, solemn, against a lemon space on the horizon. Thefar reaches of the lagoons, the Alps, and islands assume those tonesof glowing lilac which are the supreme beauty of Venetian evening. Then, at last, we see the first lamps glitter on the Zattere. Thequiet of the night has come. 

Words cannot be formed to express the endless varieties of Venetiansunset. The most magnificent follow after wet stormy days, when thewest breaks suddenly into a labyrinth of fire, when chasms of clearturquoise heavens emerge, and horns of flame are flashed to thezenith, and unexpected splendours scale the fretted clouds, step overstep, stealing along the purple caverns till the whole dome throbs. Or, again, after a fair day, a change of weather approaches, andhigh, infinitely high, the skies are woven over with a web ofhalf-transparent cirrus-clouds. These in the afterglow blush crimson, and through their rifts the depth of heaven is of a hard and gemlikeblue, and all the water turns to rose beneath them. I remember onesuch evening on the way back from Torcello. We were well out at seabetween Mazzorbo and Murano. The ruddy arches overhead were reflectedwithout interruption in the waveless ruddy lake below. Our black boatwas the only dark spot in this sphere of splendour. We seemed to hangsuspended; and such as this, I fancied, must be the feeling of aninsect caught in the heart of a fiery-petalled rose. Yet not thesemelodramatic sunsets alone are beautiful. Even more exquisite, perhaps, are the lagoons, painted in monochrome of greys, with justone touch of pink upon a western cloud, scattered in ripples here andthere on the waves below, reminding us that day has passed and eveningcome. And beautiful again are the calm settings of fair weather, whensea and sky alike are cheerful, and the topmost blades of the lagoongrass, peeping from the shallows, glance like emeralds upon thesurface. There is no deep stirring of the spirit in a symphony oflight and colour; but purity, peace, and freshness make their way intoour hearts. 

VII. --AT THE LIDO

Of all these afternoon excursions, that to the Lido is most frequent. It has two points for approach. The more distant is the little stationof San Nicoletto, at the mouth of the Porto. With an ebb-tide, thewater of the lagoon runs past the mulberry gardens of this hamlet likea river. There is here a grove of acacia-trees, shadowy and dreamy, above deep grass, which even an Italian summer does not wither. TheRiva is fairly broad, forming a promenade, where one may conjureup the personages of a century ago. For San Nicoletto used to be afashionable resort before the other points of Lido had been occupiedby pleasure-seekers. An artist even now will select its old-worldquiet, leafy shade, and prospect through the islands of Vignole andSant' Erasmo to snow-touched peaks of Antelao and Tofana, rather thanthe glare and bustle and extended view of Venice which its rival Sant'Elisabetta offers. 

But when we want a plunge into the Adriatic, or a stroll along smoothsands, or a breath of genuine sea-breeze, or a handful of hornedpoppies from the dunes, or a lazy half-hour's contemplation of alimitless horizon flecked with russet sails, then we seek Sant'Elisabetta. Our boat is left at the landing-place. We saunter acrossthe island and back again. Antonio and Francesco wait and order wine, which we drink with them in the shade of the little _osteria's_wall. 

A certain afternoon in May I well remember, for this visit to the Lidowas marked by one of those apparitions which are as rare as they arewelcome to the artist's soul. I have always held that in our modernlife the only real equivalent for the antique mythopoeic sense--thatsense which enabled the Hellenic race to figure for themselves thepowers of earth and air, streams and forests, and the presiding geniiof places, under the forms of living human beings, is supplied bythe appearance at some felicitous moment of a man or woman whoimpersonates for our imagination the essence of the beauty thatenvirons us. It seems, at such a fortunate moment, as though we hadbeen waiting for this revelation, although perchance the want of ithad not been previously felt. Our sensations and perceptions testthemselves at the touchstone of this living individuality. The keynoteof the whole music dimly sounding in our ears is struck. A melodyemerges, clear in form and excellent in rhythm. The landscapes we havepainted on our brain, no longer lack their central figure. The lifeproper to the complex conditions we have studied is discovered, andevery detail, judged by this standard of vitality, falls into itsright relations. 

I had been musing long that day and earnestly upon the mystery of thelagoons, their opaline transparencies of air and water, their fretfulrisings and sudden subsidence into calm, the treacherousness of theirshoals, the sparkle and the splendour of their sunlight. I had askedmyself how would a Greek sculptor have personified the elemental deityof these salt-water lakes, so different in quality from the Ægeanor Ionian sea? What would he find distinctive of their spirit? TheTritons of these shallows must be of other form and lineage than thefierce-eyed youth who blows his conch upon the curled crest of a wave, crying aloud to his comrades, as he bears the nymph away to cavernswhere the billows plunge in tideless instability. 

We had picked up shells and looked for sea-horses on the Adriaticshore. Then we returned to give our boatmen wine beneath the vine-clad_pergola_. Four other men were there, drinking, and eating from adish of fried fish set upon the coarse white linen cloth. Two ofthem soon rose and went away. Of the two who stayed, one was a large, middle-aged man; the other was still young. He was tall and sinewy, but slender, for these Venetians are rarely massive in their strength. Each limb is equally developed by the exercise of rowing upright, bending all the muscles to their stroke. Their bodies are elasticallysupple, with free sway from the hips and a mercurial poise upon theankle. Stefano showed these qualities almost in exaggeration. The typein him was refined to its artistic perfection. Moreover, he wasrarely in repose, but moved with a singular brusque grace. A blackbroad-brimmed hat was thrown back upon his matted _zazzera_ ofdark hair tipped with dusky brown. This shock of hair, cut in flakes, and falling wilfully, reminded me of the lagoon grass when it darkensin autumn upon uncovered shoals, and sunset gilds its sombre edges. Fiery grey eyes beneath it gazed intensely, with compulsive effluenceof electricity. It was the wild glance of a Triton. Short blondemoustache, dazzling teeth, skin bronzed, but showing white andhealthful through open front and sleeves of lilac shirt. The dashingsparkle of this animate splendour, who looked to me as though thesea-waves and the sun had made him in some hour of secret and unquietrapture, was somehow emphasised by a curious dint dividing his squarechin--a cleft that harmonised with smile on lip and steady flame ineyes. I hardly know what effect it would have upon a reader to compareeyes to opals. Yet Stefano's eyes, as they met mine, had the vitreousintensity of opals, as though the colour of Venetian waters werevitalised in them. This noticeable being had a rough, hoarse voice, which, to develop the parallel with a sea-god, might have screamed instorm or whispered raucous messages from crests of tossing billows. 

I felt, as I looked, that here, for me at least, the mythopoem of thelagoons was humanised; the spirit of the saltwater lakes had appearedto me; the final touch of life emergent from nature had been given. Iwas satisfied; for I had seen a poem. 

Then we rose, and wandered through the Jews' cemetery. It is a quietplace, where the flat grave-stones, inscribed in Hebrew and Italian, lie deep in Lido sand, waved over with wild grass and poppies. I wouldfain believe that no neglect, but rather the fashion of this folk, hadleft the monuments of generations to be thus resumed by nature. Yet, knowing nothing of the history of this burial-ground, I dare notaffirm so much. There is one outlying piece of the cemetery whichseems to contradict my charitable interpretation. It is not far fromSan Nicoletto. No enclosure marks it from the unconsecrated dunes. Acacia-trees sprout amid the monuments, and break the tablets withtheir thorny shoots upthrusting from the soil. Where patriarchs andrabbis sleep for centuries, the fishers of the sea now wander, anddefile these habitations of the dead:

 Corruption most abhorred Mingling itself with their renownèd ashes. 

Some of the grave-stones have been used to fence the towing-path; andone I saw, well carved with letters legible of Hebrew on fair Istrianmarble, which roofed an open drain leading from the stable of aChristian dog. 

VIII. --A VENETIAN RESTAURANT

At the end of a long glorious day, unhappy is that mortal whom theHermes of a cosmopolitan hotel, white-chokered and white-waistcoated, marshals to the Hades of the _table-d'hôte_. The world has oftenbeen compared to an inn; but on my way down to this common meal Ihave, not unfrequently, felt fain to reverse the simile. From theirseparate stations, at the appointed hour, the guests like ghosts flitto a gloomy gas-lit chamber. They are of various speech and race, preoccupied with divers interests and cares. Necessity and thewaiter drive them all to a sepulchral syssition, whereof the cook toofrequently deserves that old Greek comic epithet--[Greek: hadoumageiros]--cook of the Inferno. And just as we are told that inCharon's boat we shall not be allowed to pick our society, so herewe must accept what fellowship the fates provide. An English spinsterretailing paradoxes culled to-day from Ruskin's handbooks; an Americancitizen describing his jaunt in a gondóla from the railway station;a German shopkeeper descanting in one breath on Baur's Bock and thebeauties of the Marcusplatz; an intelligent æsthete bent on workinginto clearness his own views of Carpaccio's genius: all these in turn, or all together, must be suffered gladly through well-nigh two longhours. Uncomforted in soul we rise from the expensive banquet; and howoften rise from it unfed!

Far other be the doom of my own friends--of pious bards and genialcompanions, lovers of natural and lovely things! Nor for these doI desire a seat at Florian's marble tables, or a perch in Quadri'swindow, though the former supply dainty food, and the latter commanda bird's-eye view of the Piazza. Rather would I lead them to a certainhumble tavern on the Zattere. It is a quaint, low-built, unpretendinglittle place, near a bridge, with a garden hard by which sends acataract of honeysuckles sunward over a too-jealous wall. In frontlies a Mediterranean steamer, which all day long has been dischargingcargo. Gazing westward up Giudecca, masts and funnels bar thesunset and the Paduan hills; and from a little front room of the_trattoria_ the view is so marine that one keeps fancying oneselfin some ship's cabin. Sea-captains sit and smoke beside their glassof grog in the pavilion and the _caffé_. But we do not seek theircompany at dinner-time. Our way lies under yonder arch, and up thenarrow alley into a paved court. Here are oleanders in pots, andplants of Japanese spindle-wood in tubs; and from the walls beneaththe window hang cages of all sorts of birds--a talking parrot, awhistling blackbird, goldfinches, canaries, linnets. Athos, the fatdog, who goes to market daily in a _barchetta_ with his master, snuffs around. 'Where are Porthos and Aramis, my friend?' Athos doesnot take the joke; he only wags his stump of tail and pokes his noseinto my hand. What a Tartufe's nose it is! Its bridge displays thefull parade of leather-bound brass-nailed muzzle. But beneath, thismuzzle is a patent sham. The frame does not even pretend to closeon Athos' jaw, and the wise dog wears it like a decoration. A littlefarther we meet that ancient grey cat, who has no discoverable name, but is famous for the sprightliness and grace with which she bears hereighteen years. Not far from the cat one is sure to find Carlo--thebird-like, bright-faced, close-cropped Venetian urchin, whose dutyit is to trot backwards and forwards between the cellar and thedining-tables. At the end of the court we walk into the kitchen, wherethe black-capped little _padrone_ and the gigantic white-cappedchef are in close consultation. Here we have the privilege ofinspecting the larder--fish of various sorts, meat, vegetables, several kinds of birds, pigeons, tordi, beccafichi, geese, wildducks, chickens, woodcock, &c. , according to the season. We selectour dinner, and retire to eat it either in the court among the birdsbeneath the vines, or in the low dark room which occupies one side ofit. Artists of many nationalities and divers ages frequent this house;and the talk arising from the several little tables, turns upon pointsof interest and beauty in the life and landscape of Venice. Therecan be no difference of opinion about the excellence ofthe _cuisine_, or about the reasonable charges of this_trattoria_. A soup of lentils, followed by boiled turbot orfried soles, beefsteak or mutton cutlets, tordi or beccafichi, witha salad, the whole enlivened with good red wine or Florio's SicilianMarsala from the cask, costs about four francs. Gas is unknown in theestablishment. There is no noise, no bustle, no brutality of waiters, no _ahurissement_ of tourists. And when dinner is done, we cansit awhile over our cigarette and coffee, talking until the nightinvites us to a stroll along the Zattere or a _giro_ in thegondola. 

IX. --NIGHT IN VENICE

Night in Venice! Night is nowhere else so wonderful, unless it be inwinter among the high Alps. But the nights of Venice and the nights ofthe mountains are too different in kind to be compared. 

There is the ever-recurring miracle of the full moon rising, beforeday is dead, behind San Giorgio, spreading a path of gold on thelagoon which black boats traverse with the glow-worm lamp upon theirprow; ascending the cloudless sky and silvering the domes of theSalute; pouring vitreous sheen upon the red lights of the Piazzetta;flooding the Grand Canal, and lifting the Rialto higher in etherealwhiteness; piercing but penetrating not the murky labyrinth of_rio_ linked with _rio_, through which we wind in light andshadow, to reach once more the level glories and the luminous expanseof heaven beyond the Misericordia. 

This is the melodrama of Venetian moonlight; and if a singleimpression of the night has to be retained from one visit to Venice, those are fortunate who chance upon a full moon of fair weather. YetI know not whether some quieter and soberer effects are not morethrilling. To-night, for example, the waning moon will rise latethrough veils of _scirocco_. Over the bridges of San Cristoforoand San Gregorio, through the deserted Calle di Mezzo, my friend andI walk in darkness, pass the marble basements of the Salute, and pushour way along its Riva to the point of the Dogana. We are out at seaalone, between the Canalozzo and the Giudecca. A moist wind rufflesthe water and cools our forehead. It is so dark that we can only seeSan Giorgio by the light reflected on it from the Piazzetta. The samelight climbs the Campanile of S. Mark, and shows the golden angel ina mystery of gloom. The only noise that reaches us is a confused humfrom the Piazza. Sitting and musing there, the blackness of the waterwhispers in our ears a tale of death. And now we hear a plash of oars, and gliding through the darkness comes a single boat. One man leapsupon the landing-place without a word and disappears. There is anotherwrapped in a military cloak asleep. I see his face beneath me, paleand quiet. The _barcaruolo_ turns the point in silence. From thedarkness they came; into the darkness they have gone. It is only anordinary incident of coastguard service. But the spirit of the nighthas made a poem of it. 

Even tempestuous and rainy weather, though melancholy enough, is neversordid here. There is no noise from carriage traffic in Venice, andthe sea-wind preserves the purity and transparency of the atmosphere. It had been raining all day, but at evening came a partial clearing. I went down to the Molo, where the large reach of the lagoon was allmoon-silvered, and San Giorgio Maggiore dark against the bluish sky, and Santa Maria della Salute domed with moon-irradiated pearl, and thewet slabs of the Riva shimmering in moonlight, the whole misty sky, with its clouds and stellar spaces, drenched in moonlight, nothing butmoonlight sensible except the tawny flare of gas-lamps and the orangelights of gondolas afloat upon the waters. On such a night the veryspirit of Venice is abroad. We feel why she is called Bride of theSea. 

Take yet another night. There had been a representation of Verdi's'Forza del Destino' at the Teatro Malibran. After midnight we walkedhomeward through the Merceria, crossed the Piazza, and dived into thenarrow _calle_ which leads to the _traghetto_ of the Salute. It was a warm moist starless night, and there seemed no air to breathein those narrow alleys. The gondolier was half asleep. Eustace calledhim as we jumped into his boat, and rang our _soldi_ on thegunwale. Then he arose and turned the _ferro_ round, and stoodacross towards the Salute. Silently, insensibly, from the oppressionof confinement in the airless streets to the liberty and immensityof the water and the night we passed. It was but two minutes ere wetouched the shore and said good-night, and went our way and leftthe ferryman. But in that brief passage he had opened our souls toeverlasting things--the freshness, and the darkness, and the kindnessof the brooding, all-enfolding night above the sea. 

 * * * * *

_THE GONDOLIER'S WEDDING_

The night before the wedding we had a supper-party in my rooms. Wewere twelve in all. My friend Eustace brought his gondolier Antoniowith fair-haired, dark-eyed wife, and little Attilio, their eldestchild. My own gondolier, Francesco, came with his wife and twochildren. Then there was the handsome, languid Luigi, who, in his bestclothes, or out of them, is fit for any drawing-room. Two gondoliers, in dark blue shirts, completed the list of guests, if we exclude themaid Catina, who came and went about the table, laughing and joiningin the songs, and sitting down at intervals to take her share of wine. The big room looking across the garden to the Grand Canal had beenprepared for supper; and the company were to be received in thesmaller, which has a fine open space in front of it to southwards. Butas the guests arrived, they seemed to find the kitchen and the cookingthat was going on quite irresistible. Catina, it seems, had lost herhead with so many cuttlefishes, _orai_, cakes, and fowls, andcutlets to reduce to order. There was, therefore, a great bustle belowstairs; and I could hear plainly that all my guests were lending theirmaking, or their marring, hands to the preparation of the supper. Thatthe company should cook their own food on the way to the dining-room, seemed a quite novel arrangement, but one that promised well for theircontentment with the banquet. Nobody could be dissatisfied with whatwas everybody's affair. 

When seven o'clock struck, Eustace and I, who had been entertainingthe children in their mothers' absence, heard the sound of steps uponthe stairs. The guests arrived, bringing their own _risotto_ withthem. Welcome was short, if hearty. We sat down in carefully appointedorder, and fell into such conversation as the quarter of San Vio andour several interests supplied. From time to time one of the matronsleft the table and descended to the kitchen, when a finishing strokewas needed for roast pullet or stewed veal. The excuses they madetheir host for supposed failure in the dishes, lent a certain graceand comic charm to the commonplace of festivity. The entertainmentwas theirs as much as mine; and they all seemed to enjoy what took theform by degrees of curiously complicated hospitality. I do not thinka well-ordered supper at any _trattoria_, such as at firstsuggested itself to my imagination, would have given any of us anequal pleasure or an equal sense of freedom. The three children hadbecome the guests of the whole party. Little Attilio, propped upon anair-cushion, which puzzled him exceedingly, ate through his supper anddrank his wine with solid satisfaction, opening the large brown eyesbeneath those tufts of clustering fair hair which promise much beautyfor him in his manhood. Francesco's boy, who is older and begins toknow the world, sat with a semi-suppressed grin upon his face, asthough the humour of the situation was not wholly hidden from him. Little Teresa, too, was happy, except when her mother, a severePomona, with enormous earrings and splendid _fazzoletto_ ofcrimson and orange dyes, pounced down upon her for some supposedinfraction of good manners--_creanza_, as they vividly express ithere. Only Luigi looked a trifle bored. But Luigi has been a soldier, and has now attained the supercilious superiority of young-manhood, which smokes its cigar of an evening in the piazza and knows themerits of the different cafés. The great business of the evening beganwhen the eating was over, and the decanters filled with new wine ofMirano circulated freely. The four best singers of the party drewtogether; and the rest prepared themselves to make suggestions, humtunes, and join with fitful effect in choruses. Antonio, who is apowerful young fellow, with bronzed cheeks and a perfect tempest ofcoal-black hair in flakes upon his forehead, has a most extraordinarysoprano--sound as a bell, strong as a trumpet, well trained, andtrue to the least shade in intonation. Piero, whose rugged Neptunianfeatures, sea-wrinkled, tell of a rough water-life, boasts a bass ofresonant, almost pathetic quality. Francesco has a _mezzo voce_, which might, by a stretch of politeness, be called baritone. Piero'scomrade, whose name concerns us not, has another of these nondescriptvoices. They sat together with their glasses and cigars before them, sketching part-songs in outline, striking the keynote--now higher andnow lower--till they saw their subject well in view. Then they burstinto full singing, Antonio leading with a metal note that thrilledone's ears, but still was musical. Complicated contrapuntal pieces, such as we should call madrigals, with ever-recurring refrains of'Venezia, gemma Triatica, sposa del mar, ' descending probably fromancient days, followed each other in quick succession. Barcaroles, serenades, love-songs, and invitations to the water were interwovenfor relief. One of these romantic pieces had a beautiful burden, 'Dormi, o bella, o fingi di dormir, ' of which the melody was fullyworthy. But the most successful of all the tunes were two with a sadmotive. The one repeated incessantly 'Ohimé! mia madre morì;' theother was a girl's love lament: 'Perchè tradirmi, perchè lasciarmi!prima d'amarmi non eri così!' Even the children joined in these; andCatina, who took the solo part in the second, was inspired to a greatdramatic effort. All these were purely popular songs. The people ofVenice, however, are passionate for operas. Therefore we had duetsand solos from 'Ernani, ' the 'Ballo in Maschera, ' and the 'Forza delDestino, ' and one comic chorus from 'Boccaccio, ' which seemed to makethem wild with pleasure. To my mind, the best of these more formalpieces was a duet between Attila and Italia from some opera unknown tome, which Antonio and Piero performed with incomparable spirit. Itwas noticeable how, descending to the people, sung by them for loveat sea, or on excursions to the villages round Mestre, these operaticreminiscences had lost something of their theatrical formality, andassumed instead the serious gravity, the quaint movement, and markedemphasis which belong to popular music in Northern and Central Italy. An antique character was communicated even to the recitative of Verdiby slight, almost indefinable, changes of rhythm and accent. There wasno end to the singing. 'Siamo appassionati per il canto, ' frequentlyrepeated, was proved true by the profusion and variety of songsproduced from inexhaustible memories, lightly tried over, brilliantlyperformed, rapidly succeeding each other. Nor were gestureswanting--lifted arms, hands stretched to hands, flashing eyes, hairtossed from the forehead--unconscious and appropriate action--whichshowed how the spirit of the music and words alike possessed the men. One by one the children fell asleep. Little Attilio and Teresa weretucked up beneath my Scotch shawl at two ends of a great sofa; and noteven his father's clarion voice, in the character of Italia defyingAttila to harm 'le mie superbe città, ' could wake the little boy up. The night wore on. It was past one. Eustace and I had promised to bein the church of the Gesuati at six next morning. We therefore gavethe guests a gentle hint, which they as gently took. With exquisite, because perfectly unaffected, breeding they sank for a few momentsinto common conversation, then wrapped the children up, and tooktheir leave. It was an uncomfortable, warm, wet night of sullen_scirocco_. 

The next day, which was Sunday, Francesco called me at five. Therewas no visible sunrise that cheerless damp October morning. Grey dawnstole somehow imperceptibly between the veil of clouds and leadenwaters, as my friend and I, well sheltered by our _felze_, passedinto the Giudecca, and took our station before the church of theGesuati. A few women from the neighbouring streets and courts crossedthe bridges in draggled petticoats on their way to first mass. A fewmen, shouldering their jackets, lounged along the Zattere, opened thegreat green doors, and entered. Then suddenly Antonio cried out thatthe bridal party was on its way, not as we had expected, in boats, buton foot. We left our gondola, and fell into the ranks, after shakinghands with Francesco, who is the elder brother of the bride. There wasnothing very noticeable in her appearance, except her large dark eyes. Otherwise both face and figure were of a common type; and her bridaldress of sprigged grey silk, large veil and orange blossoms, reducedher to the level of a _bourgeoise_. It was much the same withthe bridegroom. His features, indeed, proved him a true Venetiangondolier; for the skin was strained over the cheekbones, and themuscles of the throat beneath the jaws stood out like cords, and thebright blue eyes were deep-set beneath a spare brown forehead. Buthe had provided a complete suit of black for the occasion, and worea shirt of worked cambric, which disguised what is really splendid inthe physique of these oarsmen, at once slender and sinewy. Both brideand bridegroom looked uncomfortable in their clothes. The light thatfell upon them in the church was dull and leaden. The ceremony, whichwas very hurriedly performed by an unctuous priest, did not appear toimpress either of them. Nobody in the bridal party, crowding togetheron both sides of the altar, looked as though the service was of theslightest interest and moment. Indeed, this was hardly to be wonderedat; for the priest, so far as I could understand his gabble, tookthe larger portion for read, after muttering the first words of therubric. A little carven image of an acolyte--a weird boy who seemed tomove by springs, whose hair had all the semblance of painted wood, and whose complexion was white and red like a clown's--did not makematters more intelligible by spasmodically clattering responses. 

After the ceremony we heard mass and contributed to three distinctoffertories. Considering how much account even two _soldi_ are tothese poor people, I was really angry when I heard the copper shower. Every member of the party had his or her pennies ready, and droppedthem into the boxes. Whether it was the effect of the bad morning, orthe ugliness of a very ill-designed _barocco_ building, or thefault of the fat oily priest, I know not. But the _sposalizio_struck me as tame and cheerless, the mass as irreverent and vulgarlyconducted. At the same time there is something too impressive inthe mass for any perfunctory performance to divest its symbolism ofsublimity. A Protestant Communion Service lends itself more easily todegradation by unworthiness in the minister. 

We walked down the church in double file, led by the bride andbridegroom, who had knelt during the ceremony with the bestman--_compare_, as he is called--at a narrow _prie-dieu_ before thealtar. The _compare_ is a person of distinction at these weddings. Hehas to present the bride with a great pyramid of artificial flowers, which is placed before her at the marriage-feast, a packet of candles, and a box of bonbons. The comfits, when the box is opened, are foundto include two magnificent sugar babies lying in their cradles. I wastold that a _compare_, who does the thing handsomely, must be preparedto spend about a hundred francs upon these presents, in addition tothe wine and cigars with which he treats his friends. On this occasionthe women were agreed that he had done his duty well. He was a fat, wealthy little man, who lived by letting market-boats for hire on theRialto. 

From the church to the bride's house was a walk of some three minutes. On the way we were introduced to the father of the bride--a verymagnificent personage, with points of strong resemblance to VittorioEmmanuele. He wore an enormous broad-brimmed hat and emerald-greenearrings, and looked considerably younger than his eldest son, Francesco. Throughout the _nozze_ he took the lead in a grandimperious fashion of his own. Wherever he went, he seemed to fill theplace, and was fully aware of his own importance. In Florence I thinkhe would have got the nickname of _Tacchin_, or turkey-cock. Here at Venice the sons and daughters call their parent briefly_Vecchio_. I heard him so addressed with a certain amount of awe, expecting an explosion of bubbly-jock displeasure. But he took it, asthough it was natural, without disturbance. The other _Vecchio_, father of the bridegroom, struck me as more sympathetic. He was agentle old man, proud of his many prosperous, laborious sons. They, like the rest of the gentlemen, were gondoliers. Both the_Vecchi_, indeed, continue to ply their trade, day and night, atthe _traghetto_. 

_Traghetti_ are stations for gondolas at different points of thecanals. As their name implies, it is the first duty of the gondoliersupon them to ferry people across. This they do for the fixed fee offive centimes. The _traghetti_ are in fact Venetian cab-stands. And, of course, like London cabs, the gondolas may be taken off themfor trips. The municipality, however, makes it a condition, underpenalty of fine to the _traghetto_, that each station shouldalways be provided with two boats for the service of the ferry. Whenvacancies occur on the _traghetti_, a gondolier who owns or hiresa boat makes application to the municipality, receives a number, andis inscribed as plying at a certain station. He has now entered a sortof guild, which is presided over by a _Capo-traghetto_, electedby the rest for the protection of their interests, the settlement ofdisputes, and the management of their common funds. In the old actsof Venice this functionary is styled _Gastaldo di traghetto_. Themembers have to contribute something yearly to the guild. This paymentvaries upon different stations, according to the greater or lessamount of the tax levied by the municipality on the _traghetto_. The highest subscription I have heard of is twenty-five francs; thelowest, seven. There is one _traghetto_, known by the nameof Madonna del Giglio or Zobenigo, which possesses near its_pergola_ of vines a nice old brown Venetian picture. Somestranger offered a considerable sum for this. But the guild refused topart with it. 

As may be imagined, the _traghetti_ vary greatly in the amountand quality of their custom. By far the best are those in theneighbourhood of the hotels upon the Grand Canal. At any one of thesea gondolier during the season is sure of picking up some foreigner orother who will pay him handsomely for comparatively light service. A _traghetto_ on the Giudecca, on the contrary, depends uponVenetian traffic. The work is more monotonous, and the pay is reducedto its tariffed minimum. So far as I can gather, an industriousgondolier, with a good boat, belonging to a good _traghetto_, maymake as much as ten or fifteen francs in a single day. But this cannotbe relied on. They therefore prefer a fixed appointment with a privatefamily, for which they receive by tariff five francs a day, or byarrangement for long periods perhaps four francs a day, with certainperquisites and small advantages. It is great luck to get such anengagement for the winter. The heaviest anxieties which beset agondolier are then disposed of. Having entered private service, theyare not allowed to ply their trade on the _traghetto_, exceptby stipulation with their masters. Then they may take their place onenight out of every six in the rank and file. The gondoliers havetwo proverbs, which show how desirable it is, while taking a fixedengagement, to keep their hold on the _traghetto_. One is to thiseffect: _il traghetto è un buon padrone_. The other satirisesthe meanness of the poverty-stricken Venetian nobility: _pompa diservitù, misera insegna_. When they combine the _traghetto_with private service, the municipality insists on their retainingthe number painted on their gondola; and against this their employersfrequently object. It is therefore a great point for a gondolier tomake such an arrangement with his master as will leave him free toshow his number. The reason for this regulation is obvious. Gondoliersare known more by their numbers and their _traghetti_ thantheir names. They tell me that though there are upwards of athousand registered in Venice, each man of the trade knows thewhole confraternity by face and number. Taking all things intoconsideration, I think four francs a day the whole year round arevery good earnings for a gondolier. On this he will marry and rear afamily, and put a little money by. A young unmarried man, working attwo and a half or three francs a day, is proportionately well-to-do. If he is economical, he ought upon these wages to save enough intwo or three years to buy himself a gondola. A boy from fifteen tonineteen is called a _mezz' uomo_, and gets about one franc a day. Anew gondola with all its fittings is worth about a thousand francs. Itdoes not last in good condition more than six or seven years. At theend of that time the hull will fetch eighty francs. A new hull can behad for three hundred francs. The old fittings--brass sea-horses or_cavalli_, steel prow or _ferro_, covered cabin or _felze_, cushionsand leather-covered back-board or _stramazetto_, maybe transferred toit. When a man wants to start a gondola, he will begin by buying onealready half past service--a _gondola da traghetto_ or _di mezza età_. This should cost him something over two hundred francs. Little bylittle, he accumulates the needful fittings; and when his firstpurchase is worn out, he hopes to set up with a well-appointedequipage. He thus gradually works his way from the rough trade whichinvolves hard work and poor earnings to that more profitable industrywhich cannot be carried on without a smart boat. The gondola is asource of continual expense for repairs. Its oars have to be replaced. It has to be washed with sponges, blacked, and varnished. Its bottomneeds frequent cleaning. Weeds adhere to it in the warm brackishwater, growing rapidly through the summer months, and demanding to bescrubbed off once in every four weeks. The gondolier has no placewhere he can do this for himself. He therefore takes his boat to awharf, or _squero_, as the place is called. At these _squeri_ gondolasare built as well as cleaned. The fee for a thorough setting to rightsof the boat is five francs. It must be done upon a fine day. Thus inaddition to the cost, the owner loses a good day's work. 

These details will serve to give some notion of the sort of peoplewith whom Eustace and I spent our day. The bride's house is in anexcellent position on an open canal leading from the Canalozzo to theGiudecca. She had arrived before us, and received her friends in themiddle of the room. Each of us in turn kissed her cheek and murmuredour congratulations. We found the large living-room of the housearranged with chairs all round the walls, and the company weremarshalled in some order of precedence, my friend and I taking placenear the bride. On either hand airy bedrooms opened out, and twolarge doors, wide open, gave a view from where we sat of a good-sizedkitchen. This arrangement of the house was not only comfortable, butpretty; for the bright copper pans and pipkins ranged on shelvesalong the kitchen walls had a very cheerful effect. The walls werewhitewashed, but literally covered with all sorts of pictures. A greatplaster cast from some antique, an Atys, Adonis, or Paris, looked downfrom a bracket placed between the windows. There was enough furniture, solid and well kept, in all the rooms. Among the pictures werefull-length portraits in oils of two celebrated gondoliers--one inantique costume, the other painted a few years since. The original ofthe latter soon came and stood before it. He had won regatta prizes;and the flags of four discordant colours were painted round him by theartist, who had evidently cared more to commemorate the triumphs ofhis sitter and to strike a likeness than to secure the tone of his ownpicture. This champion turned out a fine fellow--Corradini--with oneof the brightest little gondoliers of thirteen for his son. 

After the company were seated, lemonade and cakes were handed roundamid a hubbub of chattering women. Then followed cups of black coffeeand more cakes. Then a glass of Cyprus and more cakes. Then a glassof curaçoa and more cakes. Finally, a glass of noyau and still morecakes. It was only a little after seven in the morning. Yet politenesscompelled us to consume these delicacies. I tried to shirk my duty;but this discretion was taken by my hosts for well-bred modesty; andinstead of being let off, I had the richest piece of pastry and thelargest maccaroon available pressed so kindly on me, that, had theybeen poisoned, I would not have refused to eat them. The conversationgrew more, and more animated, the women gathering together in theirdresses of bright blue and scarlet, the men lighting cigars andpuffing out a few quiet words. It struck me as a drawback that thesepicturesque people had put on Sunday-clothes to look as much likeshopkeepers as possible. But they did not all of them succeed. Twohandsome women, who handed the cups round--one a brunette, the othera blonde--wore skirts of brilliant blue, with a sort of white jacket, and white kerchief folded heavily about their shoulders. The brunettehad a great string of coral, the blonde of amber, round her throat. Gold earrings and the long gold chains Venetian women wear, of allpatterns and degrees of value, abounded. Nobody appeared withoutthem; but I could not see any of an antique make. The men seemed to becontented with rings--huge, heavy rings of solid gold, worked witha rough flower pattern. One young fellow had three upon his fingers. This circumstance led me to speculate whether a certain portion atleast of this display of jewellery around me had not been borrowed forthe occasion. 

Eustace and I were treated quite like friends. They called us _ISignori_. But this was only, I think, because our English namesare quite unmanageable. The women fluttered about us and keptasking whether we really liked it all? whether we should come to the_pranzo_? whether it was true we danced? It seemed to give themunaffected pleasure to be kind to us; and when we rose to go away, thewhole company crowded round, shaking hands and saying: 'Si divertiràbene stasera!' Nobody resented our presence; what was better, no oneput himself out for us. 'Vogliono veder il nostro costume, ' I heardone woman say. 

We got home soon after eight, and, as our ancestors would have said, settled our stomachs with a dish of tea. It makes me shudder now tothink of the mixed liquids and miscellaneous cakes we had consumed atthat unwonted hour. 

At half-past three, Eustace and I again prepared ourselves for action. His gondola was in attendance, covered with the _felze_, to take us tothe house of the _sposa_. We found the canal crowded with poor peopleof the quarter--men, women, and children lining the walls along itsside, and clustering like bees upon the bridges. The water itself wasalmost choked with gondolas. Evidently the folk of San Vio thought ourwedding procession would be a most exciting pageant. We entered thehouse, and were again greeted by the bride and bridegroom, whoconsigned each of us to the control of a fair tyrant. This is the mostfitting way of describing our introduction to our partners of theevening; for we were no sooner presented, than the ladies swooped uponus like their prey, placing their shawls upon our left arms, whilethey seized and clung to what was left available of us for locomotion. There was considerable giggling and tittering throughout the companywhen Signora Fenzo, the young and comely wife of a gondolier, thustook possession of Eustace, and Signora dell' Acqua, the widow ofanother gondolier, appropriated me. The affair had been arrangedbeforehand, and their friends had probably chaffed them with thedifficulty of managing two mad Englishmen. However, they proved equalto the occasion, and the difficulties were entirely on our side. Signora Fenzo was a handsome brunette, quiet in her manners, who meantbusiness. I envied Eustace his subjection to such a reasonable being. Signora dell' Acqua, though a widow, was by no means disconsolate; andI soon perceived that it would require all the address and diplomacy Ipossessed, to make anything out of her society. She laughedincessantly; darted in the most diverse directions, dragging me alongwith her; exhibited me in triumph to her cronies; made eyes at me overa fan, repeated my clumsiest remarks, as though they gave herindescribable amusement; and all the while jabbered Venetian atexpress rate, without the slightest regard for my incapacity to followher vagaries. The _Vecchio_ marshalled us in order. First went the_sposa_ and _comare_ with the mothers of bride and bridegroom. Thenfollowed the _sposo_ and the bridesmaid. After them I was made to leadmy fair tormentor. As we descended the staircase there arose a hubbubof excitement from the crowd on the canals. The gondolas movedturbidly upon the face of the waters. The bridegroom kept muttering tohimself, 'How we shall be criticised! They will tell each other whowas decently dressed, and who stepped awkwardly into the boats, andwhat the price of my boots was!' Such exclamations, murmured atintervals, and followed by chest-drawn sighs, expressed a deeppreoccupation. With regard to his boots, he need have had no anxiety. They were of the shiniest patent leather, much too tight, and withouta speck of dust upon them. But his nervousness infected me with acruel dread. All those eyes were going to watch how we comportedourselves in jumping from the landing-steps into the boat! If thisoperation, upon a ceremonious occasion, has terrors even for agondolier, how formidable it ought to be to me! And here is theSignora dell' Acqua's white cachemire shawl dangling on one arm, andthe Signora herself languishingly clinging to the other; and thegondolas are fretting in a fury of excitement, like corks, upon thechurned green water! The moment was terrible. The _sposa_ and herthree companions had been safely stowed away beneath their _felze_. The _sposo_ had successfully handed the bridesmaid into the secondgondola. I had to perform the same office for my partner. Off shewent, like a bird, from the bank. I seized a happy moment, followed, bowed, and found myself to my contentment gracefully ensconced in acorner opposite the widow. Seven more gondolas were packed. Theprocession moved. We glided down the little channel, broke away intothe Grand Canal, crossed it, and dived into a labyrinth from which wefinally emerged before our destination, the Trattoria di San Gallo. The perils of the landing were soon over; and, with the rest of theguests, my mercurial companion and I slowly ascended a long flight ofstairs leading to a vast upper chamber. Here we were to dine. 

It had been the gallery of some palazzo in old days, was above onehundred feet in length, fairly broad, with a roof of wooden raftersand large windows opening on a courtyard garden. I could see the topsof three cypress-trees cutting the grey sky upon a level with us. A long table occupied the centre of this room. It had been laid forupwards of forty persons, and we filled it. There was plenty oflight from great glass lustres blazing with gas. When the ladies hadarranged their dresses, and the gentlemen had exchanged a few politeremarks, we all sat down to dinner--I next my inexorable widow, Eustace beside his calm and comely partner. The first impressionwas one of disappointment. It looked so like a public dinner ofmiddle-class people. There was no local character in costume orcustoms. Men and women sat politely bored, expectant, trifling withtheir napkins, yawning, muttering nothings about the weather or theirneighbours. The frozen commonplaceness of the scene was made forme still more oppressive by Signora dell' Acqua. She was evidentlysatirical, and could not be happy unless continually laughing at orwith somebody. 'What a stick the woman will think me!' I kept sayingto myself. 'How shall I ever invent jokes in this strange land? Icannot even flirt with her in Venetian! And here I have condemnedmyself--and her too, poor thing--to sit through at least three hoursof mortal dulness!' Yet the widow was by no means unattractive. Dressed in black, she had contrived by an artful arrangement of laceand jewellery to give an air of lightness to her costume. She hada pretty little pale face, a _minois chiffonné_, with slightlyturned-up nose, large laughing brown eyes, a dazzling set of teeth, and a tempestuously frizzled mop of powdered hair. When I managed toget a side-look at her quietly, without being giggled at or drivenhalf mad by unintelligible incitements to a jocularity I couldnot feel, it struck me that, if we once found a common term ofcommunication we should become good friends. But for the moment that_modus vivendi_ seemed unattainable. She had not recovered fromthe first excitement of her capture of me. She was still showingme off and trying to stir me up. The arrival of the soup gave mea momentary relief; and soon the serious business of the afternoonbegan. I may add that before dinner was over, the Signora dell' Acquaand I were fast friends. I had discovered the way of making jokes, andshe had become intelligible. I found her a very nice, though flighty, little woman; and I believe she thought me gifted with the faculty ofuttering eccentric epigrams in a grotesque tongue. Some of my remarkswere flung about the table, and had the same success as uncouthLombard carvings have with connoisseurs in _naïvetés_ of art. By thattime we had come to be _compare_ and _comare_ to each other--thesequel of some clumsy piece of jocularity. 

It was a heavy entertainment, copious in quantity, excellent inquality, plainly but well cooked. I remarked there was no fish. Thewidow replied that everybody present ate fish to satiety at home. Theydid not join a marriage feast at the San Gallo, and pay their ninefrancs, for that! It should be observed that each guest paid for hisown entertainment. This appears to be the custom. Therefore attendanceis complimentary, and the married couple are not at ruinous chargesfor the banquet. A curious feature in the whole proceeding had itsorigin in this custom. I noticed that before each cover lay an emptyplate, and that my partner began with the first course to heap uponit what she had not eaten. She also took large helpings, and keptadvising me to do the same. I said: 'No; I only take what I want toeat; if I fill that plate in front of me as you are doing, it will begreat waste. ' This remark elicited shrieks of laughter from all whoheard it; and when the hubbub had subsided, I perceived an apparentlyofficial personage bearing down upon Eustace, who was in the sameperplexity. It was then circumstantially explained to us that theempty plates were put there in order that we might lay aside what wecould not conveniently eat, and take it home with us. At the endof the dinner the widow (whom I must now call my _comare_) hadaccumulated two whole chickens, half a turkey, and a large assortmentof mixed eatables. I performed my duty and won her regard by placingdelicacies at her disposition. 

Crudely stated, this proceeding moves disgust. But that is onlybecause one has not thought the matter out. In the performance therewas nothing coarse or nasty. These good folk had made a contract atso much a head--so many fowls, so many pounds of beef, &c, to besupplied; and what they had fairly bought, they clearly had a rightto. No one, so far as I could notice, tried to take more than hisproper share; except, indeed, Eustace and myself. In our firsteagerness to conform to custom, we both overshot the mark, and grabbedat disproportionate helpings. The waiters politely observed that wewere taking what was meant for two; and as the courses followed ininterminable sequence, we soon acquired the tact of what was due tous. 

Meanwhile the room grew warm. The gentlemen threw off their coats--apleasant liberty of which I availed myself, and was immediately moreat ease. The ladies divested themselves of their shoes (strangeto relate!) and sat in comfort with their stockinged feet upon the_scagliola_ pavement. I observed that some cavaliers by specialpermission were allowed to remove their partners' slippers. This wasnot my lucky fate. My _comare_ had not advanced to that point ofintimacy. Healths began to be drunk. The conversation took a livelyturn; and women went fluttering round the table, visiting theirfriends, to sip out of their glass, and ask each other how theywere getting on. It was not long before the stiff veneer of_bourgeoisie_ which bored me had worn off. The people emerged intheir true selves: natural, gentle, sparkling with enjoyment, playful. Playful is, I think, the best word to describe them. They played withinfinite grace and innocence, like kittens, from the old men of sixtyto the little boys of thirteen. Very little wine was drunk. Each guesthad a litre placed before him. Many did not finish theirs; and forvery few was it replenished. When at last the dessert arrived, and thebride's comfits had been handed round, they began to sing. It was verypretty to see a party of three or four friends gathering round somepopular beauty, and paying her compliments in verse--they groupedbehind her chair, she sitting back in it and laughing up to them, and joining in the chorus. The words, 'Brunetta mia simpatica, ti amosempre più, ' sung after this fashion to Eustace's handsome partner, who puffed delicate whiffs from a Russian cigarette, and smiled herthanks, had a peculiar appropriateness. All the ladies, it may beobserved in passing, had by this time lit their cigarettes. The menwere smoking Toscani, Sellas, or Cavours, and the little boys weredancing round the table breathing smoke from their pert nostrils. 

The dinner, in fact, was over. Other relatives of the guests arrived, and then we saw how some of the reserved dishes were to be bestowed. Aside-table was spread at the end of the gallery, and these late-comerswere regaled with plenty by their friends. Meanwhile, the big tableat which we had dined was taken to pieces and removed. The_scagliola_ floor was swept by the waiters. Musicians camestreaming in and took their places. The ladies resumed their shoes. Every one prepared to dance. 

My friend and I were now at liberty to chat with the men. He knewsome of them by sight, and claimed acquaintance with others. Therewas plenty of talk about different boats, gondolas, and sandolos andtopos, remarks upon the past season, and inquiries as to chances ofengagements in the future. One young fellow told us how he had beendrawn for the army, and should be obliged to give up his trade justwhen he had begun to make it answer. He had got a new gondola, andthis would have to be hung up during the years of his service. Thewarehousing of a boat in these circumstances costs nearly one hundredfrancs a year, which is a serious tax upon the pockets of a private inthe line. Many questions were put in turn to us, but all of the sametenor. 'Had we really enjoyed the _pranzo_? Now, really, were weamusing ourselves? And did we think the custom of the wedding _unbel costume_?' We could give an unequivocally hearty response toall these interrogations. The men seemed pleased. Their interest inour enjoyment was unaffected. It is noticeable how often the word_divertimento_ is heard upon the lips of the Italians. They havea notion that it is the function in life of the _Signori_ toamuse themselves. 

The ball opened, and now we were much besought by the ladies. I had todeny myself with a whole series of comical excuses. Eustace performedhis duty after a stiff English fashion--once with his pretty partnerof the _pranzo_, and once again with a fat gondolier. The bandplayed waltzes and polkas, chiefly upon patriotic airs--the MarciaReale, Garibaldi's Hymn, &c. Men danced with men, women with women, little boys and girls together. The gallery whirled with a laughingcrowd. There was plenty of excitement and enjoyment--not an unseemlyor extravagant word or gesture. My _comare_ careered about with alight mænadic impetuosity, which made me regret my inability to accepther pressing invitations. She pursued me into every corner of theroom, but when at last I dropped excuses and told her that my realreason for not dancing was that it would hurt my health, she waivedher claims at once with an _Ah, poverino!_

Some time after midnight we felt that we had had enough of_divertimento_. Francesco helped us to slip out unobserved. Withmany silent good wishes we left the innocent playful people who hadbeen so kind to us. The stars were shining from a watery sky as wepassed into the piazza beneath the Campanile and the pinnacles ofS. Mark. The Riva was almost empty, and the little waves fretted theboats moored to the piazzetta, as a warm moist breeze went flutteringby. We smoked a last cigar, crossed our _traghetto_, and weresoon sound asleep at the end of a long pleasant day. The ball, weheard next morning, finished about four. 

Since that evening I have had plenty of opportunities for seeing myfriends the gondoliers, both in their own homes and in my apartment. Several have entertained me at their mid-day meal of fried fishand amber-coloured polenta. These repasts were always cooked withscrupulous cleanliness, and served upon a table covered with coarselinen. The polenta is turned out upon a wooden platter, and cut witha string called _lassa_. You take a large slice of it on thepalm of the left hand, and break it with the fingers of the right. Wholesome red wine of the Paduan district and good white bread werenever wanting. The rooms in which we met to eat looked out on narrowlanes or over pergolas of yellowing vines. Their whitewashed wallswere hung with photographs of friends and foreigners, many of themsouvenirs from English or American employers. The men, in broadblack hats and lilac shirts, sat round the table, girt with the redwaist-wrapper, or _fascia_, which marks the ancient faction ofthe Castellani. The other faction, called Nicolotti, are distinguishedby a black _assisa_. The quarters of the town are dividedunequally and irregularly into these two parties. What was once aformidable rivalry between two sections of the Venetian populace, still survives in challenges to trials of strength and skill upon thewater. The women, in their many-coloured kerchiefs, stirred polenta atthe smoke-blackened chimney, whose huge pent-house roof projects twofeet or more across the hearth. When they had served the table theytook their seat on low stools, knitted stockings, or drank out ofglasses handed across the shoulder to them by their lords. Some ofthese women were clearly notable housewives, and I have no reason tosuppose that they do not take their full share of the housework. Boysand girls came in and out, and got a portion of the dinner to consumewhere they thought best. Children went tottering about upon thered-brick floor, the playthings of those hulking fellows, who handledthem very gently and spoke kindly in a sort of confidential whisperto their ears. These little ears were mostly pierced for earrings, andthe light blue eyes of the urchins peeped maliciously beneath shocksof yellow hair. A dog was often of the party. He ate fish like hismasters, and was made to beg for it by sitting up and rowing withhis paws. _Voga, Azzò, voga!_ The Anzolo who talked thus tohis little brown Spitz-dog has the hoarse voice of a Triton and themovement of an animated sea-wave. Azzo performed his trick, swallowedhis fish-bones, and the fiery Anzolo looked round approvingly. 

On all these occasions I have found these gondoliers the samesympathetic, industrious, cheery affectionate folk. They live in manyrespects a hard and precarious life. The winter in particular is atime of anxiety, and sometimes of privation, even to the well-to-doamong them. Work then is scarce, and what there is, is rendereddisagreeable to them by the cold. Yet they take their chance withfacile temper, and are not soured by hardships. The amenities of theVenetian sea and air, the healthiness of the lagoons, the cheerfulbustle of the poorer quarters, the brilliancy of this Southernsunlight, and the beauty which is everywhere apparent, must bereckoned as important factors in the formation of their character. Andof that character, as I have said, the final note is playfulness. In spite of difficulties, their life has never been stern enough tosadden them. Bare necessities are marvellously cheap, and the pinchof real bad weather--such frost as locked the lagoons in ice two yearsago, or such south-western gales as flooded the basement floors ofall the houses on the Zattere--is rare and does not last long. On theother hand, their life has never been so lazy as to reduce them tothe savagery of the traditional Neapolitan lazzaroni. They have hadto work daily for small earnings, but under favourable conditions, and their labour has been lightened by much good-fellowship amongthemselves, by the amusements of their _feste_ and their singingclubs. 

Of course it is not easy for a stranger in a very different socialposition to feel that he has been admitted to their confidence. Italians have an ineradicable habit of making themselves externallyagreeable, of bending in all indifferent matters to the whims andwishes of superiors, and of saying what they think _Signori_like. This habit, while it smoothes the surface of existence, raisesup a barrier of compliment and partial insincerity, against which themore downright natures of us Northern folk break in vain efforts. Ouradvances are met with an imperceptible but impermeable resistance bythe very people who are bent on making the world pleasant to us. Itis the very reverse of that dour opposition which a Lowland Scot ora North English peasant offers to familiarity; but it is hardly lessinsurmountable. The treatment, again, which Venetians of the lowerclass have received through centuries from their own nobility, makesattempts at fraternisation on the part of gentlemen unintelligible tothem. The best way, here and elsewhere, of overcoming these obstaclesis to have some bond of work or interest in common--of service on theone side rendered, and goodwill on the other honestly displayed. Themen of whom I have been speaking will, I am convinced, not shirk theirshare of duty or make unreasonable claims upon the generosity of theiremployers. 

 * * * * *

_A CINQUE CENTO BRUTUS_

I. --THE SESTIERE DI SAN POLO

There is a quarter of Venice not much visited by tourists, lying asit does outside their beat, away from the Rialto, at a considerabledistance from the Frari and San Rocco, in what might almost pass for acity separated by a hundred miles from the Piazza. This is the quarterof San Polo, one corner of which, somewhere between the back ofthe Palazzo Foscari and the Campo di San Polo, was the scene ofa memorable act of vengeance in the year 1546. Here Lorenzino de'Medici, the murderer of his cousin Alessandro, was at last trackeddown and put to death by paid cut-throats. How they succeeded in theirpurpose, we know in every detail from the narrative dictated by thechief assassin. His story so curiously illustrates the conditions oflife in Italy three centuries ago, that I have thought it worthy ofabridgment. But, in order to make it intelligible, and to paint themanners of the times more fully, I must first relate the series ofevents which led to Lorenzino's murder of his cousin Alessandro, andfrom that to his own subsequent assassination. Lorenzino de' Medici, the Florentine Brutus of the sixteenth century, is the hero of thetragedy. Some of his relatives, however, must first appear upon thescene before he enters with a patriot's knife concealed beneath acourt-fool's bauble. 

II. --THE MURDER OF IPPOLITO DE' MEDICI

After the final extinction of the Florentine Republic, the hopes ofthe Medici, who now aspired to the dukedom of Tuscany, rested on threebastards--Alessandro, the reputed child of Lorenzo, Duke of Urbino;Ippolito, the natural son of Giuliano, Duke of Nemours; and Giulio, the offspring of an elder Giuliano, who was at this time Pope, withthe title of Clement VII. Clement had seen Rome sacked in 1527 by ahorde of freebooters fighting under the Imperial standard, and hadused the remnant of these troops, commanded by the Prince of Orange, to crush his native city in the memorable siege of 1529-30. He nowdetermined to rule Florence from the Papal chair by the help of thetwo bastard cousins I have named. Alessandro was created Duke ofCività di Penna, and sent to take the first place in the city. Ippolito was made a cardinal; since the Medici had learned that Romewas the real basis of their power, and it was undoubtedly in Clement'spolicy to advance this scion of his house to the Papacy. The solesurviving representative of the great Lorenzo de' Medici's legitimateblood was Catherine, daughter of the Duke of Urbino by Madeleine de laTour d'Auvergne. She was pledged in marriage to the Duke of Orleans, who was afterwards Henry II. Of France. A natural daughter ofthe Emperor Charles V. Was provided for her putative half-brotherAlessandro. By means of these alliances the succession of Ippolitoto the Papal chair would have been secured, and the strength of theMedici would have been confirmed in Tuscany, but for the disasterswhich have now to be related. 

Between the cousins Alessandro and Ippolito there was no love lost. Asboys, they had both played the part of princes in Florence under theguardianship of the Cardinal Passerini da Cortona. The higher rankhad then been given to Ippolito, who bore the title of Magnifico, andseemed thus designated for the lordship of the city. Ippolito, thoughonly half a Medici, was of more authentic lineage than Alessandro; forno proof positive could be adduced that the latter was even a spuriouschild of the Duke of Urbino. He bore obvious witness to his mother'sblood upon his mulatto's face; but this mother was the wife of agroom, and it was certain that in the court of Urbino she had not beenchary of her favours. The old magnificence of taste, the patronageof art and letters, and the preference for liberal studies whichdistinguished Casa Medici, survived in Ippolito; whereas Alessandromanifested only the brutal lusts of a debauched tyrant. It wastherefore with great reluctance that, moved by reasons of state anddomestic policy, Ippolito saw himself compelled to accept the scarlethat. Alessandro having been recognised as a son of the Duke of Urbino, had become half-brother to the future Queen of France. To treat him asthe head of the family was a necessity thrust, in the extremity ofthe Medicean fortunes, upon Clement. Ippolito, who more entirelyrepresented the spirit of the house, was driven to assume the positionof a cadet, with all the uncertainties of an ecclesiastical career. 

In these circumstances Ippolito had not strength of character tosacrifice himself for the consolidation of the Medicean power, whichcould only have been effected by maintaining a close bond of unionbetween its members. The death of Clement in 1534 obscured hisprospects in the Church. He was still too young to intrigue for thetiara. The new Pope, Alessandro Farnese, soon after his election, displayed a vigour which was unexpected from his age, together witha nepotism which his previous character had scarcely warranted. TheCardinal de' Medici felt himself excluded and oppressed. He joined theparty of those numerous Florentine exiles, headed by Filippo Strozzi, and the Cardinals Salviati and Ridolfi, all of whom were connectedby marriage with the legitimate Medici, and who unanimously hated andwere jealous of the Duke of Cività di Penna. On the score of policy itis difficult to condemn this step. Alessandro's hold upon Florence wasstill precarious, nor had he yet married Margaret of Austria. PerhapsIppolito was right in thinking he had less to gain from his cousinthan from the anti-Medicean faction and the princes of the Church whofavoured it. But he did not play his cards well. He quarrelled withthe new Pope, Paul III. , and by his vacillations led the Florentineexiles to suspect he might betray them. 

In the summer of 1535 Ippolito was at Itri, a little town not farfrom Gaeta and Terracina, within easy reach of Fondi, where dwelt thebeautiful Giulia Gonzaga. To this lady the Cardinal paid assiduouscourt, passing his time with her in the romantic scenery of thatworld-famous Capuan coast. On the 5th of August his seneschal, Giovann' Andrea, of Borgo San Sepolcro, brought him a bowl ofchicken-broth, after drinking which he exclaimed to one of hisattendants, 'I have been poisoned, and the man who did it is Giovann'Andrea. ' The seneschal was taken and tortured, and confessed that hehad mixed a poison with the broth. Four days afterwards the Cardinaldied, and a post-mortem examination showed that the omentum had beeneaten by some corrosive substance. Giovann' Andrea was sent in chainsto Rome; but in spite of his confession, more than once repeated, thecourt released him. He immediately took refuge with Alessandro de'Medici in Florence, whence he repaired to Borgo San Sepolcro, andwas, at the close of a few months, there murdered by the people of theplace. From these circumstances it was conjectured, not without goodreason, that Alessandro had procured his cousin's death; and a certainCaptain Pignatta, of low birth in Florence, a bravo and a coward, was believed to have brought the poison to Itri from the Duke. TheMedicean courtiers at Florence did not disguise their satisfaction;and one of them exclaimed, with reference to the event, 'We know howto brush flies from our noses!'

III. --THE MURDER OF ALESSANDRO DE' MEDICI

Having removed his cousin and rival from the scene, Alessandro de'Medici plunged with even greater effrontery into the cruelties anddebaucheries which made him odious in Florence. It seemed as thoughfortune meant to smile on him; for in this same year (1535) CharlesV. Decided at Naples in his favour against the Florentine exiles, who were pleading their own cause and that of the city injured by histyrannies; and in February of the following year he married Margaretof Austria, the Emperor's natural daughter. Francesco Guicciardini, the first statesman and historian of his age, had undertaken hisdefence, and was ready to support him by advice and countenance inthe conduct of his government. Within the lute of this prosperity, however, there was one little rift. For some months past he hadclosely attached to his person a certain kinsman, Lorenzo de' Medici, who was descended in the fourth generation from Lorenzo, the brotherof Cosimo Pater Patriæ. This Lorenzo, or Lorenzino, or Lorenzaccio, as his most intimate acquaintances called him, was destined to murderAlessandro; and it is worthy of notice that the Duke had receivedfrequent warnings of his fate. A Perugian page, for instance, whosuffered from some infirmity, saw in a dream that Lorenzino would killhis master. Astrologers predicted that the Duke must die by having histhroat cut. One of them is said to have named Lorenzo de' Medici asthe assassin; and another described him so accurately that there wasno mistaking the man. Moreover, Madonna Lucrezia Salviati wrote to theDuke from Rome that he should beware of a certain person, indicatingLorenzino; and her daughter, Madonna Maria, told him to his faceshe hated the young man, 'because I know he means to murder you, and murder you he will. ' Nor was this all. The Duke's favouritebody-servants mistrusted Lorenzino. On one occasion, when Alessandroand Lorenzino, attended by a certain Giomo, were escalading a wall atnight, as was their wont upon illicit love-adventures, Giomo whisperedto his master: 'Ah, my lord, do let me cut the rope, and rid ourselvesof him!' To which the Duke replied: 'No, I do not want this; but if hecould, I know he'd twist it round my neck. '

In spite, then, of these warnings and the want of confidence he felt, the Duke continually lived with Lorenzino, employing him as pander inhis intrigues, and preferring his society to that of simpler men. Whenhe rode abroad, he took this evil friend upon his crupper; althoughhe knew for certain that Lorenzino had stolen a tight-fitting vest ofmail he used to wear, and, while his arms were round his waist, wasalways meditating how to stick a poignard in his body. He trusted, so it seems, to his own great strength and to the other's physicalweakness. 

At this point, since Lorenzino is the principal actor in the two-actdrama which follows, it will be well to introduce him to the reader inthe words of Varchi, who was personally acquainted with him. Born atFlorence in 1514, he was left early by his father's death to thesole care of his mother, Maria Soderini, 'a lady of rare prudenceand goodness, who attended with the utmost pains and diligence to hiseducation. No sooner, however, had he acquired the rudiments of humanelearning, which, being of very quick parts, he imbibed with incrediblefacility, than he began to display a restless mind, insatiable andappetitive of vice. Soon afterwards, under the rule and discipline ofFilippo Strozzi, he made open sport of all things human and divine;and preferring the society of low persons, who not only flattered himbut were congenial to his tastes, he gave free rein to his desires, especially in affairs of love, without regard for sex or age orquality, and in his secret soul, while he lavished feigned caressesupon every one he saw, felt no esteem for any living being. Hethirsted strangely for glory, and omitted no point of deed or wordthat might, he thought, procure him the reputation of a man of spiritor of wit. He was lean of person, somewhat slightly built, and onthis account people called him Lorenzino. He never laughed, but had asneering smile; and although he was rather distinguished by grace thanbeauty, his countenance being dark and melancholy, still in the flowerof his age he was beloved beyond all measure by Pope Clement; in spiteof which he had it in his mind (according to what he said himselfafter killing the Duke Alessandro) to have murdered him. He broughtFrancesco di Raffaello de' Medici, the Pope's rival, who was a youngman of excellent attainments and the highest hope, to such extremitythat he lost his wits, and became the sport of the whole court atRome, and was sent back, as a lesser evil, as a confirmed madman toFlorence. ' Varchi proceeds to relate how Lorenzino fellinto disfavour with the Pope and the Romans by chopping the heads offstatues from the arch of Constantine and other monuments; for whichact of vandalism Molsa impeached him in the Roman Academy, and a pricewas set upon his head. Having returned to Florence, he proceededto court Duke Alessandro, into whose confidence he wormed himself, pretending to play the spy upon the exiles, and affecting a personaltimidity which put the Prince off his guard. Alessandro called him'the philosopher, ' because he conversed in solitude with his ownthoughts and seemed indifferent to wealth and office. But all thiswhile Lorenzino was plotting how to murder him. 

Giovio's account of this strange intimacy may be added, since itcompletes the picture I have drawn from Varchi:--'Lorenzo made himselfthe accomplice and instrument of those amorous amusements for whichthe Duke had an insatiable appetite, with the object of deceiving him. He was singularly well furnished with all the scoundrelly arts andtrained devices of the pander's trade; composed fine verses to inciteto lust; wrote and represented comedies in Italian; and pretendedto take pleasure only in such tricks and studies. Therefore he nevercarried arms like other courtiers, and feigned to be afraid of blood, a man who sought tranquillity at any price. Besides, he bore a pallidcountenance and melancholy brow, walking alone, talking very littleand with few persons. He haunted solitary places apart from the city, and showed such plain signs of hypochondria that some began covertlyto pass jokes on him. Certain others, who were more acute, suspectedthat he was harbouring and devising in his mind some terribleenterprise. ' The Prologue to Lorenzino's own comedy of 'Aridosiso'brings the sardonic, sneering, ironical man vividly before us. He calls himself 'un certo omiciatto, che non è nessun di voi cheveggendolo non l'avesse a noia, pensando che egli abbia fatto unacommedia;' and begs the audience to damn his play to save him thetedium of writing another. Criticised by the light of his subsequentactions, this prologue may even be understood to contain a covertpromise of the murder he was meditating. 

'In this way, ' writes Varchi, 'the Duke had taken such familiaritywith Lorenzo, that, not content with making use of him as a ruffianin his dealings with women, whether religious or secular, maidensor wives or widows, noble or plebeian, young or elderly, as it mighthappen, he applied to him to procure for his pleasure a half-sister ofLorenzo's own mother, a young lady of marvellous beauty, but not lesschaste than beautiful, who was the wife of Lionardo Ginori, and livednot far from the back entrance to the palace of the Medici. ' Lorenzinoundertook this odious commission, seeing an opportunity to work hisdesigns against the Duke. But first he had to form an accomplice, since he could not hope to carry out the murder without help. A bravo, called Michele del Tavolaccino, but better known by the nickname ofScoronconcolo, struck him as a fitting instrument. He had procuredthis man's pardon for a homicide, and it appears that the fellowretained a certain sense of gratitude. Lorenzino began by telling theman there was a courtier who put insults upon him, and Scoronconcoloprofessed his readiness to kill the knave. 'Sia chi si voglia; iol'ammazzerò, se fosse Cristo. ' Up to the last minute the name ofAlessandro was not mentioned. Having thus secured his assistant, Lorenzino chose a night when he knew that Alessandro Vitelli, captainof the Duke's guard, would be from home. Then, after supper, hewhispered in Alessandro's ear that at last he had seduced his auntwith an offer of money, and that she would come to his, Lorenzo'schamber at the service of the Duke that night. Only the Duke mustappear at the rendezvous alone, and when he had arrived, the ladyshould be fetched. 'Certain it is, ' says Varchi, 'that the Duke, having donned a cloak of satin in the Neapolitan style, lined withsable, when he went to take his gloves, and there were some of mailand some of perfumed leather, hesitated awhile and said: "Which shallI choose, those of war, or those of love-making?"' He took the latterand went out with only four attendants, three of whom he dismissedupon the Piazza di San Marco, while one was stationed just oppositeLorenzo's house, with strict orders not to stir if he should see folkenter or issue thence. But this fellow, called the Hungarian, afterwaiting a great while, returned to the Duke's chamber, and there wentto sleep. 

Meanwhile Lorenzino received Alessandro in his bedroom, where therewas a good fire. The Duke unbuckled his sword, which Lorenzino took, and having entangled the belt with the hilt, so that it should notreadily be drawn, laid it on the pillow. The Duke had flung himselfalready on the bed, and hid himself among the curtains--doing this, itis supposed, to save himself from the trouble of paying compliments tothe lady when she should arrive. For Caterina Ginori had the fame ofa fair speaker, and Alessandro was aware of his own incapacity to playthe part of a respectful lover. Nothing could more strongly point theman's brutality than this act, which contributed in no small measureto his ruin. 

Lorenzino left the Duke upon the bed, and went at once forScoronconcolo. He told him that the enemy was caught, and bade himonly mind the work he had to do. 'That will I do, ' the bravo answered, 'even though it were the Duke himself. ' 'You've hit the mark, ' saidLorenzino with a face of joy; 'he cannot slip through our fingers. Come!' So they mounted to the bedroom, and Lorenzino, knowing wherethe Duke was laid, cried: 'Sir, are you asleep?' and therewith ranhim through the back. Alessandro was sleeping, or pretending tosleep, face downwards, and the sword passed through his kidneys anddiaphragm. But it did not kill him. He slipped from the bed, andseized a stool to parry the next blow. Scoronconcolo now stabbed himin the face, while Lorenzino forced him back upon the bed; and thenbegan a hideous struggle. In order to prevent his cries, Lorenzinodoubled his fist into the Duke's mouth. Alessandro seized the thumbbetween his teeth, and held it in a vice until he died. This disabledLorenzino, who still lay upon his victim's body, and Scoronconcolocould not strike for fear of wounding his master. Between the writhingcouple he made, however, several passes with his sword, which onlypierced the mattress. Then he drew a knife and drove it into theDuke's throat, and bored about till he had severed veins and windpipe. 

IV. --THE FLIGHT OF LORENZINO DE' MEDICI

Alessandro was dead. His body fell to earth. The two murderers, drenched with blood, lifted it up, and placed it on the bed, wrappedin the curtains, as they had found him first. Then Lorenzino went tothe window, which looked out upon the Via Larga, and opened it to restand breathe a little air. After this he called for Scoronconcolo'sboy, Il Freccia, and bade him look upon the dead man. Il Frecciarecognised the Duke. But why Lorenzino did this, no one knew. Itseemed, as Varchi says, that, having planned the murder with greatability, and executed it with daring, his good sense and good luckforsook him. He made no use of the crime he had committed; and fromthat day forward till his own assassination, nothing prospered withhim. Indeed, the murder of Alessandro appears to have been almostmotiveless, considered from the point of view of practical politics. Varchi assumes that Lorenzino's burning desire of glory prompted thedeed; and when he had acquired the notoriety he sought, there was anend to his ambition. This view is confirmed by the Apology he wroteand published for his act. It remains one of the most pregnant, bold, and brilliant pieces of writing which we possess in favour oftyrannicide from that epoch of insolent crime and audacious rhetoric. So energetic is the style, and so biting the invective of thismasterpiece, in which the author stabs a second time his victim, thatboth Giordani and Leopardi affirmed it to be the only true monument ofeloquence in the Italian language. If thirst for glory was Lorenzino'sprincipal incentive, immediate glory was his guerdon. He escaped thatsame night with Scoronconcolo and Freccia to Bologna, where he stayedto dress his thumb, and then passed forward to Venice. Filippo Strozzithere welcomed him as the new Brutus, gave him money, and promised tomarry his two sons to the two sisters of the tyrant-killer. Poems werewritten and published by the most famous men of letters, includingBenedetto Varchi and Francesco Maria Molsa, in praise of the TuscanBrutus, the liberator of his country from a tyrant. A bronze medalwas struck bearing his name, with a profile copied from Michelangelo'sbust of Brutus. On the obverse are two daggers and a cup, and the dateviii. Id. Jan. 

The immediate consequence of Alessandro's murder was the elevationof Cosimo, son of Giovanni delle Bande Nere, and second cousin ofLorenzino, to the duchy. At the ceremony of his investiture withthe ducal honours, Cosimo solemnly undertook to revenge Alessandro'smurder. In the following March he buried his predecessor with pompin San Lorenzo. The body was placed beside the bones of the Duke ofUrbino in the marble chest of Michelangelo, and here not many yearsago it was discovered. Soon afterwards Lorenzino was declared a rebel. His portrait was painted according to old Tuscan precedent, headdownwards, and suspended by one foot, upon the wall of the fort builtby Alessandro. His house was cut in twain from roof to pavement, anda narrow lane was driven through it, which received the title ofTraitor's Alley, _Chiasso del Traditore_. The price of fourthousand golden florins was put upon his head, together with thefurther sum of one hundred florins per annum in perpetuity to be paidto the murderer and his direct heirs in succession, by the Otto diBalia. Moreover, the man who killed Lorenzino was to enjoy all civicprivileges; exemption from all taxes, ordinary and extraordinary; theright of carrying arms, together with two attendants, in the city andthe whole domain of Florence; and the further prerogative of restoringten outlaws at his choice. If Lorenzino could be captured and broughtalive to Florence, the whole of this reward would be doubled. 

This decree was promulgated in April 1537, and thenceforward Lorenzinode' Medici lived a doomed man. The assassin, who had been proclaimed aBrutus by Tuscan exiles and humanistic enthusiasts, was regarded as aJudas by the common people. Ballads were written on him with the titleof the 'Piteous and sore lament made unto himself by Lorenzino de'Medici, who murdered the most illustrious Duke Alessandro. ' He hadbecome a wild beast, whom it was honourable to hunt down, a pest whichit was righteous to extirpate. Yet fate delayed nine years to overtakehim. What remains to be told about his story must be extractedfrom the narrative of the bravo who succeeded, with the aid of anaccomplice, in despatching him at Venice. [13] So far as possible, I shall use the man's own words, translating them literally, andomitting only unimportant details. The narrative throws brilliantlight upon the manners and movements of professional cut-throats atthat period in Italy. It seems to have been taken down from the heroFrancesco, or Cecco, Bibboni's lips; and there is no doubt that wepossess in it a valuable historical document for the illustration ofcontemporary customs. It offers in all points a curious parallelto Cellini's account of his own homicides and hair-breadth escapes. Moreover, it is confirmed in its minutest circumstances by the recordsof the criminal courts of Venice in the sixteenth century. This I canattest from recent examination of MSS. Relating to the _Signoridi Notte_ and the _Esecutori contro la Bestemmia_, which arepreserved among the Archives at the Frari. 

V. --THE MURDER OF LORENZINO DE' MEDICI

'When I returned from Germany, ' begins Bibboni, 'where I had been inthe pay of the Emperor, I found at Vicenza Bebo da Volterra, who wasstaying in the house of M. Antonio da Roma, a nobleman of that city. This gentleman employed him because of a great feud he had; and he wasmighty pleased, moreover, at my coming, and desired that I too shouldtake up my quarters in his palace. '

This paragraph strikes the keynote of the whole narrative, andintroduces us to the company we are about to keep. The noblemen ofthat epoch, if they had private enemies, took into their servicesoldiers of adventure, partly to protect their persons, but also tomake war, when occasion offered, on their foes. The _bravi_, asthey were styled, had quarters assigned them in the basement ofthe palace, where they might be seen swaggering about the door orflaunting their gay clothes behind the massive iron bars of thewindows which opened on the streets. When their master went abroadat night they followed him, and were always at hand to perform secretservices in love affairs, assassination, and espial. For the rest, they haunted taverns, and kept up correspondence with prostitutes. AnItalian city had a whole population of such fellows, the offscouringsof armies, drawn from all nations, divided by their allegiance of thetime being into hostile camps, but united by community of interest andoccupation, and ready to combine against the upper class, upon whosevices, enmities, and cowardice they throve. 

Bibboni proceeds to say how another gentleman of Vicenza, M. FrancescoManente, had at this time a feud with certain of the Guazzi and theLaschi, which had lasted several years, and cost the lives of manymembers of both parties and their following. M. Francesco being afriend of M. Antonio, besought that gentleman to lend him Bibboni andBebo for a season; and the two _bravi_ went together with theirnew master to Celsano, a village in the neighbourhood. 'There bothparties had estates, and all of them kept armed men in their houses, so that not a day passed without feats of arms, and always there wassome one killed or wounded. One day, soon afterwards, the leaders ofour party resolved to attack the foe in their house, where we killedtwo, and the rest, numbering five men, entrenched themselves ina ground-floor apartment; whereupon we took possession of theirharquebuses and other arms, which forced them to abandon the villa andretire to Vicenza; and within a short space of time this great feudwas terminated by an ample peace. ' After this Bebo took service withthe Rector of the University in Padua, and was transferred by his newpatron to Milan. Bibboni remained at Vicenza with M. Galeazzo dellaSeta, who stood in great fear of his life, notwithstanding the peacewhich had been concluded between the two factions. At the end of tenmonths he returned to M. Antonio da Roma and his six brothers, 'all ofwhom being very much attached to me, they proposed that I shouldlive my life with them, for good or ill, and be treated as one of thefamily; upon the understanding that if war broke out and I wanted totake part in it, I should always have twenty-five crowns and arms andhorse, with welcome home, so long as I lived; and in case I did notcare to join the troops, the same provision for my maintenance. '

From these details we comprehend the sort of calling which a bravoof Bibboni's species followed. Meanwhile Bebo was at Milan. 'There ithappened that M. Francesco Vinta, of Volterra, was on embassy fromthe Duke of Florence. He saw Bebo, and asked him what he was doing inMilan, and Bebo answered that he was a knight errant. ' This phrase, derived no doubt from the romantic epics then in vogue, was a prettyeuphemism for a rogue of Bebo's quality. The ambassador now begancautiously to sound his man, who seems to have been outlawed from theTuscan duchy, telling him he knew a way by which he might return withfavour to his home, and at last disclosing the affair of Lorenzo. Bebowas puzzled at first, but when he understood the matter, he professedhis willingness, took letters from the envoy to the Duke of Florence, and, in a private audience with Cosimo, informed him that he was readyto attempt Lorenzino's assassination. He added that 'he had a comradefit for such a job, whose fellow for the business could not easily befound. '

Bebo now travelled to Vicenza, and opened the whole matter to Bibboni, who weighed it well, and at last, being convinced that the Duke'scommission to his comrade was _bona fide_, determined to take hisshare in the undertaking. The two agreed to have no accomplices. They went to Venice, and 'I, ' says Bibboni, 'being most intimatelyacquainted with all that city, and provided there with many friends, soon quietly contrived to know where Lorenzino lodged, and took a roomin the neighbourhood, and spent some days in seeing how we best mightrule our conduct. ' Bibboni soon discovered that Lorenzino never lefthis palace; and he therefore remained in much perplexity, until, bygood luck, Ruberto Strozzi arrived from France in Venice, bringing inhis train a Navarrese servant, who had the nickname of Spagnoletto. This fellow was a great friend of the bravo. They met, and Bibbonitold him that he should like to go and kiss the hands of MesserRuberto, whom he had known in Rome. Strozzi inhabited the same palaceas Lorenzino. 'When we arrived there, both Messer Ruberto and Lorenzowere leaving the house, and there were around them so many gentlemenand other persons, that I could not present myself, and bothstraightway stepped into the gondola. Then I, not having seen Lorenzofor a long while past, and because he was very quietly attired, couldnot recognise the man exactly, but only as it were between certaintyand doubt. Wherefore I said to Spagnoletto, "I think I know thatgentleman, but don't remember where I saw him. " And Messer Ruberto wasgiving him his right hand. Then Spagnoletto answered, "You know himwell enough; he is Messer Lorenzo. But see you tell this to nobody. Hegoes by the name of Messer Dario, because he lives in great fearfor his safety, and people don't know that he is now in Venice. " Ianswered that I marvelled much, and if I could have helped him, wouldhave done so willingly. Then I asked where they were going, and hesaid, to dine with Messer Giovanni della Casa, who was the Pope'sLegate. I did not leave the man till I had drawn from him all Irequired. '

Thus spoke the Italian Judas. The appearance of La Casa on thescene is interesting. He was the celebrated author of the scandalous'Capitolo del Forno, ' the author of many sublime and melancholysonnets, who was now at Venice, prosecuting a charge of heresy againstPier Paolo Vergerio, and paying his addresses to a noble lady of theQuirini family. It seems that on the territory of San Marco he madecommon cause with the exiles from Florence, for he was himself bybirth a Florentine, and he had no objection to take Brutus-Lorenzinoby the hand. 

After the noblemen had rowed off in their gondola to dine with theLegate, Bibboni and his friend entered their palace, where he foundanother old acquaintance, the house-steward, or _spenditore_ ofLorenzo. From him he gathered much useful information. Pietro Strozzi, it seems, had allowed the tyrannicide one thousand five hundred crownsa year, with the keep of three brave and daring companions (_trecompagni bravi e facinorosi_), and a palace worth fifty crowns onlease. But Lorenzo had just taken another on the Campo di San Polo atthree hundred crowns a year, for which swagger (_altura_) PietroStrozzi had struck a thousand crowns off his allowance. Bibboni alsolearned that he was keeping house with his uncle, Alessandro Soderini, another Florentine outlaw, and that he was ardently in love with acertain beautiful Barozza. This woman was apparently one of the grandcourtesans of Venice. He further ascertained the date when he wasgoing to move into the palace at San Polo, and, 'to put it briefly, knew everything he did, and, as it were, how many times a day hespit. ' Such were the intelligences of the servants' hall, and of suchvalue were they to men of Bibboni's calling. 

In the Carnival of 1546 Lorenzo meant to go masqued in the habit ofa gipsy woman to the square of San Spirito, where there was to be ajoust. Great crowds of people would assemble, and Bibboni hoped todo his business there. The assassination, however, failed on thisoccasion, and Lorenzo took up his abode in the palace he had hiredupon the Campo di San Polo. This Campo is one of the largest openplaces in Venice, shaped irregularly, with a finely curving line uponthe western side, where two of the noblest private houses in the cityare still standing. Nearly opposite these, in the south-western angle, stands, detached, the little old church of San Polo. One of its sideentrances opens upon the square; the other on a lane, which leadseventually to the Frari. There is nothing in Bibboni's narrative tomake it clear where Lorenzo hired his dwelling. But it would seemfrom certain things which he says later on, that in order to enter thechurch his victim had to cross the square. Meanwhile Bibboni took theprecaution of making friends with a shoemaker, whose shop commandedthe whole Campo, including Lorenzo's palace. In this shop he began tospend much of his time; 'and oftentimes I feigned to be asleep;but God knows whether I was sleeping, for my mind, at any rate, waswide-awake. '

A second convenient occasion for murdering Lorenzo soon seemed tooffer. He was bidden to dine with Monsignor della Casa; and Bibboni, putting a bold face on, entered the Legate's palace, having leftBebo below in the loggia, fully resolved to do the business. 'But wefound, ' he says, 'that, they had gone to dine at Murano, so that weremained with our tabors in their bag. ' The island of Murano at thatperiod was a favourite resort of the Venetian nobles, especially ofthe more literary and artistic, who kept country-houses there, wherethey enjoyed the fresh air of the lagoons and the quiet of theirgardens. 

The third occasion, after all these weeks of watching, brought successto Bibboni's schemes. He had observed how Lorenzo occasionally so farbroke his rules of caution as to go on foot, past the church of SanPolo, to visit the beautiful Barozza; and he resolved, if possible, to catch him on one of these journeys. 'It so chanced on the 28th ofFebruary, which was the second Sunday of Lent, that having gone, aswas my wont, to pry out whether Lorenzo would give orders for goingabroad that day, I entered the shoemaker's shop, and stayed awhile, until Lorenzo came to the window with a napkin round his neck for hewas combing his hair--and at the same moment I saw a certain GiovanBattista Martelli, who kept his sword for the defence of Lorenzo'sperson, enter and come forth again. Concluding that they wouldprobably go abroad, I went home to get ready and procure the necessaryweapons, and there I found Bebo asleep in bed, and made him get up atonce, and we came to our accustomed post of observation, by the churchof San Polo, where our men would have to pass. ' Bibboni now retired tohis friend the shoemaker's, and Bebo took up his station at one ofthe side-doors of San Polo; 'and, as good luck would have it, GiovanBattista Martelli came forth, and walked a piece in front, and thenLorenzo came, and then Alessandro Soderini, going the one behind theother, like storks, and Lorenzo, on entering the church, and liftingup the curtain of the door, was seen from the opposite door by Bebo, who at the same time noticed how I had left the shop, and so we metupon the street as we had agreed, and he told me that Lorenzo wasinside the church. '

To any one who knows the Campo di San Polo, it will be apparent thatLorenzo had crossed from the western side of the piazza and enteredthe church by what is technically called its northern door. Bebo, stationed at the southern door, could see him when he pushed the heavy_stoia_ or leather curtain aside, and at the same time couldobserve Bibboni's movements in the cobbler's shop. Meanwhile Lorenzowalked across the church and came to the same door where Bebo had beenstanding. 'I saw him issue from the church and take the main street;then came Alessandro Soderini, and I walked last of all; and whenwe reached the point we had determined on, I jumped in frontof Alessandro with the poignard in my hand, crying, "Hold hard, Alessandro, and get along with you in God's name, for we are not herefor you!" He then threw himself around my waist, and grasped my arms, and kept on calling out. Seeing how wrong I had been to try to sparehis life, I wrenched myself as well as I could from his grip, and withmy lifted poignard struck him, as God willed, above the eyebrow, and alittle blood trickled from the wound. He, in high fury, gave me such athrust that I fell backward, and the ground besides was slipperyfrom having rained a little. Then Alessandro drew his sword, which hecarried in its scabbard, and thrust at me in front, and struck me onthe corslet, which for my good fortune was of double mail. Before Icould get ready I received three passes, which, had I worn a doubletinstead of that mailed corslet, would certainly have run me through. At the fourth pass I had regained my strength and spirit, and closedwith him, and stabbed him four times in the head, and being so closehe could not use his sword, but tried to parry with his hand and hilt, and I, as God willed, struck him at the wrist below the sleeve ofmail, and cut his hand off clean, and gave him then one last stroke onhis head. Thereupon he begged for God's sake spare his life, and I, introuble about Bebo, left him in the arms of a Venetian nobleman, whoheld him back from jumping into the canal. '

Who this Venetian nobleman, found unexpectedly upon the scene, was, does not appear. Nor, what is still more curious, do we hear anythingof that Martelli, the bravo, 'who kept his sword for the defence ofLorenzo's person. ' The one had arrived accidentally, it seems. Theother must have been a coward and escaped from the scuffle. 

'When I turned, ' proceeds Bibboni, 'I found Lorenzo on his knees. Heraised himself, and I, in anger, gave him a great cut across the head, which split it in two pieces, and laid him at my feet, and he neverrose again. '

VI. --THE ESCAPE OF THE BRAVI

Bebo, meanwhile, had made off from the scene of action. And Bibboni, taking to his heels, came up with him in the little square of SanMarcello. They now ran for their lives till they reached the traghettodi San Spirito, where they threw their poignards into the water, remembering that no man might carry these in Venice under penaltyof the galleys. Bibboni's white hose were drenched with blood. Hetherefore agreed to separate from Bebo, having named a rendezvous. Left alone, his ill luck brought him face to face with twentyconstables (_sbirri_). 'In a moment I conceived that they kneweverything, and were come to capture me, and of a truth I saw that itwas over with me. As swiftly as I could I quickened pace and got intoa church, near to which was the house of a Compagnia, and the oneopened into the other, and knelt down and prayed, commending myselfwith fervour to God for my deliverance and safety. Yet while I prayed, I kept my eyes well open and saw the whole band pass the church, except one man who entered, and I strained my sight so that I seemedto see behind as well as in front, and then it was I longed for mypoignard, for I should not have heeded being in a church. ' But theconstable, it soon appeared, was not looking for Bibboni. So hegathered up his courage, and ran for the Church of San Spirito, wherethe Padre Andrea Volterrano was preaching to a great congregation. He hoped to go in by one door and out by the other, but the crowdprevented him, and he had to turn back and face the _sbirrí_. Oneof them followed him, having probably caught sight of the blood uponhis hose. Then Bibboni resolved to have done with the fellow, andrushed at him, and flung him down with his head upon the pavement, and ran like mad and came at last, all out of breath, to San Marco. Itseems clear that before Bibboni separated from Bebo they had crossedthe water, for the Sestiere di San Polo is separated from the Sestieredi San Marco by the Grand Canal. And this they must have done at thetraghetto di San Spirito. Neither the church nor the traghetto arenow in existence, and this part of the story is therefore obscure. [14]Having reached San Marco, he took a gondola at the Ponte della Paglia, where tourists are now wont to stand and contemplate the Ducal Palaceand the Bridge of Sighs. First, he sought the house of a woman of thetown who was his friend; then changed purpose, and rowed to the palaceof the Count Salici da Collalto. 'He was a great friend and intimateof ours, because Bebo and I had done him many and great services intimes passed. There I knocked; and Bebo opened the door, and when hesaw me dabbled with blood, he marvelled that I had not come to griefand fallen into the hands of justice, and, indeed, had feared as muchbecause I had remained so long away. ' It appears, therefore, that thePalazzo Collalto was their rendezvous. 'The Count was from home; butbeing known to all his people, I played the master and went into thekitchen to the fire, and with soap and water turned my hose, which hadbeen white, to a grey colour. ' This is a very delicate way of sayingthat he washed out the blood of Alessandro and Lorenzo!

Soon after the Count returned, and 'lavished caresses' upon Bebo andhis precious comrade. They did not tell him what they had achievedthat morning, but put him off with a story of having settled a_sbirro_ in a quarrel about a girl. Then the Count invited them todinner; and being himself bound to entertain the first physician ofVenice, requested them to take it in an upper chamber. He and hissecretary served them with their own hands at table. When thephysician arrived, the Count went downstairs; and at this moment amessenger came from Lorenzo's mother, begging the doctor to go at onceto San Polo, for that her son had been murdered and Soderini woundedto the death. It was now no longer possible to conceal their doingsfrom the Count, who told them to pluck up courage and abide inpatience. He had himself to dine and take his siesta, and then toattend a meeting of the Council. 

About the hour of vespers, Bibboni determined to seek better refuge. Followed at a discreet distance by Bebo, he first called at theirlodgings and ordered supper. Two priests came in and fell intoconversation with them. But something in the behaviour of one ofthese good men roused his suspicions. So they left the house, took agondola, and told the man to row hard to S. Maria Zobenigo. On the wayhe bade him put them on shore, paid him well, and ordered him to waitfor them. They landed near the palace of the Spanish embassy; and hereBibboni meant to seek sanctuary. For it must be remembered that thehouses of ambassadors, no less than of princes of the Church, wereinviolable. They offered the most convenient harbouring-places torascals. Charles V. , moreover, was deeply interested in the vengeancetaken on Alessandro de' Medici's murderer, for his own naturaldaughter was Alessandro's widow and Duchess of Florence. In the palacethey were met with much courtesy by about forty Spaniards, who showedconsiderable curiosity, and told them that Lorenzo and AlessandroSoderini had been murdered that morning by two men whose descriptionanswered to their appearance. Bibboni put their questions by and askedto see the ambassador. He was not at home. In that case, said Bibboni, take us to the secretary. Attended by some thirty Spaniards, 'withgreat joy and gladness, ' they were shown into the secretary's chamber. He sent the rest of the folk away, 'and locked the door well, and thenembraced and kissed us before we had said a word, and afterwards badeus talk freely without any fear. ' When Bibboni had told the wholestory, he was again embraced and kissed by the secretary, whothereupon left them and went to the private apartment of theambassador. Shortly after he returned and led them by a windingstaircase into the presence of his master. The ambassador greetedthem with great honour, told them he would strain all the power ofthe empire to hand them in safety over to Duke Cosimo, and that he hadalready sent a courier to the Emperor with the good news. 

So they remained in hiding in the Spanish embassy; and in ten days'time commands were received from Charles himself that everythingshould be done to convey them safely to Florence. The difficulty washow to smuggle them out of Venice, where the police of the Republicwere on watch, and Florentine outlaws were mounting guard on sea andshore to catch them. The ambassador began by spreading reports on theRialto every morning of their having been seen at Padua, at Verona, inFriuli. He then hired a palace at Malghera, near Mestre, and went outdaily with fifty Spaniards, and took carriage or amused himself withhorse exercise and shooting. The Florentines, who were on watch, couldonly discover from his people that he did this for amusement. Whenhe thought that he had put them sufficiently off their guard, theambassador one day took Bibboni and Bebo out by Canaregio and Mestreto Malghera, concealed in his own gondola, with the whole train ofSpaniards in attendance. And though, on landing, the Florentineschallenged them, they durst not interfere with an ambassador or cometo battle with his men. So Bebo and Bibboni were hustled into a coach, and afterwards provided with two comrades and four horses. They rodefor ninety miles without stopping to sleep, and on the day followingthis long journey reached Trento, having probably threaded themountain valleys above Bassano, for Bibboni speaks of a certainvillage where the people talked half German. The Imperial Ambassadorat Trento forwarded them next day to Mantua; from Mantua they came toPiacenza; thence, passing through the valley of the Taro, crossingthe Apennines at Cisa, descending on Pontremoli, and reaching Pisa atnight, the fourteenth day after their escape from Venice. 

When they arrived at Pisa, Duke Cosimo was supping. So they went toan inn, and next morning presented themselves to his Grace. Cosimoreceived them kindly, assured them of his gratitude, confirmed themin the enjoyment of their rewards and privileges, and swore that theymight rest secure of his protection in all parts of his dominion. Wemay imagine how the men caroused together after this reception. AsBibboni adds, 'We were now able for the whole time of life left usto live splendidly, without a thought or care. ' The last words of hisnarrative are these: 'Bebo from Pisa, at what date I know not, wenthome to Volterra, his native town, and there finished his days; whileI abode in Florence, where I have had no further wish to hear of wars, but to live my life in holy peace. '

So ends the story of the two _bravi_. We have reason to believe, from some contemporary documents which Cantù has brought to light, that Bibboni exaggerated his own part in the affair. Luca Martelli, writing to Varchi, says that it was Bebo who clove Lorenzo's skullwith a cutlass. He adds this curious detail, that the weapons ofboth men were poisoned, and that the wound inflicted by Bibboni onSoderini's hand was a slight one. Yet, the poignard being poisoned, Soderini died of it. In other respects Martelli's brief account agreeswith that given by Bibboni, who probably did no more, his comradebeing dead, than claim for himself, at some expense of truth, thelion's share of their heroic action. 

VII. --LORENZINO BRUTUS

It remains to ask ourselves, What opinion can be justly formed ofLorenzino's character and motives? When he murdered his cousin, washe really actuated by the patriotic desire to rid his country of amonster? Did he imitate the Roman Brutus in the noble spirit ofhis predecessors, Olgiati and Boscoli, martyrs to the creed oftyrannicide? Or must this crowning action of a fretful life beexplained, like his previous mutilation of the statues on the Archof Constantine, by a wild thirst for notoriety? Did he hope that theexiles would return to Florence, and that he would enjoy an honourablelife, an immortality of glorious renown? Did envy for his cousin'sgreatness and resentment of his undisguised contempt--the passions ofone who had been used for vile ends--conscious of self-degradation andthe loss of honour, yet mindful of his intellectual superiority--didthese emotions take fire in him and mingle with a scholar'sreminiscences of antique heroism, prompting him to plan a deedwhich should at least assume the show of patriotic zeal, and proveindubitable courage in its perpetrator? Did he, again, perhapsimagine, being next in blood to Alessandro and direct heir to theducal crown by the Imperial Settlement of 1530, that the city wouldelect her liberator for her ruler? Alfieri and Niccolini, havingtaken, as it were, a brief in favour of tyrannicide, praised Lorenzinoas a hero. De Musset, who wrote a considerable drama on his story, painted him as a _roué_ corrupted by society, enfeebled bycircumstance, soured by commerce with an uncongenial world, who hidesat the bottom of his mixed nature enough of real nobility to make himthe leader of a forlorn hope for the liberties of Florence. This isthe most favourable construction we can put upon Lorenzo's conduct. Yet some facts of the case warn us to suspend our judgment. He seemsto have formed no plan for the liberation of his fellow-citizens. Hegave no pledge of self-devotion by avowing his deed and abiding by itsissues. He showed none of the qualities of a leader, whether in thecause of freedom or of his own dynastic interests, after the murder. He escaped as soon as he was able, as secretly as he could manage, leaving the city in confusion, and exposing himself to the obviouscharge of abominable treason. So far as the Florentines knew, hisassassination of their Duke was but a piece of private spite, executedwith infernal craft. It is true that when he seized the pen in exile, he did his best to claim the guerdon of a patriot, and to throw theblame of failure on the Florentines. In his Apology, and in a letterwritten to Francesco de' Medici, he taunts them with lacking thespirit to extinguish tyranny when he had slain the tyrant. He summonsplausible excuses to his aid--the impossibility of taking persons ofimportance into his confidence, the loss of blood he suffered fromhis wound, the uselessness of rousing citizens whom events provedover-indolent for action. He declares that he has nothing to regret. Having proved by deeds his will to serve his country, he has savedhis life in order to spend it for her when occasion offered. But thesearguments, invented after the catastrophe, these words, so bravelypenned when action ought to have confirmed his resolution, do notmeet the case. It was no deed of a true hero to assassinate a despot, knowing or half knowing that the despot's subjects would immediatelyelect another. Their languor could not, except rhetorically, beadvanced in defence of his own flight. 

The historian is driven to seek both the explanation and palliation ofLorenzo's failure in the temper of his times. There was enoughdaring left in Florence to carry through a plan of brilliant treason, modelled on an antique Roman tragedy. But there was not moral forcein the protagonist to render that act salutary, not public energysufficient in his fellow-citizens to accomplish his drama ofdeliverance. Lorenzo was corrupt. Florence was flaccid. Evil mannershad emasculated the hero. In the state the last spark of independencehad expired with Ferrucci. 

Still I have not without forethought dubbed this man a Cinque CentoBrutus. Like much of the art and literature of his century, his actionmay be regarded as a _bizarre_ imitation of the antique manner. Without the force and purpose of a Roman, Lorenzo set himself to copyPlutarch's men--just as sculptors carved Neptunes and Apollos withoutthe dignity and serenity of the classic style. The antique faithwas wanting to both murderer and craftsman in those days. Even asRenaissance work in art is too often aimless, decorative, vacant ofintention, so Lorenzino's Brutus tragedy seems but the snapping ofa pistol in void air. He had the audacity but not the ethicalconsistency of his crime. He played the part of Brutus like a Roscius, perfect in its histrionic details. And it doubtless gave to thisskilful actor a supreme satisfaction--salving over many wounds ofvanity, quenching the poignant thirst for things impossible anddraughts of fame--that he could play it on no mimic stage, but onthe theatre of Europe. The weakness of his conduct was the centralweakness of his age and country. Italy herself lacked moral purpose, sense of righteous necessity, that consecration of self to a noblecause, which could alone have justified Lorenzo's perfidy. Confusedmemories of Judith, Jael, Brutus, and other classical tyrannicides, exalted his imagination. Longing for violent emotions, jaded withpleasure which had palled, discontented with his wasted life, jealousof his brutal cousin, appetitive to the last of glory, he conceivedhis scheme. Having conceived, he executed it with that which neverfailed in Cinque Cento Italy--the artistic spirit of perfection. Whenit was over, he shrugged his shoulders, wrote his magnificent Apologywith a style of adamant upon a plate of steel, and left it for theoutlaws of Filippo Strozzi's faction to deal with the crisis hehad brought about. For some years he dragged out an ignoble lifein obscurity, and died at last, as Varchi puts it, more by his owncarelessness than by the watchful animosity of others. Over the wild, turbid, clever, incomprehensible, inconstant hero-artist's grave wewrite our _Requiescat_. Clio, as she takes the pen in hand torecord this prayer, smiles disdainfully and turns to graver business. 

 * * * * *

_TWO DRAMATISTS OF THE LAST CENTURY_

There are few contrasts more striking than that which is presentedby the memoirs of Goldoni and Alfieri. Both of these men bore nameshighly distinguished in the history of Italian literature. Both ofthem were framed by nature with strongly marked characters, and fittedto perform a special work in the world. Both have left behind themrecords of their lives and literary labours, singularly illustrativeof their peculiar differences. There is no instance in which we seemore clearly the philosophical value of autobiographies, than in thesevivid pictures which the great Italian tragedian and comic author havedelineated. Some of the most interesting works of Lionardo da Vinci, Giorgione, Albert Dürer, Rembrandt, Rubens, and Andrea del Sarto, aretheir portraits painted by themselves. These pictures exhibit not onlythe lineaments of the masters, but also their art. The hand which drewthem was the hand which drew the 'Last Supper, ' or the 'Madonna ofthe Tribune:' colour, method, chiaroscuro, all that makes up manner inpainting, may be studied on the same canvas as that which faithfullyrepresents the features of the man whose genius gave his style itsspecial character. We seem to understand the clear calm majesty ofLionardo's manner, the silver-grey harmonies and smooth facility ofAndrea's Madonnas, the better for looking at their faces drawn bytheir own hands at Florence. And if this be the case with a dumbpicture, how far higher must be the interest and importance of thewritten life of a known author! Not only do we recognise in itscomposition the style and temper and habits of thought which arefamiliar to us in his other writings; but we also hear from hisown lips how these were formed, how his tastes took their peculiardirection, what circumstances acted on his character, what hopes hehad, and where he failed. Even should his autobiography not bearthe marks of uniform candour, it probably reveals more of the actualtruth, more of the man's real nature in its height and depth, thanany memoir written by friend or foe. Its unconscious admissions, itsgeneral spirit, and the inferences which we draw from its perusal, are far more valuable than any mere statement of facts or externalanalysis, however scientific. When we become acquainted withthe series of events which led to the conception or attended theproduction of some masterpiece of literature, a new light is thrownupon its beauties, fresh life bursts forth from every chapter, and weseem to have a nearer and more personal interest in its success. Whata powerful sensation, for instance, is that which we experience when, after studying the 'Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, ' Gibbontells us how the thought of writing it came to him upon the Capitol, among the ruins of dead Rome, and within hearing of the mutter of themonks of Ara Coeli, and how he finished it one night by Lake Geneva, and laid his pen down and walked forth and saw the stars above histerrace at Lausanne!

The memoirs of Alfieri and Goldoni are not deficient in any of thecharacteristics of good autobiography. They seem to bear upon theirface the stamp of truthfulness, they illustrate their authors' liveswith marvellous lucidity, and they are full of interest as stories. But it is to the contrast which they present that our attention shouldbe chiefly drawn. Other biographies may be as interesting and amusing. None show in a more marked manner two distinct natures endowed withgenius for one art, and yet designed in every possible particular fordifferent branches of that art. Alfieri embodies Tragedy; Goldoniis the spirit of Comedy. They are both Italians: their tragedies andcomedies are by no means cosmopolitan; but this national identity ofcharacter only renders more remarkable the individual divergences bywhich they were impelled into their different paths. Thalia seems tohave made the one, body, soul, and spirit; and Melpomene the other;each goddess launched her favourite into circumstances suited to theevolution of his genius, and presided over his development, so that athis death she might exclaim, --Behold the living model of my Art!

Goldoni was born at Venice in the year 1707; he had already reachedcelebrity when Alfieri saw the light for the first time, in 1749, atAsti. Goldoni's grandfather was a native of Modena, who had settledin Venice, and there lived with the prodigality of a rich andostentatious 'bourgeois. ' 'Amid riot and luxury did I enter theworld, ' says the poet, after enumerating the banquets and theatricaldisplays with which the old Goldoni entertained his guests in hisVenetian palace and country-house. Venice at that date was certainlythe proper birthplace for a comic poet. The splendour of theRenaissance had thoroughly habituated her nobles to pleasures of thesense, and had enervated their proud, maritime character, while thegreat name of the republic robbed them of the caution for which theyused to be conspicuous. Yet the real strength of Venice was almostspent, and nothing remained but outward insolence and prestige. Everything was gay about Goldoni in his earliest childhood. Puppet-shows were built to amuse him by his grandfather. 'Mymother, ' he says, 'took charge of my education, and my father of myamusements. ' Let us turn to the opening scene in Alfieri's life, and mark the difference. A father above sixty, 'noble, wealthy, andrespectable, ' who died before his son had reached the age of one yearold. A mother devoted to religion, the widow of one marquis, and afterthe death of a second husband, Alfieri's father, married for the thirdtime to a nobleman of ancient birth. These were Alfieri's parents. Hewas born in a solemn palazzo in the country town of Asti, and at theage of five already longed for death as an escape from disease andother earthly troubles. So noble and so wealthy was the youthful poetthat an abbé was engaged to carry out his education, but not to teachhim more than a count should know. Except this worthy man he had nocompanions whatever. Strange ideas possessed the boy. He ruminated onhis melancholy, and when eight years old attempted suicide. At thisage he was sent to the academy at Turin, attended, as befitted a ladof his rank, by a man-servant, who was to remain and wait on him atschool. Alfieri stayed here several years without revisiting his home, tyrannised over by the valet who added to his grandeur, constantlysubject to sickness, and kept in almost total ignorance by hisincompetent preceptors. The gloom and pride and stoicism of histemperament were augmented by this unnatural discipline. His spiritdid not break, but took a haughtier and more disdainful tone. Hebecame familiar with misfortunes. He learned to brood over andintensify his passions. Every circumstance of his life seemed strungup to a tragic pitch. This at least is the impression which remainsupon our mind after reading in his memoirs the narrative of what mustin many of its details have been a common schoolboy's life at thattime. 

Meanwhile, what had become of young Goldoni? His boyhood was asthoroughly plebeian, various, and comic as Alfieri's had beenpatrician, monotonous, and tragical. Instead of one place ofresidence, we read of twenty. Scrape succeeds to scrape, adventure toadventure. Knowledge of the world, and some book learning also, flowin upon the boy, and are eagerly caught up by him and heterogeneouslyamalgamated in his mind. Alfieri learned nothing, wrote nothing, inhis youth, and heard his parents say--'A nobleman need never strive tobe a doctor of the faculties. ' Goldoni had a little medicine and muchlaw thrust upon him. At eight he wrote a comedy, and ere long beganto read the plays of Plautus, Terence, Aristophanes, and Machiavelli. Between the nature of the two poets there was a marked andcharacteristic difference as to their mode of labour and of acquiringknowledge. Both of them loved fame, and wrought for it; but Alfieridid so from a sense of pride and a determination to excel;while Goldoni loved the approbation of his fellows, sought theircompliments, and basked in the sunshine of smiles. Alfieri wrote withlabour. Each tragedy he composed went through a triple process ofcomposition, and received frequent polishing when finished. Goldonidashed off his pieces with the greatest ease on every possiblesubject. He once produced sixteen comedies in one theatrical season. Alfieri's were like lion's whelps--brought forth with difficulty, and at long intervals; Goldoni's, like the brood of a hare--many, frequent, and as agile as their parent. Alfieri amassed knowledgescrupulously, but with infinite toil. He mastered Greek and Hebrewwhen he was past forty. Goldoni never gave himself the least troubleto learn anything, but trusted to the ready wit, good memory, andnatural powers, which helped him in a hundred strange emergencies. Power of will and pride sustained the one; facility and agood-humoured vanity the other. This contrast was apparent at a veryearly age. We have seen how Alfieri passed his time at Turin, ina kind of aristocratic prison of educational ignorance. Goldoni'sgrandfather died when he was five years old, and left his family ingreat embarrassment. The poet's father went off to practise medicineat Perugia. His son followed him, acquired the rudiments of knowledgein that town, and then proceeded to study philosophy alone at Rimini. There was no man-servant or academy in his case. He was far tooplebeian and too free. The boy lodged with a merchant, and got somesmattering of Thomas Aquinas and the Peripatetics into his smallbrain, while he contrived to form a friendship with an acting company. They were on the wing for Venice in a coasting boat, which would touchat Chiozza, where Goldoni's mother then resided. The boy pleased them. Would he like the voyage? This offer seemed too tempting, and awayhe rushed, concealed himself on board, and made one of a merry motleyshipload. 'Twelve persons, actors as well as actresses, a prompter, a machinist, a storekeeper, eight domestics, four chambermaids, twonurses, children of every age, cats, dogs, monkeys, parrots, birds, pigeons, and a lamb; it was another Noah's ark. ' The young poet feltat home; how could a comic poet feel otherwise? They laughed, theysang, they danced; they ate and drank, and played at cards. 'Macaroni!Every one fell on it, and three dishes were devoured. We had alsoalamode beef, cold fowl, a loin of veal, a dessert, and excellentwine. What a charming dinner! No cheer like a good appetite. ' Theirharmony, however, was disturbed. The 'première amoureuse, ' who, inspite of her rank and title, was ugly and cross, and required to becoaxed with cups of chocolate, lost her cat. She tried to kill thewhole boat-load of beasts--cats, dogs, monkeys, parrots, pigeons, eventhe lamb stood in danger of her wrath. A regular quarrel ensued, wassomehow set at peace, and all began to laugh again. This is a sampleof Goldoni's youth. Comic pleasures, comic dangers; nothing deep orlasting, but light and shadow cheerfully distributed, clouds loweringwith storm, a distant growl of thunder, then a gleam of light andsunshine breaking overhead. He gets articled to an attorney at Venice, then goes to study law at Pavia; studies society instead, and flirts, and finally is expelled for writing satires. Then he takes a turn atmedicine with his father in Friuli, and acts as clerk to the criminalchancellor at Chiozza. 

Every employment seems easy to him, but he really cares for none butliterature. He spends all his spare time in reading and in amusements, and begins to write a tragic opera. This proves, however, eminentlyunsuccessful, and he burns it in a comic fit of anger. One laughablelove-affair in which he engaged at Udine exhibits his adventuresin their truly comic aspect. It reminds us of the scene in 'DonGiovanni, ' where Leporello personates the Don and deceives DonnaElvira. Goldoni had often noticed a beautiful young lady at churchand on the public drives: she was attended by a waiting-maid, who soonperceived that her mistress had excited the young man's admiration, and who promised to befriend him in his suit. Goldoni was told torepair at night to the palace of his mistress, and to pour his passionforth beneath her window. Impatiently he waited for the trystinghour, conned his love-sentences, and gloried in the romance of theadventure. When night came, he found the window, and a veiled figureof a lady in the moonlight, whom he supposed at once to be hismistress. Her he eloquently addressed in the true style of Romeo'srapture, and she answered him. Night after night this happened, but sometimes he was a little troubled by a sound of ill-suppressedlaughter interrupting the _tête-à-tête_. Meanwhile Teresa, the waiting-maid, received from his hands costly presents for hermistress, and made him promises on her part in exchange. As she provedunable to fulfil them, Goldoni grew suspicious, and at last discoveredthat the veiled figure to whom he had poured out his tale of love wasnone other than Teresa, and that the laughter had proceeded fromher mistress, whom the faithless waiting-maid regaled at her lover'sexpense. Thus ended this ridiculous matter. Goldoni was not, however, cured by his experience. One other love-affair rendered Udine too hotto hold him, and in consequence of a third he had to fly from Venicejust when he was beginning to flourish there. At length he marriedcomfortably and suitably, settling down into a quiet life with a womanwhom, if he did not love her with passion, he at least respected andadmired. Goldoni, in fact, had no real passion in his nature. 

Alfieri, on the other hand, was given over to volcanic ebullitions ofthe most ungovernable hate and affection, joy and sorrow. The chainsof love which Goldoni courted so willingly, Alfieri regarded withthe greatest shyness. But while Goldoni healed his heart of all itsbruises in a week or so, the tragic poet bore about him wounds thatwould not close. He enumerates three serious passions which possessedhis whole nature, and at times deprived him almost of his reason. ADutch lady first won his heart, and when he had to leave her, Alfierisuffered so intensely that he never opened his lips during the courseof a long journey through Germany, Switzerland, and Piedmont. Fevers, and suicides attempted but interrupted, marked the termination of thistragic amour. His second passion had for its object an English lady, with whose injured husband he fought a duel, although his collarbonewas broken at the time. The lady proved unworthy of Alfieri as wellas of her husband, and the poet left her in a most deplorable stateof hopelessness and intellectual prostration. At last he formeda permanent affection for the wife of Prince Charles Edward, theCountess of Albany, in close friendship with whom he lived after herhusband's death. The society of this lady gave him perfect happiness;but it was founded on her lofty beauty, the pathos of her situation, and her intellectual qualities. Melpomene presided at this union, while Thalia blessed the nuptials of Goldoni. How characteristicalso were the adventures which these two pairs of lovers encountered!Goldoni once carried his wife upon his back across two rivers in theirflight from the Spanish to the Austrian camp at Rimini, laughing andgroaning, and perceiving the humour of his situation all the time. Alfieri, on an occasion of even greater difficulty, was stopped withhis illustrious friend at the gates of Paris in 1792. They were flyingin post-chaises, with their servants and their baggage, from thedevoted city, when a troop of _sansculottes_ rushed on them, surged around the carriage, called them aristocrats, and tried to dragthem off to prison. Alfieri, with his tall gaunt figure, pallid face, and red voluminous hair, stormed, raged, and raised his deep bassvoice above the tumult. For half an hour he fought with them, thenmade his coachmen gallop through the gates, and scarcely halted tillthey got to Gravelines. By this prompt movement they escaped arrestand death at Paris. These two scenes would make agreeable companionpictures: Goldoni staggering beneath his wife across the muddy bedof an Italian stream--the smiling writer of agreeable plays, with hishalf-tearful helpmate ludicrous in her disasters; Alfieri mad withrage among Parisian Mænads, his princess quaking in her carriage, theair hoarse with cries, and death and safety trembling in the balance. It is no wonder that the one man wrote 'La Donna di Garbo' and the'Cortese Veneziano, ' while the other was inditing essays on Tyrannyand dramas of 'Antigone, ' 'Timoleon, ' and 'Brutus. '

The difference between the men is seen no less remarkably in regardto courage. Alfieri was a reckless rider, and astonished even Englishhuntsmen by his desperate leaps. In one of them he fell and brokehis collar-bone, but not the less he held his tryst with a fair lady, climbed her park gates, and fought a duel with her husband. Goldoniwas a pantaloon for cowardice. In the room of an inn at Desenzanowhich he occupied together with a female fellow-traveller, an attemptwas made to rob them by a thief at night. All Goldoni was able to doconsisted in crying out for help, and the lady called him 'M. L'Abbé'ever after for his want of pluck. Goldoni must have been by far themore agreeable of the two. In all his changes from town to town ofItaly he found amusement and brought gaiety. The sights, the theatres, the society aroused his curiosity. He trembled with excitement at theperformance of his pieces, made friends with the actors, taught them, and wrote parts to suit their qualities. At Pisa he attended asa stranger the meeting of the Arcadian Academy, and at its closeattracted all attention to himself by his clever improvisation. He wasin truth a ready-witted man, pliable, full of resource, bred half avalet, half a Roman _græculus_. Alfieri saw more of Europe thanGoldoni. France, Germany, Holland, Switzerland, England, Spain, allparts of Italy he visited with restless haste. From land to land heflew, seeking no society, enjoying nothing, dashing from one inn doorto another with his servants and his carriages, and thinking chieflyof the splendid stud of horses which he took about with him upon histravels. He was a lonely, stiff, self-engrossed, indomitable man. Hecould not rest at home: he could not bear to be the vassal of a kingand breathe the air of courts. So he lived always on the wing, andended by exiling himself from Sardinia in order to escape the trammelsof paternal government. As for his tragedies, he wrote them to winlaurels from posterity. He never cared to see them acted; he bulliedeven his printers and correctors; he cast a glove down in defianceof his critics. Goldoni sought the smallest meed of approbation. Itpleased him hugely in his old age to be Italian master to a Frenchprincess. Alfieri openly despised the public. Goldoni wrote because heliked to write; Alfieri, for the sake of proving his superior powers. Against Alfieri's hatred of Turin and its trivial solemnities, wehave to set Goldoni's love of Venice and its petty pleasures. He wouldwillingly have drunk chocolate and played at dominoes or picquet allhis life on the Piazza di San Marco, when Alfieri was crossing thesierras on his Andalusian horse, and devouring a frugal meal of ricein solitude. Goldoni glided through life an easy man, with genial, venial thoughts; with a clear, gay, gentle temper; a true sense ofwhat is good and just; and a heart that loved diffusively, if not toowarmly. Many were the checks and obstacles thrown on his path; butround them or above them he passed nimbly, without scar or scathe. Poverty went close behind him, but he kept her off, and never feltthe pinch of need. Alfieri strained and strove against the barriersof fate; a sombre, rugged man, proud, candid, and self-confident, whobroke or bent all opposition; now moving solemnly with tragic pomp, now dashing passionately forward by the might of will. Goldoni drewhis inspirations from the moment and surrounding circumstances. Alfieri pursued an ideal, slowly formed, but strongly fashioned andresolutely followed. Of wealth he had plenty and to spare, buthe disregarded it, and was a Stoic in his mode of life. He was anunworldly man, and hated worldliness. Goldoni, but for his authorship, would certainly have grown a prosperous advocate, and died of goutin Venice. Goldoni liked smart clothes; Alfieri went always inblack. Goldoni's fits of spleen--for he _was_ melancholy now andthen--lasted a day or two, and disappeared before a change of place. Alfieri dragged his discontent about with him all over Europe, and letit interrupt his work and mar his intellect for many months together. Alfieri was a patriot, and hated France. Goldoni never speaksof politics, and praises Paris as a heaven on earth. The genialmoralising of the latter appears childish by the side of Alfieri'sterse philosophy and pregnant remarks on the development of character. What suits the page of Plautus would look poor in 'Oedipus' or'Agamemnon. ' Goldoni's memoirs are diffuse and flippant in their lightFrench dress. They seem written to please. Alfieri's Italian stylemarches with dignity and Latin terseness. He rarely condescends tosmile. He writes to instruct the world and to satisfy himself. Grimhumour sometimes flashes out, as when he tells the story of the Orderof Homer, which he founded. How different from Goldoni's naïve accountof his little ovation in the theatre at Paris!

But it would be idle to carry on this comparison, already tedious. Thelife of Goldoni was one long scene of shifts and jests, of frequenttriumphs and some failures, of lessons hard at times, but kindly. Passions and _ennui_, flashes of heroic patriotism, constantsuffering and stoical endurance, art and love idealised, fill up thelife of Alfieri. Goldoni clung much to his fellow-men, and sharedtheir pains and pleasures. Alfieri spent many of his years in almostabsolute solitude. On the whole character and deeds of the one man wasstamped Comedy: the other was own son of Tragedy. 

If, after reading the autobiographies of Alfieri and Goldoni, we turnto the perusal of their plays, we shall perceive that there is nobetter commentary on the works of an artist than his life, and nobetter life than one written by himself. The old style of criticism, which strove to separate an author's productions from his life, andeven from the age in which he lived, to set up an arbitrary canonof taste, and to select one or two great painters or poets as idealsbecause they seemed to illustrate that canon, has passed away. We arebeginning to feel that art is a part of history and of physiology. That is to say, the artist's work can only be rightly understood bystudying his age and temperament. Goldoni's versatility and want ofdepth induced him to write sparkling comedies. The merry life menpassed at Venice in its years of decadence proved favourable to hisgenius. Alfieri's melancholy and passionate qualities, fostered insolitude, and aggravated by a tyranny he could not bear, led himirresistibly to tragic composition. Though a noble, his nobility onlyadded to his pride, and insensibly his intellect had been imbued withthe democratic sentiments which were destined to shake Europe in hislifetime. This, in itself, was a tragic circumstance, bringing himinto close sympathy with the Brutus, the Prometheus, the Timoleon ofancient history. Goldoni's _bourgeoisie_, in the atmosphere ofwhich he was born and bred, was essentially comic. The true comedyof manners, which is quite distinct from Shakspere's fancy or fromAristophanic satire, is always laid in middle life. Though Goldonitried to write tragedies, they were unimpassioned, dull, and tame. Helacked altogether the fire, high-wrought nobility of sentiment, andsense of form essential for tragic art. On the other hand, Alfiericomposed some comedies before his death which were devoid of humour, grace, and lightness. A strange elephantine eccentricity is theirutmost claim to comic character. Indeed, the temper of Alfieri, everin extremes, led him even to exaggerate the qualities of tragedy. He carried its severity to a pitch of dulness and monotony. Hischiaroscuro was too strong; virtue and villany appearing in pureblack and white upon his pages. His hatred of tyrants induced him totransgress the rules of probability, so that it has been well saidthat if his wicked kings had really had such words of scorn and hatredthrown at them by their victims, they were greatly to be pitied. Onthe other hand, his pithy laconisms have often a splendidly tragicaleffect. There is nothing in the modern drama more rhetoricallyimpressive, though spasmodic, than the well-known dialogue betweenAntigone and Creon:--

'_Cr_. Scegliesti?

'_Ant_. Ho scelto. 

'_Cr_. Emon?

'_Ant_. Morte. 

'_Cr_. L'avrai!'

Goldoni's comedies, again, have not enough of serious thought or oftrue creative imagination to be works of high art. They lean too muchto the side of farce; they have none of the tragic salt which givesa dignity to Tartuffe. They are, in a word, almost too enethisticallycomic. 

The contrast between these authors might lead us to raise the questionlong ago discussed by Socrates at Agathon's banquet--Can the same manwrite both comedies and tragedies? We in England are accustomed toread the serious and comic plays of Shakspere, Fletcher, Jonson, andto think that one poet could excel in either branch. The custom ofthe Elizabethan theatre obliged this double authorship; yet it must beconfessed that Shakspere's comedies are not such comedies as Greekor Romnan or French critics would admit. They are works of the purestimagination, wholly free from the laws of this world; while thetragedies of Fletcher have a melodramatic air equally at variance withthe classical Melpomene. It may very seriously be doubted whether thesame mind could produce, with equal power, a comedy like the 'CorteseVeneziano' and a tragedy like Alfieri's 'Brutus. ' At any rate, returning to our old position, we find in these two men the veryopposite conditions of dramatic genius. They are, as it were, specimens prepared by Nature for the instruction of those who analysegenius in its relations to temperament, to life, and to externalcircumstances. 

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 FOOTNOTES:

 [Footnote 1: This Essay was written in 1866, and published in 1867. Reprinting it in 1879, after eighteen months spent continuously in one high valley of the Grisons, I feel how slight it is. For some amends, I take this opportunity of printing at the end of it a description of Davos in winter. ]

 [Footnote 2: See, however, what is said about Leo Battista Alberti in the sketch of Rimini in the second series. ]

 [Footnote 3: The Grisons surname Campèll may derive from the Romansch Campo Bello. The founder of the house was one Kaspar Campèll, who in the first half of the sixteenth century preached the Reformed religion in the Engadine. ]

 [Footnote 4: I have translated and printed at the end of the second volume some sonnets of Petrarch as a kind of palinode for this impertinence. ]

 [Footnote 5: This begs the question whether [Greek: leukoion] does not properly mean snowflake, or some such flower. Violets in Greece, however, were often used for crowns: [Greek: iostephanos] is the epithet of Homer for Aphrodite, and of Aristophanes for Athens. ]

 [Footnote 6: Olive-trees must be studied at Mentone or San Remo, in Corfu, at Tivoli, on the coast between Syracuse and Catania, or on the lowlands of Apulia. The stunted but productive trees of the Rhone valley, for example, are no real measure of the beauty they can exhibit. ]

 [Footnote 7: Dante, Par. Xi. 106. ]

 [Footnote 8: It is but just to Doctor Pasta to remark that the above sentence was written more than ten years ago. Since then he has enlarged and improved his house in many ways, furnished it more luxuriously, made paths through the beechwoods round it, and brought excellent water at a great cost from a spring near the summit of the mountain. A more charming residence from early spring to late autumn can scarcely be discovered. ]

 [Footnote 9: 'The down upon their cheeks and chin was yellower than helichrysus, and their breasts gleamed whiter far than thou, O Moon. ']

 [Footnote 10: 'Thy tresses have I oftentimes compared to Ceres' yellow autumn sheaves, wreathed in curled bands around thy head. ']

 [Footnote 11: Both these and the large frescoes in the choir have been chromolithographed by the Arundel Society. ]

 [Footnote 12: I cannot see clearly through these transactions, the muddy waters of decadent Italian plot and counterplot being inscrutable to senses assisted by nothing more luminous than mere tradition. ]

 [Footnote 13: Those who are interested in such matters may profitably compare this description of a planned murder in the sixteenth century with the account written by Ambrogio Tremazzi of the way in which he tracked and slew Troilo Orsini in Paris in the year 1577. It is given by Gnoli in his _Vittoria Accoramboni_, pp. 404-414. ]

 [Footnote 14: So far as I can discover, the only church of San Spirito in Venice was a building on the island of San Spirito, erected by Sansavino, which belonged to the Sestiere di S. Croce, and which was suppressed in 1656. Its plate and the fine pictures which Titian painted there were transferred at that date to S. M. Della Salute. I cannot help inferring that either Bibboni's memory failed him, or that his words were wrongly understood by printer or amanuensis. If for S. Spirito we substitute S. Stefano, the account would be intelligible. ]

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