Introductory material (continued 5)

But here we are on the top of the Pass, from which we can look into three countries—an empire, a kingdom, and a republic. Austria is behind us, and Italy is before us, and Switzerland, throned on the Alps, stands close beside us. After resting awhile, and feasting our eyes on the glorious sight, we prepare to descend.

We are not out of the Tyrol, even when we have crossed the frontier, for there is an Italian as well as an Austrian Tyrol, which has the same features, and may be said to extend to Lake Como.

The descent from the Stelvio is quite as wonderful as the ascent. Perhaps the impression is even greater, as the descent is more rapid, and one realizes more the awful height and depth, as he is whirled down the pass by a hundred zigzag turns, over bridges and through galleries of rock, till at last, at the close of a long summer's day, he reaches the Baths of Bormio, and plunging into one of the baths, for which the place is so famous, washes away the dust of the journey, and rests after the fatigue of a day never to be forgotten, in which he made the Pass of the Stelvio.

For one fond of mountain climbing, who wished to make foot excursions among the Alps, there are not many better points than this of the Baths of Bormio. It is under the shadow of the great mountains, yet is itself only about four thousand feet high, so that it is easily accessible from below, yet it is nearly half-way up to the heights above.

But we were on our way to Italy, and the next day continued our course down the valley of the Adda. Hour after hour we kept going down, down, till it seemed as if we must at last reach the very bottom of the mountains, where their granite foundations are embedded in the solid mass of the planet. But this descent gave us a succession of scenes of indescribable beauty. Slowly the valley widened before us. The mountains wore a rugged aspect. Instead of sterile masses of rock, mantled with snows, and piercing the clouds, they began to be covered with pines, which, like moss upon rocks, softened and beautified their rugged breasts. As we advanced still farther, the slopes were covered with vineyards; we were entering the land of the olive and the vine; terrace on terrace rose on the mountain side; every shelf of rock, or foot of ground, where a vine could grow, was covered. The rocky soil yields the most delicious grapes. Women brought us great clusters; a franc purchased enough for our whole party. The industry of the people seemed more like the habits of birds building their nests on every point of vantage, or of bees constructing their precious combs in the trunks of old trees or in the clefts of the rocks, than the industry of human creatures, which requires some little "verge and scope" for its manifestations. And now along the banks of the Adda are little plots of level ground, which admit of other cultivation. Olives trees are mingled with the vines. There are orchards too, which remind us of New England. Great numbers of mulberry trees are grown along the road, for the raising of silk is one of the industries of Lombardy, and there are thousands of willows by the water-courses, from which they are cutting the lithe and supple branches, to be woven into baskets. It is the glad summer time, and the land is rejoicing with the joy of harvest. "The valleys are covered over with corn; they shout for joy; they also sing." It was a warm afternoon, and the people were gathering in the hay; and a pretty sight it was to see men and women in the fields raking the rows, and very sweet to inhale the smell of the new-mown hay, as we whirled along the road.

These are pretty features of an Italian landscape; I wish that the impression was not marred by some which are less pleasant. But the comfort of the people does not seem to correspond to their industry. There is no economy in their labor, everything is done in the old-fashioned way, and in the most wasteful methods. I did not see a mowing or a reaping machine in the Tyrol, either on this or the other side of the mountains. They use wooden ploughs, drawn by cows as often as by oxen, and so little management have they, that one person is employed, generally a woman, to lead the miserable team, or rather pull them along. I have seen a whole family attached to a pair of sorry cattle—the man holding the plough, the woman pulling the rope ahead, and a poor little chap, who did his best, whipping behind. The crops are gathered in the same slipshod way. The hay is all carried in baskets on the backs of women. It was a pitiful sight to see them groaning under their loads, often stopping by the roadside to rest. I longed to see one of our Berkshire farmers enter the hay-field with a pair of lusty oxen and a huge cart, which would transport at a single load a weight, such as would break the backs of all the women in an Italian village.

Of course women subjected to this kind of work, are soon bent out of all appearance of beauty; and when to this is added the goitre, which prevails to a shocking extent in these mountain valleys, they are often but wretched hags in appearance.

And yet the Italians have a "gift of beauty," if it were only not marred by such untoward circumstances. Many a bright, Spanish-looking face looked out of windows, and peered from under the arches, as we rattled through the villages; and the children were almost always pretty, even though in rags. With their dark brown faces, curly hair, and large, beautiful eyes, they might have been the models of Murillo's beggars.

We dined at Tirano, in a hotel which once had been a monastery, and whose spacious rooms—very comfortable "cells" indeed—and ample cellars for their wines, and large open court, surrounded with covered arches, where the good fathers could rest in the heat of the day, showed that these old monks, though so intent on the joys of the next world, were not wholly indifferent to the "creature comforts" of this.

Night brought us to Sondrio, where in a spacious and comfortable inn, which we remember with much satisfaction after our long rides, we slept the sleep of innocence and peace.

And now we are fairly entered into Italy. The mountains are behind us, and the lakes are before us. Friday brought us to Lake Como, and we found the relief of exchanging our ride in a diligence along a hot and dusty road for a sail over this most enchanting of Italian, perhaps I might say of European, lakes; for after seeing many in different countries, it seems to me that this is "better than all the waters" of Scotland or Switzerland. It is a daughter of the Alps, lying at their feet, fed by their snows, and reflecting their giant forms in its placid bosom. And here on its shores we have pitched our tent to rest for ten days. For three months we have been travelling almost without stopping, sometimes, to avoid the heat, riding all night—as from Amsterdam to Hamburg, and from Prague to Vienna. The last week, though very delightful, has been one of great fatigue, as for four days in succession we rode twelve or thirteen hours a day in a carriage or diligence. After being thus jolted and knocked about, we are quite willing to rest. Nature is very well, but it is a pleasant change once in a while to return to civilization; to have the luxury of a bath, and to sleep quietly in our beds, like Christians, instead of racing up and down in the earth, as if haunted by an evil spirit. And so we have decided to "come apart and rest awhile," before starting on another campaign.

We are in the loveliest spot that ever a tired mortal chose to pillow his weary head. If any of my readers are coming abroad for a summer, and wish for a place of rest, let me recommend to them this quiet retreat. Cadenabbia! it hath a pleasant sound, and it is indeed an enchanting spot. The mountains are all around us, to shut out the world, and the gentle waters ripple at our feet. We do not spend the time in making excursions, for in this balmy air it is a sufficient luxury to exist. We are now writing at a table under an avenue of fine old trees, which stretch along the lake to the Villa Carlotta, a princely residence, which belongs to a niece of the Emperor of Germany, where oranges and lemons are growing in the open air, and hang in clusters over our heads, and where one may pick from the trees figs and pomegranates. Here we sit in a paradise of beauty, and send our loving thoughts to friends over the sea.

And then, if tired of the shore, we have but to step into a boat, and float "at our own sweet will." This is our unfailing resource when the day is over. Boats are lying in front of the hotel, and strong-armed rowers are ready to take us anywhere. Across the lake, which is here but two miles wide, is Bellaggio, with its great hotels along the water, and its numerous villas peering out from the dense foliage of trees. How they glow in the last rays of the sunset, and how brilliant the lights along the shore at evening. Sometimes we sail across to visit the villas, or to look among the hotels for friendly American names. But more commonly we sail up and down, only for the pleasure of the motion, now creeping along by the shore, under the shadow of the mountains, and now "launching out into the deep," and rest, like one becalmed, in the middle of the lake. We do not want to go anywhere, but only to float and dream. Row gently, boatman! Softly and slowly! Lentissimo! Hush, there is music on the shore. We stop and listen:

But better than music or the waters is the heaven that is above the waters, and that is reflected in the tranquil bosom of the lake. Leaning back on the cushioned seat, we look up to the stars as old friends, as they are the only objects that we recognize in the heavens above or the earth beneath. How we come to love any object that is familiar. I confess it is with a tender feeling that I look up to constellations that have so often shined upon me in other lands, when other eyes looked up with mine. How sweet it is, wherever we go, to have at least one object that we have seen before; one face that is not strange to us, the same on land or sea, in Europe and America. Thus in our travels I have learned to look up to the stars as the most constant friends. They are the only things in nature that remain faithful. The mountains change as we move from country to country. The rivers know us not as they glide away swiftly to the sea. But the stars are always the same. The same constellations glow in the heavens to-night that shone on Julius Cæsar when he led his legions through these mountains to conquer the tribes of Germany. Cæsar is gone, and sixty generations since, but Orion and the Pleiades remain. The same stars are here that shone on Bethlehem when Christ was born; the same that now shine in distant lands on holy graves; and that will look down with pitying eyes on our graves when we are gone. Blessed lights in the heavens, to illumine the darkness of our earthly existence! Are they not the best witnesses for our Almighty Creator,

He who hath set his bow in the cloud, hath set in the firmament that is above the clouds, these everlasting signs of His own faithfulness. Who that looks up at that midnight sky can ever again doubt His care and love, as he reads these unchanging memorials of an unchanging God?

CHAPTER XIX.

THE CITY IN THE SEA.

Venice, Sept 18th.

It was with real regret that we left Lake Como, where we had passed ten very quiet but very happy days. But all things pleasant must have an end, and so on Monday morning we departed. Steamers ply up and down the lake, but as none left at an hour early enough to connect with a train that reached Venice the same evening, we took a boat and were rowed to Lecco. It was a three hours' pull for two strong men; but as we left at half-past seven, the eastern mountains protected us from the heat of the sun, and we glided swiftly along in their cool shadows. Not a breath of air ruffled the bosom of the lake. Everything in this parting view conspired to make us regret a scene of which we were taking a long, perhaps a last, farewell.

At Lecco we came back to railroads, which we had not seen since the morning we left Munich for Ober-Ammergau, more than two weeks before, and were soon flying over a cultivated country, where orchards of mulberry trees (close-trimmed, so as to yield a second crop of leaves the same season) gave promise of the rich silks of Lombardy, and vines covered all the terraced slopes of the hills.

In the carriage with us was a good old priest, who was attached to St. Mark's in Venice, with whom we fell in conversation, and who gave us much information about the picturesque country through which we were passing. Here, where the land is smiling so peacefully, among these very hills, "rich with corn and wine," was fought the great battle in which Venice defeated Frederick Barbarossa, and thus saved the cause of Italian independence.

At Bergamo we struck the line from Milan to Venice, and while waiting an hour for the express train, sauntered off with the old priest into the town, which was just then alive with the excitement of its annual fair. The peasants had come in from all the country round—men and women, boys and girls—to enjoy a holiday, bringing whatever they had to sell, and seeking whatever they had to buy. One might imagine that he was in an old-fashioned "cattle show" at home. Farmers had brought young colts which they had raised for the market, and some of the brawny fellows, with broad-brimmed hats, answered to the drovers one may see in Kansas, who have driven the immense herds of cattle from Texas. In another part of the grounds were exposed for sale the delicate fabrics and rich colors which tempt the eye of woman: silks and scarfs and shawls, with many of the sex, young and old, looking on with eager eyes. And there were sports for the children. A merry-go-round picked up its load of little creatures, who, mounted on wooden horses, were whirled about to their infinite delight at a penny apiece—a great deal of happiness for a very little money. And there were all sorts of shows going on—little enclosures, where something wonderful was to be seen, the presence of which was announced by the beating of a drum; and a big tent with a circus, which from the English names of the performers may have been a strolling company from the British Islands, or possibly from America! It would be strange indeed, if a troupe of Yankee riders and jumpers had come all the way to Italy, to make the country folk stare at their surprising feats. And there was a menagerie, which one did not need to enter: for the wild beasts painted on the outside of the canvas, were no doubt much more ferocious and terrible to behold than the subdued and lamb-like creatures within. Is not a Country Fair the same thing all over the world?

At length the train came rushing up, and stopping but a moment for passengers, dashed off like a race-horse over the great plain of Lombardy. But we must not go so fast as to overlook this historic ground. Suddenly, like a sheet of silver, unrolls before us the broad surface of the Lago di Garda, the greatest of the Italian lakes, stretching far into the plain, but with its head resting against the background of the Tyrolean Alps. What memories gather about these places from the old Roman days! In yonder peninsula in the lake, Catullus wrote his poems; in Mantua, a few miles to the south, Virgil was born; while in Verona an amphitheatre remains in excellent preservation, which is second only to the Coliseum. In events of more recent date this region is full of interest. We are now in the heart of the famous Quadrilateral, the Four great Fortresses, built to overawe as well as defend Upper Italy. All this ground was fought over by the first Napoleon in his Italian campaigns; while near at hand is the field of Solferino, where under Napoleon III. a French army, with that of Victor Emmanuel, finally conquered the independence of Italy.

More peaceful memories linger about Padua, whose University, that is over six hundred years old, was long one of the chief seats of learning in Europe, within whose walls Galileo studied; and Tasso and Ariosto and Petrarch; and the reformer and martyr Savonarola.

But all these places sink in interest, as just at evening we reach the end of the main land, and passing over the long causeway which crosses the Lagune, find ourselves in Venice. It seems very prosaic to enter Venice by a railroad, but the prose ceases and the poetry begins the instant we emerge from the station, for the marble steps descend to the water, and instead of stepping into a carriage we step into a gondola; and as we move off we leave behind the firm ground of ordinary experience, and our imagination, like our persons, is afloat. Everything is strange and unreal. We are in a great city, and yet we cannot put our feet to the ground. There is no sound of carriages rattling over the stony streets, for there is not a horse in Venice. We cannot realize where and what we are. The impression is greatly heightened in arriving at night, for the canals are but dimly lighted, and darkness adds to the mystery of this city of silence. Now and then we see a light in a window, and somebody leans from a balcony; and we hear the plashing of oars as a gondola shoots by; but these occasional signs of life only deepen the impression of loneliness, till it seems as if we were in a world of ghosts—nay, to be ghosts ourselves—and to be gliding through misty shapes and shadows; as if we had touched the black waters of Death, and the silent Oarsman himself were guiding our boat to his gloomy realm. Thus sunk in reverie, we floated along the watery streets, past the Rialto, and under the Bridge of Sighs, to the Hotel Danieli on the Grand Canal, just behind the Palace of the Doges.

When the morning broke, and we could see things about us in plain daylight, we set ourselves, like dutiful travellers, to see the sights, and now in a busy week have come to know something of Venice; to feel that it is not familiar ground, but familiar water, familiar canals and bridges, and churches and palaces. We have been up on the Campanile, and looked down upon the city, as it lies spread out like a map under our eye, with all its islands and its waters; and we have sailed around it and through it, going down to the Lido, and looking off upon the Adriatic; and then coursing about the Lagune, and up and down the Grand Canal and the Giudecca, and through many of the smaller canals, which intersect the city in every direction. We have visited the church of St. Mark, rich with its colored marbles and mosaics, and richer still in its historic memories; and the Palace where the Doges reigned, and the church where they are buried, the Westminster Abbey of Venice, where the rulers of many generations lie together in their royal house of death; we have visited the Picture Galleries, and seen the paintings of Titian and the statues of Canova, and then looked on the marble tombs in the church of the Frati, where sleep these two masters of different centuries. Thus we have tried to weave together the artistic, the architectural, and the historical glories of this wonderful city.

There is no city in Europe about which there is so much of romance as Venice, and of real romance (if that be not a contradiction), that is, of romance founded on reality, for indeed the reality is stranger than fiction. Its very aspect dazzles the eye, as the traveller approaches from the east, and sees the morning sun reflected from its domes and towers. And how like an apparition it seems, when he reflects that all that glittering splendor rests on the unsubstantial sea. It is a jewel set in water, or rather it seems to rise, like a gigantic sea-flower, out of the waves, and to spread a kind of tropical bloom over the far-shining expanse around it.

And then its history is as strange and marvellous as any tale of the Arabian Nights. It is the wildest romance turned into reality. Venice is the oldest State in Europe. The proudest modern empires are but of yesterday compared with it. When Britain was a howling wilderness, when London and Paris were insignificant towns, the Queen of the Adriatic was in the height of its glory. Macaulay says the Republic of Venice came next in antiquity to the Church of Rome. Thus he places it before all the kingdoms of Europe, being antedated only by that hoary Ecclesiastical Dominion, which (as he writes so eloquently in his celebrated review of Ranke's History of the Popes) began to live before all the nations, and may endure till that famous New Zealander "shall take his stand, in the midst of a vast solitude, on a broken arch of London Bridge, to sketch the nuns of St. Paul's."

And this history, dating so far back, is connected with monuments still standing, which recall it vividly to the modern traveller. The church of St. Mark is a whole volume in itself. It is one of the oldest churches in the world, boasting of having under its altar the very bones of St. Mark, and behind it alabaster columns from the Temple of Solomon, while over its ancient portal the four bronze horses still stand proudly erect, which date at least from the time of Nero, and are perhaps the work of a Grecian sculptor who lived before the birth of Christ. And the Palace of the Doges—is it not a history of centuries written in stone? What grand spectacles it has witnessed in the days of Venetian splendor! What pomp and glory have been gathered within its walls! And what deliberations have been carried on in its council chambers; what deeds of patriotism have been there conceived, and also what conspiracies and what crimes! And the Prison behind it, with the Bridge of Sighs leading to it, does not every stone in that gloomy pile seem to have a history written in blood and tears?

But the part of Venice in European history was not only a leading one for more than a thousand years, but a noble one; it took the foremost place in European civilization, which it preserved after the barbarians had overrun the Roman Empire. The Middle Ages would have been Dark Ages indeed, but for the light thrown into them by the Italian Republics. It was after the Roman empire had fallen under the battle-axes of the German barbarians that the ancient Veneti took refuge on these low-lying islands, finding a defence in the surrounding waters, and here began to build a city in the sea. Its position at the head of the Adriatic was favorable for commerce, and it soon drew to itself the rich trade of the East. It sent out its ships to all parts of the Mediterranean, and even beyond the Pillars of Hercules. And so, century after century, it grew in power and splendor, till it was the greatest maritime city in the world. It was the lord of the waves, and in sign of its supremacy, it was married to the sea with great pomp and magnificence. In the Arsenal is shown the model of the Bucentaur, that gilded barge in which the Doge and the Senate were every year carried down the harbor, and dropping a ring of gold and gems (large as one of those huge doorknockers that in former days gave dignity to the portals of great mansions) into the waves, signified the marriage of Venice to the sea.[3] It was the contrast of this display of power and dominion with the later decline of Venetian commerce, that suggested the melancholy line,

But then Venice was as much mistress of the sea as England is to-day. She sat at the gates of the Orient, and

Then arose on all her islands and her waters those structures which are to this day the wonder of Europe. The Grand Canal, which is nearly two miles long, is lined with palaces, such as no modern capital can approach in costliness and splendor.

And Venice used her power for a defence to Christendom and to civilization, the former against the Turks, and the latter against Northern barbarians. When Frederick Barbarossa came down with his hordes upon Italy, he found his most stubborn enemy in the Republic of Venice, which kept up the contest for more than twenty years, till the fierce old Emperor acknowledged a power that was invincible, and here in Venice, in the church of St. Mark, knelt before the Pope Alexander III. (who represented, not Rome against Protestantism, but Italian independence against German oppression), and gave his humble submission, and made peace with the States of Italy which, thanks to the heroic resistance of Venice, he could not conquer.

Hardly was this long contest ended before the power of Venice was turned against the Turks in the East. Venetians, aided by French crusaders, and led by a warrior whose courage neither age nor blindness could restrain ("Oh for one hour of blind old Dandolo!"), captured Constantinople, and Venetian ships sailing up and down the Bosphorus kept the conquerors of Western Asia from crossing into Europe. The Turks finally passed the straits and took Constantinople; but the struggle of the Cross and the Crescent, as in Spain between the Spaniard and the Moor, was kept up over a hundred years longer, and was not ended till the battle of Lepanto in 1571. In the Arsenal they still preserve the flag of the Turkish admiral captured on that great day, with its motto in Arabic, "There is no God but God, and Mohammed is his prophet." We can hardly realize, now that the danger is so long past, how great a victory, both for Christendom and for civilization, was won on that day when the scattered wrecks of the Turkish Armada sank in the blood-dyed waters of the Gulf of Corinth.

These are glorious memories for Venice, which fully justify the praises of historians, and make the splendid eulogy of Byron as true to history as it is beautiful in poetry. In Venice, as on the Rhine, I have found Childe Harold the best guide-book, as the poet paints a picture in a few immortal lines. Never was Venice painted, even by Canaletto, more to the eye than in these few strokes, which bring the whole scene before us:

But poets are apt to look at things only in a poetical light, and to admire and to celebrate, or to mourn, according to their own royal fancies, rather than according to the sober prose of history. The picture of the magnificence of Venice is true to the letter, for indeed no language can surpass the splendid reality. But when the poet goes farther and laments the loss of its independence, as if it were a loss to liberty and to the world, the honest student of history will differ from him. That he should mourn its subjection, or that of any part of Italy, to a foreign power, whether Austria or France, we can well understand. And this was perhaps his only real sorrow—a manly and patriotic grief—but at times he seems to go farther, and to regret the old gorgeous mediæval state. Here we cannot follow him. Poetry is well, and romance is well, but truth is better; and the truth, as history records it, must be confessed, that Venice, though in name a republic, was as great a despotism as any in the Middle Ages. The people had no power whatever. It was all in the hands of the nobles, some five hundred of whom composed the Senate, and elected the famous Council of Ten, by which, with the Senate, was chosen the Council of Three, who were the real masters of Venice. The Doge, who was generally an old man, was a mere puppet in their hands, a venerable figure-head of the State, to hide what was done by younger and more resolute wills. The Council of Three were the real Dictators of the Republic, and the Tribunal of the Inquisition itself was not more mysterious or more terrible. By some secret mode of election the names of those who composed this council were not known even to their associates in the Senate or in the Council of Ten. They were a secret and therefore wholly irresponsible tribunal. Their names were concealed, so that they could act in the dark, and at their will strike down the loftiest head. Once indeed their vengeance struck the Doge himself. I have had in my hands the very sword which cut off the head of Marino Faliero more than five hundred years ago. It is a tremendous weapon, and took both hands to lift it, and must have fallen upon that princely neck like an axe upon the block. But commonly their power fell on meaner victims. The whole system of government was one of terror, kept up by a secret espionage which penetrated every man's household, and struck mortal fear into every heart. The government invited accusations. The "lion's mouth"—an aperture in the palace of the Doges—was always open, and if a charge against one was thrown into it, instantly he was arrested and brought before this secret tribunal, by which he might be tried, condemned, sentenced, and executed, without his family knowing what had become of him, with only horrible suspicions to account for his mysterious disappearance.

In going through the Palace of the Doges one is struck with the gorgeousness of the old Venetian State. All that is magnificent in architecture; and all that is splendid in decoration, carving, and gilding, spread with lavish hand over walls and doors and ceiling; with every open space or panel illumined by paintings by Titian or some other of the old Venetian masters—are combined to render this more than a "royal house," since it is richer than the palaces of kings.

But before any young enthusiast allows his imagination to run away with him, let him explore this Palace of the Doges a little farther. Let him go into the Hall of the Council of Three, and observe how it connects conveniently by a little stair with the Hall of Torture, where innocent persons could soon be persuaded to accuse themselves of deadly crimes; and how it opens into a narrow passage, through which the condemned passed to swift execution. Then let him go down into the dungeons, worse than death, where the accused were buried in a living tomb. Byron himself, in a note to Childe Harold, has given the best answer to his own lamentation over the fall of the Republic of Venice.[4]

We shall therefore waste no tears over the fall of the old Republic of Venice, even though it had existed for thirteen hundred years. In its day it had acted a great part in European history, and had often served the cause of progress, when it preserved Christendom from the Turks, and civilization from the Barbarians. But it had accomplished its end, and its time had come to die; and though the poet so musically mourns that

yet in the changes which have come, we cannot but recognize the passing away of an old state of things, to be succeeded by a better. Even the spirit of Byron would be satisfied, could he open his eyes now, and see Venice rid at last of a foreign yoke, and restored to her rightful place, as a part of free and united Italy.

Though Venice is a city which does not change in its external appearance, and looks just as it did when I was here seventeen years ago, I observe one difference; the flag that is flying from all the public buildings is not the same. Then the black eagles of Austria hovered over the Square of St. Mark; and as we sat there in the summer evening, Austrian officers were around us, in front of the cafés, and the music was by an Austrian band. Now there is music still, and on summer nights the old Piazza is thronged as ever; but I hear another language in the groups—the hated foreigner, with his bayonets, is not here. The change is every way for the better. The people breathe freely, and political and national life revives in the air of liberty.

Venice is beginning to have also a return of its commercial prosperity. Of course it can never again be the mistress of the sea, as other great commercial states have sprung up beyond the Mediterranean. The glory of Venice culminated about the year 1500. Eight years before that date, an Italian sailor—though not a Venetian, but a Genoese—had discovered, lying beyond the western main, a New World. In less than four centuries, the commerce which had flourished on the Adriatic was to pass to England, and that other English Empire still more remote. Venice can never regain her former supremacy. Civilization has passed, and left her standing in the sea. But though she can never again take the lead of other nations, she may still have a happy and a prosperous future. There is the commerce of the Mediterranean, for which, as before, she holds a commanding position at the head of the Adriatic. For some days has been lying in the Grand Canal, in front of our hotel, a large steamer of the Peninsular and Oriental Steamship Company, the Delhi, and on Friday she sailed for Alexandria and Bombay! The transference of these ships to Venice as a point of departure, will help its commerce with the East and with India.

One thing we may be allowed to hope, as a friend of Venice and of Italy—that its policy will be one of peace. In the Arsenal we found models of ironclads and other ships of war, built or building; but I confess I felt rather glad to hear the naval officer who showed them to us confess (though he did it with a tone of regret) that their navy was not large compared with other European navies, and that the Government was not doing much to increase it, though it is building dry docks here in Venice, and occasionally adds a ship to the fleet. Yet what does Italy want of a great navy? or a great army? They eat up the substance of the country; and it has no money to waste on needless armaments. Besides, Italy has no enemy to fear, for both France and Germany are friendly; to France she owes the deliverance of Lombardy, and to Germany that of Venice. And even Austria is reconciled. Last April the Emperor made a visit to Venice, and was received by Victor Emmanuel, and was rowed up the Grand Canal with a state which recalled the pomp of her ancient days of glory.

The future therefore of Venice and of Italy is not in war, but in peace. Venice has had enough of war in former centuries—enough of conflicts on land and sea. She can now afford to live on this rich inheritance of glory. Let her cherish the memory of the heroic days of old, but let her not tempt fortune by venturing again into the smoke of battle. Let her keep in her Arsenal the captured flags taken from the Turks at Lepanto; let the three tall masts of cedar, erected in the Square of St. Mark three hundred and seventy years ago, to commemorate the conquest of Cyprus, Candia, and Morea, still stand as historical mementoes of the past; but it is no sacrifice of pride that they no longer bear the banners of conquered provinces, since from their lofty and graceful heads now floats a far prouder ensign—the flag of one undivided Italy.

If I were to choose an emblem of what the future of this country should be, I would that the arms of Venice might be henceforth, not the winged lion of St. Mark, but the doves of St. Mark: for these equally belong to Venice, and form not only one of its prettiest sights, but one connected with historical associations, that make them fit emblems both of peace and of victory. The story is that at the siege of Candia, in the beginning of the Thirteenth century, Admiral Dandolo had intelligence brought to him by carrier-pigeons which helped him to take the island, and that he used the same swift-winged heralds to send the news to Venice. And so from that day to this they have been protected, and thus they have been the pets of Venice for six hundred years. They seem perfectly at home, and build their nests on the roofs and under the eaves of the houses, even on the Doge's Palace and the Church of St. Mark. Not the swallow, but the dove hath found a nest for herself on the house of the Lord. I see them nestling together on the Bridge of Sighs, thinking not of all the broken hearts that have passed along that gloomy arch. A favorite perch at evening is the heavy cross-bars of the prison windows; there they sleep peacefully, where lonely captives have looked up to the dim light, and sighed in vain for liberty. From all these nooks and corners they flock into the great square in the day-time, and walk about quite undisturbed. It has been one of our pleasures to go there with bread in our pockets, to feed them. At the first sign of the scattered crumbs, they come fluttering down from the buildings around, running over each other in their eagerness, coming up to my feet, and eating out of my hand. Let these beautiful creatures—the emblems of peace and the messengers of victory—be wrought as an armorial bearing on the flag of the new Italy—white doves on a blue ground, as if flying over the sea—their outspread wings the fit emblems of those sails of commerce, which, we trust, are again to go forth from Venice and from Genoa, not only to all parts of the Mediterranean, but to the most distant shores!

CHAPTER XX.

MILAN AND GENOA.—A RIDE OVER THE CORNICHE ROAD.

Genoa, September 20th.

The new life of Italy is apparent in its cities more than in the country. A change of government does not change the face of nature. The hills that bear the olive and the vine, were as fresh and green under the rule of Austria as they are now under that of Victor Emmanuel. But in the cities and large towns I see a marked change, both in the places themselves, and in the manner and spirit of the people. Then there was an universal lethargy. Everything was fixed in a stagnation, like that of China. There was no improvement, and no attempt at any. The incubus of a foreign yoke weighed like lead on the hearts of the people. Their depression showed itself in their very countenances, which had a hopeless and sullen look. Now this is gone. The Austrians have retired behind the mountains of the Tyrol, and Italy at last is free from the Alps to the Adriatic. The moral effect of such a political change is seen in the rebound from a state of despair to one of animation and hope. When a people are free, they have courage to attempt works of improvement, knowing that what they do is not for the benefit of foreign masters, but for themselves and their children. Hence the new life which I see in the very streets of Milan and Genoa. Everywhere improvements are going on. They are tearing down old houses, and building new ones; opening new streets and squares, and levelling old walls, that wide boulevards may take their place. In Milan I found them clearing away blocks of houses in front of the Duomo, to form an open square, sufficient to give an ample foreground for the Cathedral. And they were just finishing a grand Arcade, with an arched roof of iron and glass, like the Crystal Palace, beneath which are long rows of shops, as well as wide open spaces, where the people may gather in crowds, secure both from heat and cold, protected alike from the rains of summer and the snows of winter. The Emperor of Germany, who is about to pay a visit to Italy, will find in Milan a city not so large indeed, but certainly not less beautiful, than his own northern capital.

One beauty it has which Berlin can never have—its Cathedral. If I had not exhausted my epithets of admiration on the Cathedrals of Strasburg and Cologne, I might attempt a description of that of Milan; but indeed all words seem feeble beside the reality. One contrast to the German Cathedrals is its lighter exterior. It is built of marble, which under an Italian sky has preserved its whiteness, and hence it has not the cold gray of those Northern Minsters blackened by time. Nor has it any such lofty towers soaring into the sky. The impression at first, therefore, is one of beauty rather than of grandeur. In place of one or two such towers, standing solitary and sublime, its buttresses along the sides shoot up into as many separate pinnacles, surmounted by statues, which, as they gleam in the last rays of sunset, or under the full moon, seem like angelic sentinels ranged along the heavenly battlements. These details of the exterior draw away the eye from the vastness of the structure as a whole, which only bursts upon us as we enter within. There we recognize its immensity in the remoteness of objects. A man looks very small at the other end of the church. Service may be going on at half a dozen side chapels without attracting attention, except as we hear chanting in the distance; and the eye swims in looking up at the vaulted roof. Behind the choir, three lofty windows of rich stained glass cast a soft light on the vast interior. If I lived in Milan, I should haunt that Cathedral, since it is a spot where one may always be alone, as if he were in the depths of the forest, and may indulge his meditations undisturbed.

But there is another church, of much more humble proportions, which has a great historical interest, that of St. Ambrose, the author of the Te Deum, through which he has led the worship of all the generations since his day, and whose majestic anthem "We praise Thee, O God, we acknowledge Thee to be the Lord," will continue to resound in the earthly temples till it is caught up by voices around the throne. St. Ambrose gave another immortal gift to the Church in the conversion of St. Augustine, the greatest of the Fathers, whose massive theology has been the study alike of Catholics and Protestants—of Bossuet and Luther and Calvin.

Near the church of St. Ambrose one may still see the mutilated remains of the great work of Leonardo da Vinci—the Last Supper—painted, as everybody knows, on the walls of the refectory of an old monastery, where it has had all sorts of bad usage till it has been battered out of shape, but where still Christ sits in the midst of His disciples, looking with tender and loving eyes around on that circle which He should not meet again till He had passed through His great agony. The mutilation of such a work is a loss to the world, but it is partly repaired by the many excellent copies, and by the admirable engravings, in which it has been reproduced.

From Milan to Genoa is only a ride of five hours, and we are once more by the sea. One must be a dull and emotionless traveller who does not feel a thrill as he emerges from a long tunnel and sees before him the Mediterranean. There it lies—the Mare Magnum of the ancients, which to those who knew not the oceans as we know them, seemed vast and measureless; "the great and wide sea," of which the Psalmist wrote; towards which the prophet looked from Mount Carmel, till he descried rising out of it a cloud like a man's hand; the sea "whose shores are empires," around which the civilization of the world has revolved for thousands of years, passing from Egypt to Greece, to Rome, to France and Spain, but always lingering, whether on the side of Europe or Africa, somewhere along that enchanted coast.

Here is Genoa—Genoa Superba, as they named her centuries ago—and that still sits like a queen upon the waters, as she looks down so proudly from her amphitheatre of hills upon the bay at her feet. Genoa with Venice divided the maritime supremacy of the Middle Ages, when her prows were seen in all parts of the Mediterranean. The glory of those days is departed, but, like Venice, her prosperity is reviving under the influence of liberty. To Americans Genoa will always have a special interest as the city of Christopher Columbus. It was pleasant, in emerging from the station, to see in the very first public square a monument worthy of his great name, to the discoverer of the New World.

Genoa is a convenient point from which to take an excursion over the Corniche road—one of the most famous roads in Europe, running along the Riviera, or the coast of the Mediterranean, as far west as Nice. A railroad now follows the same route, but as it passes through a hundred tunnels, more or less, the traveller is half the time buried in the earth. The only way to see the full beauty of this road is to take a carriage and drive over it, so as to get all the best points of view. The whole excursion would take several days. To economize our time we went by rail from Genoa to San Remo, where the most picturesque part of the road begins, and from there took a basket carriage with two spirited ponies to drive to Nice, a good day's journey over the mountains. The day was fair, not too hot nor too cool. The morning air was exhilarating, as we began our ride along the shore, winding in and out of all the little bays, sweeping around the promontories that jut into the sea, and then climbing high up on the spurs of the mountains, which here slope quite down to the coast, from which they take the name of the Maritime Alps. The special beauty of this Riviera is that it lies between the mountains and the sea. The hills, which rise from the very shore, are covered not with vines but with olives—a tree which with its pale yellow leaves, somewhat like the willow is not very attractive to the eye, especially when, as now withered by the fierce summer's heat, and covered with the summer's dust. There has been no rain for two months, and the whole land is burnt like a furnace. The leaves are scorched as with the breath of a sirocco. But when the autumn rains descend, we can well believe that all this barrenness is turned into beauty, as these slopes are then green, both with olive and with orange groves.

In the recesses of the hills are many sheltered spots, protected from the northern winds, and open to the southern sun, which are the favorite resorts of invalids for the winter, as here sun and sea combine to give a softened air like that of a perpetual spring. When winter rages over the north of Europe, when snow covers the open country, and even drifts in the streets of great capitals, then it seems as if sunshine and summer retreated to the shores of the Mediterranean, and here lingered among the orange gardens that look out from the terraced slopes upon the silver sea. The warm south wind from African deserts tempers the fierceness of the northern blasts. And not only invalids, but people of wealth and fashion, who have the command of all countries and climates, and who have only to choose where to spend the winter with least of discomfort and most of luxury and pleasure, flock to these resorts. Last winter the Empress of Russia took up her quarters at San Remo, to inhale the balmy air—a simple luxury, which she could not find in her palace at St. Petersburg. And Prince Amadeus, son of the king of Italy, who himself wore a crown for a year, occupied a villa near by, and found here a tranquil happiness which he could never find on the troubled throne of Spain. A still greater resort than San Remo is Mentone, which for the winter months is turned into an English colony, with a sprinkling of Americans, who altogether form a society of their own, and thus enjoy, along with this delicious climate, the charms of their English and American life.

It is a pity that there should be a serpent in this garden of Paradise. But here he is—a huge green monster, twining among the flowers and the orange groves. Midway between Mentone and Nice is the little principality of Monaco, the smallest sovereignty in Europe, covering only a rocky peninsula that projects into the sea, and a small space around it. But small as it is, it is large enough to furnish a site for a pest worse than a Lazaretto—worse than the pirates of the Barbary coast that once preyed on the commerce of the Mediterranean—for here is the greatest gambling house in Europe. The famous—or infamous—establishments that so long flourished on the Rhine, at Homburg and Baden Baden, drawing hundreds and thousands into their whirlpools of ruin, have been broken up since the petty principalities have been absorbed in the great German empire. Thus driven from one point to another, the gamblers have been, like the evil spirit, seeking rest and finding none, till at last, by offering a large sum—I heard that it was four hundred thousand francs (eighty thousand dollars) a year—to the Prince of Monaco, they have induced him to sell himself to the Devil, and to allow his petty State to become a den of thieves. Hearing of this notorious establishment, I had a curiosity to see it, and so we were driven to Monte Carlo, which is the pretty name for a very bad place. Surely never was the palace of pleasure decked with more attractions. The place has been made like a garden. Extensive grounds have been laid out, where orange trees and palms are in full bloom. Winding walks conduct the visitor to retired and shady retreats. The building itself is of stately proportions, and one goes up the steps as if he were ascending a temple. Within the broad vestibule servants in livery receive the stranger with studied politeness, as a welcome guest, and with courtly smiles bow him in. The vestibule opens into a large assembly room for concerts and dancing, where one of the finest bands in Europe discourses delicious music. Entrance is free everywhere, except into the gaming-room, which however requires only your card as a proof of your respectability. One must give his name, and country, and profession! See how careful they are to have only the most select society. I was directed to the office, where two secretaries, of sober aspect, who looked as if they might be retired Methodist clergymen, required my name and profession. I felt that I was getting on rather dangerous ground, but answered by giving only my surname and the profession of editor, and received a card of admission, and passed in. We were in a large hall, with lofty ceiling, and walls decorated in a style that might become an apartment in a royal palace. There were three tables, at two of which gaming was going on. At the third the gamblers sat around idle, waiting for customers, for "business" is rather slack just now, as the season has not begun. A few weeks later, when the hotels along the sea are filled up, the place will be thronged, and all these tables will be kept going till midnight. At the two where play was in progress, we stood apart and watched the scene. There was a long table, covered with green cloth (I said it was a green monster), over which were scattered piles of gold and silver, and around which were some twenty-five persons, mostly men, though there were two or three women (it is well known that some of the most infatuated and desperate gamblers at Baden Baden were women). The game was what is known as roulette or rouge et noir [red and black].[5] You lay down a piece of coin, a napoleon or a sovereign, or, if you cannot afford that, a five-franc piece, for they are so democratic that they are willing to take the small change of the poor, as well as the hundred or thousand francs of the rich. The wager is that, when a horizontal wheel which is sunk in the table—the roulette—is set revolving, a little ball like a boy's marble, which is set whirling in it, will rest on the black or red spot. Of course the thing is so managed that the chances are many to one that you will lose your money. But it looks fair, and the greenhorn is easily persuaded that it is an even chance, and that he is as likely to win as to lose, until experience makes him a sadder and a wiser man. Of those about the table, it was quite apparent, even to my inexperienced eye, that the greater part were professional gamblers. There is a look about them that is unmistakable. My companion, who had looked on half curious and half frightened, and who shrank up to my side (although everything is kept in such order, and with such an outward show of respectability, that there is no danger), remarked the imperturbable coolness of the players. The game proceeded in perfect silence, and no one betrayed the least emotion, whether he lost or won. But I explained to her that this was probably owing in part to the fact that they were mostly employés of the establishment, and had no real stake in the issue; but if they were not, a practised gambler never betrays any emotion. This is a part of his trade. He schools himself to it as an Indian does, who scorns to show suffering, even if he is bound at the stake. I noticed only one man who seemed to take his losses to heart. I presumed he was an outsider, and as he lost heavily, his face flushed, but he said nothing. This is the general course of the game. Not a word is spoken, even when men are losing thousands. Instances have occurred in which men gambled away their last dollar, and then rose from the table and blew out their brains—which interrupted the play disagreeably for a few moments; but the body was removed, the blood washed away, and the game proceeded as usual.

When we had watched the silent spectacle for half an hour, we felt that we had quite enough, and after strolling through the grounds and listening to the music, returned to our carriage and drove off, moralizing on the strange scene we had witnessed.

Did I regret that I had been to see this glittering form of temptation and sin? On the contrary, I wished that every pastor in New York could have stood there and looked on at that scene. We have had quite enough of firing at all kinds of wickedness at long range. It is time to move our batteries up a little nearer, and engage the enemy at close quarters. If those pastors had seen what we saw in that half hour, they would realize, as they cannot now, the dangers to which young men are exposed in our cities. They would see with their own eyes how broad is the road, and how alluring it is made, that leads to destruction, and how many there be that go in thereat. I look upon Monte Carlo as the very mouth of the pit, covered up with flowers, so that giddy creatures dance along its perilous edge till it crumbles under their feet. Thousands who come here with no intention of gambling, put down a small sum "just to try their luck," and find that "a fool and his money are soon parted." Many do not end with losing a few francs, or even a few sovereigns. It is well if they do not leave behind them what they can ill afford to lose. Very many young men leave what is not their own. That such a place of temptation should be allowed to exist here in this lovely spot on the shores of the Mediterranean, is a disgrace to Monaco, and to the powers on both sides of it, France and Italy, which, if they have no legal right to interfere, might by a vigorous protest put an end to the accursed thing. Probably it will after awhile provoke its own destruction. I should be glad to see the foul nest of gamblers that have congregated here, broken up, and the wretches sent to the galleys as convicts, or forced in some way to earn an honest living.

But is not this vice of gambling very wide-spread? Does it not exist in more forms than one, and in more countries than the little State of Monaco? I am afraid the vice lies deep in human nature, and may be found in some shape in every part of the world. Is there not a great deal of gambling in Wall street? When men bet on the rise and fall of stocks, when they sell what they do not possess, or buy that for which they have no money to pay, do they not risk their gains or losses on a chance, as much as those who stake thousands on the turning of a wheel, on a card or a die? It is the old sin of trying to get the fruits of labor without labor, to get something for nothing, that is the curse of all modern cities and countries, that demoralizes young men in New York and San Francisco, as well as in Paris and London. The great lesson which we all need to learn, is the duty and the dignity of labor. When a man never claims anything which he does not work for, then he may feel an honest pride in his gains, and may slowly grow in fortune without losing the esteem of the good, or his own manly self-respect.

Leaving this gorgeous den of thieves behind us, we haste away to the mountains; for while the railroad seeks its level path along the very shore of the sea, the Corniche road, built before railroads were thought of, finds its only passage over stupendous heights. We have now to climb a spur of the Alps, which here pushes its great shoulder close to the sea. It is a toilsome path for our little ponies, but they pull up bravely, height after height. Every one we mount, we hope to find the summit; but we keep going on and on, and up and up, till it seems like a Jacob's Ladder, which reaches to Heaven. When on one of the highest points, we look right down into Monte Carlo as into the crater of a volcano. It does not burn or smoke, but it has an open mouth, and many there be that there go down quick into hell.

We are at last on the top, and pass on from one peak to another, all the time enjoying a wide outlook over the blue Mediterranean, which lies calmly at the foot of these great mountains, with only a white sail here and there dotting the mighty waters.

It was nearly sunset when we came in sight of Nice, gleaming in the distance on the sea-shore. We had been riding all day, and our driver, a bright young Savoyard, seemed eager to have the long journey over, and so he put his ponies to their speed, and we came down the mountain as if shot out of a gun, and rattled through the streets of Nice at such a break-neck pace, that the police shouted after us, lest we should run over somebody. But there was no stopping our little Jehu, and on we went at full speed, till suddenly he reined us up with a jerk before the hotel.

In the old days when I first travelled in the south of Europe, Nice was an Italian town. It belonged to the small kingdom of Sardinia. But in 1860, as a return for the help of Napoleon in the campaign of 1859 against Austria, by which Victor Emmanuel gained Lombardy, it was ceded with Savoy to France, and now is a French city. I think it has prospered by the change. It has grown very much, until it has some fifty thousand inhabitants. Its principal attraction is as a winter resort for English and Americans. There are a number of Protestant churches, French and English. The French Evangelical church has for its pastor Rev. Leon Pilatte, who is well known in America.

It was now Saturday night, and the Sabbath drew on. Never was its rest more grateful, and never did it find us in a more restful spot. Everybody comes here for repose, to find rest and healing. The place is perhaps a little saddened by the presence of so many invalids, some of whom come here only to die. In yonder hotel on the shore, the heir of the throne of all the Russias breathed his last a few winters ago. These clear skies and this soft air could not save him, even when aided by all the medical skill of Europe. I should not have great faith in the restoring power of this or of any climate for one far gone in consumption. But certainly as a place of rest, if it is permitted to man to find rest anywhere on earth, it must be here, with the blue skies above, and the soft flowery earth below, and with no sound to disturb, but only the murmur of the moaning, melancholy sea.

But a traveller is not allowed to rest. He comes not to stay, but only to see—to look, and then to disappear; and so, after a short two days in Nice, we took a quick return by night, and in eight hours found ourselves again in Genoa.

CHAPTER XXI.

IN THE VALE OF THE ARNO.

Florence, September 27th.

We are getting more into the heart of Italy as we come farther south. In the old Roman days the country watered by the Po was not a part of Italy; it was Cisalpine Gaul. This we leave behind as we turn southward from Genoa. The road runs along the shore of the Mediterranean; it is a continuation of the Riviera as far as Spezzia, where we leave the sea and strike inland to Pisa, one of the Mediæval cities, which in its best days was a rival of Genoa, and which has still some memorials of its former grandeur. Here we spent a night, and the next morning visited the famous Leaning Tower, and the Cathedral and Baptistery, and the Campo Santo (filled with earth brought from Jerusalem in fifty-three ships, that the faithful might be buried in holy ground), and then pursued our way along the Valley of the Arno to Florence.

And now the inspiration of the country, the genius loci, comes upon us more and more. We are in Tuscany, one of the most beautiful portions of the whole peninsula. We are favored by the season of the year. Before we came abroad I consulted some of my travelled friends as to the best time of the year to visit Italy. Most tourists come here in the winter. Rome especially is not thought to be safe till late in the autumn. But Dr. Bellows told me that, so far from waiting for cold weather, he thought Italy could be seen in its full beauty only in an earlier month, when the country was still clothed with vegetation. Certainly it is better to see it in its summer bloom, or in the ripeness of autumn, than when the land is stripped, when the mountains are bleak and bare, when there is not a leaf on the vine or the fig-tree, and only naked branches shiver in the wintry wind. We have come at a season when the earth has still its glory on. The vineyards are full of the riches of the year; the peasants are now gathering the grapes, and we have witnessed that most picturesque Italian scene, the vintage. Dark forests clothe the slopes of the Apennines. At this season there is a soft, hazy atmosphere, like that of our Indian summer, which gives a kind of purple tint to the Italian landscapes. The skies are fair, but not more fair than that heaven of blue which bends over many a beloved spot in America. Nor is the vegetation richer, nor are the landscapes more lovely, than in our own dear vales of Berkshire. Even the Arno at this season, like most of the other rivers of Italy, is a dried up bed with only a rivulet of muddy water running through it. Later in the autumn, when the rains descend; or in the spring, when the snows melt upon the mountains, it is swollen to such a height that it often overflows its banks, and the full stream rushes like a torrent. But at present the mighty Arno, of which poets have sung so much, is not so large as the Housatonic, nor half so beautiful as that silver stream, on whose banks the meadows are always fresh and green, and where the waters are pure and sparkling that ripple over its pebbled bed.

But the position of Florence is certainly one of infinite beauty, lying in a valley, surrounded by mountains. The approach to it by a railroad, when one gets his first view from a level, is much less picturesque than in the old days when we travelled by vettura, and came to it over the Apennines, and after a long day's journey reached the top of a distant hill, from which we saw Florence afar off, sitting like a queen in the Valley of the Arno, the setting sun reflected from the Duomo and the Campanile, and from all its domes and towers.

In this Valley of Paradise we have spent a week, visiting the galleries of pictures, and making excursions to Fiesolé and other points of view on the surrounding hills, from which to look down on as fair a scene as ever smiled beneath an Italian sun.

Florence is in many respects the most attractive place in Italy, as it unites the charms of art with those of modern life; as it exists not only in the dead past, but in the living present. It is a large, thriving, prosperous city, and has become a great resort of English and Americans, who gather here in the winter months, and form a most agreeable society. There are a number of American sculptors and painters, whose works are well known on the other side of the Atlantic. Some of their studios we visited, and saw abundant evidence, that with all our intensely practical life, the elements of taste and beauty, and of a genius for art, are not wanting in our countrymen.

Florence has had a material growth within a few years, from being for a time the capital of the new kingdom of Italy. When Tuscany was added to Sardinia, the capital was removed from Turin to Florence as a more central city, and the presence of the Court and the Parliament gave a new life to its streets. Now the Court is removed to Rome, but the impulse still remains, and in the large squares which have been opened, and the new buildings which are going up, one sees the signs of life and progress. To be sure, there is not only growing but groaning, for the taxes are fearfully high here, as everywhere in Italy. The country is bearing burdens as heavy as if it were in a state of war. If only Italy were the first country in Europe to reduce her armaments, she could soon lighten the load upon her people.

But leaving aside all political and financial questions, one may be permitted to enjoy this delightful old city, with its treasures of art, and its rich historical memories. Florence has lately been revelling in its glories of old days in a celebration of the four hundredth anniversary of the birth of Michael Angelo—as a few years since it celebrated the six hundredth anniversary of the birth of Dante. Surely few men in history better deserve to be remembered than Michael Angelo, whose rugged face looks more like that of a hard-headed old Scotchman, than of one who belonged to the handsome Italian race. And yet that brain was full of beautiful creations, and in his life of eighty-nine years he produced enough to leave, not only to Florence, but to Rome, many monuments of his genius. He was great in several forms of art—as painter, sculptor, and architect—and even had some pretension to be a poet. He was the sculptor of David and Moses; the painter of the Last Judgment and the frescoes of the Sistine Chapel, and the architect who built St. Peter's. And his character was equal to his genius. He was both religious and patriotic, not only building churches, but the fortifications that defended Florence against her enemies. Such was Michael Angelo—a simple, grand old man, whose name is worthy to live with the heroes of antiquity.

We were too late to enjoy the fétes that were given at this anniversary, and were only able to be present at the performance of Verdi's Requiem, which concluded the whole. This sublime composition was written for the great Italian author Manzoni, and to be sung in the Cathedral of Milan, whose solemn aisles were in harmony with its mournful and majestic strains. Now it would have seemed more fitting in the Duomo of Florence than in a theatre, though perhaps the latter was better constructed for an orchestra and an audience. The performance of the Requiem was to be the great musical event of the year; we had heard the fame of it at Milan and at Venice, and having seen what Italy could show in one form of art, we were now able to appreciate it in another. Months had been spent in preparation. Distinguished singers were to lead in the principal parts, while hundreds were to join their voices in the tremendous chorus. On the night that we witnessed the representation, the largest theatre in Florence was crowded from pit to dome, although the price of admission was very high. In the vast assembly was comprised what was most distinguished in Florence, with representatives from other cities of Italy, and many from other countries. The performance occupied over two hours. It began with soft, wailing melodies, such as might be composed to soothe a departing soul, or to express the wish of survivors that it might enter into its everlasting rest. Then succeeded the Dies Iræ—the old Latin hymn, which for centuries has sounded forth its accents of warning and of woe. Those who are familiar with this sublime composition will remember the terrific imagery with which the terrors of the Judgment are presented, and can imagine the effect of such a hymn rendered with all the power of music. We had first a quiet, lulling strain—almost like silence, which was the calm before the storm. Then a sound was heard, but low, as of something afar off, distant and yet approaching. Nearer and nearer it drew, swelling every instant, till it seemed as if the trumpets that should wake the dead were stirring the alarmed air. At last came a crash as if a thunder peal had burst in the building. This terrific explosion, of course, was soon relieved by softer sounds. There were many and sudden transitions, one part being given by a single powerful voice, or by two or three, or four, and then the mighty chorus responding with a sound like that of many waters. After the Dies Iræ followed a succession of more gentle strains, which spoke of Pardon and Peace. The Agnus Dei and other similar parts were given with a tenderness that was quite overpowering. Those who have heard the Oratorio of the Messiah, and remember the melting sweetness of such passages as "He leadeth me beside the still waters," and "I know that my Redeemer liveth," can form an idea of the marvellous effect. I am but an indifferent judge of music, but I could not but observe how much grander such a hymn as the Dies Iræ sounds in the original Latin than in any English version. Eternal rest are sweet words in English, but in music they can never be rendered with the effect of the Latin REQUIEM SEMPITERNAM, on which the voices of the most powerful singers lingered and finally died away, as if bidding farewell to a soul that was soaring to the very presence of God. This Requiem was a fitting close to the public celebrations by which Florence did honor to the memory of her illustrious dead.

Michael Angelo is buried in the church of Santa Croce, and near his tomb is that of another illustrious Florentine, whose name belongs to the world, and to the heavens—"the starry Galileo." We have sought out the spots associated with his memory—the house where he lived and the room where he died. The tower from which he made his observations is on an elevation which commands a wide horizon. There with his little telescope—a very slender tube and very small glass, compared with the splendid instruments in our modern observatories—he watched the constellations, as they rose over the crest of the Apennines, and followed their shining path all night long. There he observed the mountains in the moon, and the satellites of Jupiter. What a commentary on the intelligence of the Roman Catholic Church, that such a man should be dragged before the Inquisition—before ignorant priests who were not worthy to untie his shoes—and required, under severe penalties, to renounce the doctrine of the revolution of the globe. The old man yielded in a moment of weakness, to escape imprisonment or death, but as he rose from his knees, his spirit returned to him, and he exclaimed "But still it moves!" A good motto for reformers of all ages. Popes and inquisitors may try to stop the revolution of the earth, but still it moves!

There is another name in the history of Florence, which recalls the persecutions of Rome—that of Savonarola. No spot was more sacred to me than the cell in the Monastery, where he passed so many years, and from which he issued, crucifix in hand (the same that is still kept there as a holy relic), to make those fiery appeals in the streets of Florence, which so stirred the hearts of the people, and led at last to his trial and death. A rude picture that is hung on the wall represents the final scene. It is in the public square, in front of the Old Palace, where a stage is erected, and monks are conducting Savonarola and two others who suffered with him, to the spot where the flames are kindled. Here he was burnt, and his ashes thrown into the Arno. But how impotent the rage that thought thus to stifle such a voice! His words, like his ashes, have gone into the air, and the winds take them up and carry them round the world. Henceforth his name belongs to history, and in the ages to come will be whispered by

It is a proof of the decline of Italy under the oppression of a foreign yoke—of the paralysis of her intellectual as well as her political life—that she has produced no name to equal these in four hundred years. For though Byron eulogizes so highly, and perhaps justly, Alfieri and Canova, it would be an extravagant estimate which should assign them a place in the Pantheon of History beside the immortals of the Middle Ages.

And yet Italy has not been wholly deserted of genius or of glory in these later ages. In the darkest times she has had some great writers, as well as painters and sculptors, and in the very enthusiasm with which she now recalls in her celebrations the names of Dante and Michael Angelo, we recognize a spirit of life, an admiration for greatness, which may produce in the future those who may rank as their worthy successors.

Within a few years Florence has become such a resort of strangers that some of its most interesting associations are with its foreign residents. In the English burying ground many of that country sleep far from their native island. Some, like Walter Savage Landor and Mrs. Browning, had made Florence their home for years. Italy was their adopted country, and it is fit that they sleep in its sunny clime, beneath a southern sky. So of our countryman Powers, who was a resident of Florence for thirty-five years, and whose widow still lives here in the very pretty villa which he built, with her sons and daughter married and settled around her, a beautiful domestic group. In the cemetery I sought another grave of one known to all Americans. On a plain stone of granite is inscribed simply the name

THEODORE PARKER, Born at Lexington, Massachusetts, In the United States of America, August 24th, 1810. Died in Florence May 10th, 1860.

One could preach a sermon over that grave, for in that form which is now but dust, was one of the most vigorous minds of our day, a man of prodigious force, an omnivorous reader, and a writer and lecturer on a great variety of subjects, who in his manifold forms of activity, did as much to influence the minds of his countrymen as any man of his time. He struck fierce blows, right and left, often doing more ill than good by his crude religious opinions, which he put forth as boldly as if they were the accepted faith of all mankind; but in his battle for Liberty rendering services which the American people will not willingly let die.

Mrs. Browning's epitaph is still briefer. There is a longer inscription on a tablet in the front of the house which was her home for so many years, placed there by the municipal government of Florence. There, as one looks up to those Casa Guidi Windows, which she has given as a name to a volume of her poems, he may read that "In this house lived and died Elizabeth Barrett Browning, who by her genius and her poetry made a golden link between England and Italy." But on her tomb, which is of pure white marble, is only

But what need of more words to perpetuate a name that is on the lips of millions; or to speak of one who speaks for herself in the poetry she has made for nations; whose very voice thus lives in the air, like a strain of music, and goes floating down the ages, singing itself to immortality?

CHAPTER XXII.

OLD ROME AND NEW ROME.—RUINS AND RESURRECTION.

Rome, October 8th.

At last we are in Rome! We reached here a week ago, on what was to me a very sad anniversary, as on the first of October of last year I came from the country, bringing one who was never to return. Now, as then, the day was sadly beautiful—rich with the hues of autumn, when nature is gently dying, a day suited to quiet thoughts and tender memories. It was late in the afternoon when we found ourselves racing along the banks of the Tiber—"the yellow Tiber" it was indeed, as its waters were turbid enough—and just as the sun was setting we shot across the Campagna, and when the lamps were lighted were rattling through the streets of the Eternal City.

To a stranger coming here there is a double interest; for there are two cities to be studied—old Rome and new Rome—the Rome of Julius Cæsar, and the Rome of Pius IX. and Victor Emmanuel. In point of historical interest there is no comparison, as the glory of the ancient far surpasses that of the modern city. And it is the former which first engages our attention.

How strange it seemed to awake in the morning and feel that we were really in the city that once ruled the world! Yes, we are on the very spot. Around us are the Seven Hills. We go to the top of the Capitol and count them all. We look down to the river bank where Romulus and Remus were cast ashore, like Moses in the bulrushes, left to die, and where, according to the old legend, they were suckled by a wolf; and where Romulus, when grown to man's estate, began to build a city. Antiquarians still trace the line of his ancient wall. On the Capitol Hill is the Tarpeian Rock, from which traitors were hurled. And under the hill, buried in the earth, one still sees the massive arch of the Cloaca Maxima, the great sewer, built by the Tarquins, through which all the waste of Rome has flowed into the Tiber for twenty-five hundred years; and there are the pillars of the ancient bridge—so they tell us—held by a hero who must have been a Hercules, of whom and his deed Macaulay writes in his "Lays of Ancient Rome" how, long after, in the traditions of the people,

Looking around the horizon every summit recalls historical memories. There are the Sabine Hills, where lived the tribe from which the early Romans (who were at first, like some of our border settlements, wholly a community of men,) helped themselves to wives. Yonder, to the south, are the Alban Hills; and there, in what seems the hollow of a mountain, Hannibal encamped with his army, looking down upon Rome. In the same direction lies the Appian Way, lined for miles with tombs of the illustrious dead. Along that way often came the legions returning from distant conquests, "bringing many captives home to Rome," with camels and elephants bearing the spoils of Africa and the East.

These recollections increase in interest as we come down to the time of the Cæsars. This is the culminating point of Roman history, as then the empire reached its highest point of power and glory. Julius Cæsar is the greatest character of ancient Rome, as soldier and ruler, the leader of armies, and the man whose very presence awed the Roman Senate. Such was the magic of his name that it was said peculiar omens and portents accompanied his death. As Shakespeare has it:

It was therefore with an interest that no other name could inspire, that we saw in the Capitol a statue, which is said to be the most faithful existing representation of that imperial man; and in the Strada Palace the statue of Pompey, which is believed to be the very one at the base of which "great Cæsar fell."[6]

With Cæsar ended the ancient Republic, and began the Empire. It was then that Rome attained her widest dominion, and the city its greatest splendor. She was the mistress of the whole world, from Egypt to Britain, ruling on all sides of the Mediterranean, along the shores of Europe, Asia, and Africa. And then the whole earth contributed to the magnificence of the Eternal City. It was the boast of Augustus, that "he found Rome of brick, and left it of marble." Under him and his successors were reared those palaces and temples, the very ruins of which are still the wonder and admiration of the world.

The knowledge of these ruins has been greatly increased by recent excavations. Till within a few years Rome was a buried city, almost as much as Pompeii. The débris of centuries had filled up her streets and squares, till the earth lay more than twenty feet deep in the Forum, choking up temples and triumphal arches; and even the lower part of the Coliseum had been submerged in the general wreck and ruin. In every part of the city could be seen the upper portions of buildings, the frieze on the capitals of columns, that were half under ground, and that, like Milton's lion, seemed pawing to be free.

But the work of clearing away this rubbish was so vast that it had been neglected from century to century. But during the occupation by the French troops, that Government expended large sums in uncovering these ruins, and the work has since been continued by Victor Emmanuel, until now, as the result of twenty years continuous labor, a buried city has been brought to light. The Forum has been cleared away, so that we may walk on its pavement, amid its broken columns, and see the very tribune from which Cicero addressed the Roman people. But beside this Central Forum, there were half a dozen others—such as the Forum of Julius Cæsar, and of Augustus, and of Nerva, and of Trajan, where still stands that marvellous Column in bronze (covered with figures in bas-relief, to represent the conquest of the Dacians), which has been copied in the Column of the Place Vendome in Paris. All of these Forums were parts of one whole. What is now covered by streets and houses, was an open space, extending from the Capitol as far as the Coliseum in one direction, and the Column of Trajan in another, surrounded by temples and basilicas, and columns and triumphal arches, and overlooked by the palaces of the Cæsars. This whole area was the centre of Rome, where its heart beat, when it contained two millions of people; where the people came together to discuss public affairs, or to witness triumphal processions returning from the wars. Here the Roman legions came with mighty tread along the Via Sacra, winding their way up to the Capitoline Hill to lay their trophies at the feet of the Senate.

Perhaps the best idea of the splendor and magnificence of ancient Rome may be gained from exploring the ruins of the palaces of the Cæsars. They are of vast extent, covering all the slopes of the Palatine Hill. Here great excavations have been made. The walk seems endless through what has been laid open. The walls are built like a fortress, as if to last forever, and decorated with every resource of art known to that age, with sculptures and ceilings richly painted, like those uncovered in the houses of Pompeii. These buildings have been stripped of everything that was movable—the statues being transported to the galleries of the Vatican. The same fate has overtaken all the great structures of ancient Rome. They have been divested of their ornaments and decoration, of gilding and bas-reliefs and statues, and in some cases have been quite dismantled. The Coliseum, it is well known, was used in the Middle Ages as a quarry for many proud noble families, and out of it were built some of the greatest palaces in Rome. Nothing saved the Pantheon but its conversion from a heathen temple into a Christian church. Hundreds and thousands of columns of porphyry and alabaster and costly marbles, which now adorn the churches of Rome, were taken from the ruins of temples and palaces.

But though thus stripped of every ornament, ancient Rome is still magnificent in her ruins. One may wander for days about the palaces of the Cæsars, walking through the libraries and theatres, under the arches and over the very tessellated pavement where those proud emperors walked nearly two thousand years ago. He should ascend to the highest point of the ruins to take in their full extent, and there he will see, looking out upon the Campagna, a long line of arches reaching many miles, over which water was brought from the distant hills for the Golden House of Nero.

Perhaps the most massive ruin which has been lately uncovered, is that of the Baths of Caracalla, which give an idea of the luxury and splendor of ancient Rome, as quite unequalled in modern times.

But, of course, the one structure which interests most of all, is the Coliseum: and here recent excavations have made fresh discoveries. The whole area has been dug down many feet, and shows a vast system of passages underground; not only those through which wild beasts were let into the arena, but conduits for water, by which the whole amphitheatre could be flooded and turned into a lake large enough for Roman galleys to sail in; and here naval battles were fought with all the fury of a conflict between actual enemies, to the delight of Roman emperor and people, who shouted applause, when blood flowed freely on the decks, and dyed the waters below.

There is one reflection that often recurs to me, as I wander among these ruins—what it is of all the works of man that really lives. Not architecture (the palaces of the Cæsars are but heaps of ruins); but the Roman laws remain, incorporated with the legislation of every civilized country on the globe; while Virgil and Cicero, the poet and the orator, are the delight of all who know the Latin tongue. Thus men pass away, their very monuments may perish, but their thoughts, their wisdom, their learning and their genius remain, a perpetual inheritance to mankind.

After Imperial Rome comes Christian Rome. Many of the stories of the first Christian centuries are fables and legends. Historical truth is so overlaid with a mass of traditions, that one is ready to reject the whole. When they show you here the stone on which they gravely tell you that Abraham bound Isaac for the sacrifice; and another on which Mary sat when she brought Christ into the temple; and the staircase from Pilate's house, the Scala Santa, up which every day and hour pilgrims may be seen going on their knees; and a stone showing the very prints of the Saviour's feet when he appeared to Peter—one is apt to turn away in disgust. But the general fact of the early planting of Christianity here, we know from the new Testament itself. Ecclesiastical historians are not agreed whether Peter was ever in Rome (although he is claimed as the first Pope), but that Paul was here we know from his epistles, and from the Book of Acts, in which we have the particulars of his "appealing to Cæsar," and his voyages to Italy, and his shipwreck on the island of Malta, his landing at Puteoli, and going "towards Rome," where he lived two years in "his own hired house," "preaching and teaching, no man forbidding him." Several of his epistles were written from Rome. It is therefore quite probable that he was confined, according to the tradition, in the Mamertine Prison under the Capitol, and one cannot descend without deep emotion into that dark, rocky dungeon, far underground, where the Great Apostle was once a prisoner, and from which he was led forth to die. He is said to have been beheaded without the walls. On the road they point out a spot (still marked by a rude figure by the roadside of two men embracing), where it is said Paul and Peter met and fell on each other's neck on the morning of the last day—Paul going to be beheaded, and Peter into the city to be crucified, which at his own request was with his head downwards, for he would not be crucified in the same posture as his Lord, whom he had once denied. On the spot where Paul is said to have suffered now rises one of the grandest churches in the world, second in Rome only to St. Peter's.

So the persecutions of the early Christians by successive emperors are matters of authentic history. Knowing this, we visit as a sacred place the scene of their martyrdom, and shudder at seeing on the walls the different modes of torture by which it was sought to break their allegiance to the faith; we think of them in the Coliseum, where they were thrown to the lions; and still more in the Catacombs, to which they fled for refuge, where they worshipped, and (as Pliny wrote) "sang hymns to Christ as to a God," and where still rest their bones, with many a rude inscription, testifying of their faith and hope.