With the World's Great Travellers, Volume 4
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Title: With the World's Great Travellers, Volume 4
Editor: Charles Morris
Oliver Herbrand Gordon Leigh
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Language: English
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WITH THE WORLD'S GREAT TRAVELLERS, VOLUME 4 ***
[Illustration: THE COLOGNE CATHEDRAL]
PAINTING BY W. WITTHOFT
_SPECIAL EDITION_
WITH THE WORLD'S
GREAT TRAVELLERS
EDITED BY CHARLES MORRIS
AND OLIVER H. G. LEIGH
VOL. IV
CHICAGO
UNION BOOK COMPANY
1901
COPYRIGHT 1896 AND 1897
BY
J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY
COPYRIGHT 1901
E. R. DUMONT
CONTENTS.
SUBJECT. AUTHOR. PAGE
Paris, Amsterdam OLIVER H. G. LEIGH 5
Florence and its Art Treasures SARAH J. LIPPINCOTT 16
The Lake Region of Italy ROBERT A. MCLEOD 26
A Day in Rome BAYARD TAYLOR 37
Pompeii and its Destroyer ALFRED E. LEE 48
Mount Etna in Eruption BAYARD TAYLOR 61
Plebeian Life in Venice HORACE ST. JOHN 70
Athens and its Temples J. L. T. PHILLIPS 79
The Isles of Greece HENRY M. FIELD 89
The Seraglio on the Golden Horn EDWARD DANIEL CLARKE 100
Zermatt and its Scenery STANLEY HOPE 112
Alpine Mountain Climbing EDWARD WHYMPER 121
A Typical Dutch City EDMONDO DE AMICIS 131
Antwerp and its People ROSE G. KINGSLEY 140
Art Museums of Dresden ELIZABETH PEAKE 147
The Students of Heidelberg BAYARD TAYLOR 158
The Streets of Berlin MATTHEW WOODS 165
A Ramble in Prussia STEPHEN POWERS 176
The Salt-Mines of Wieliczka J. ROSS BROWNE 183
The Jumping Procession of Echternach M. OGLE 193
The Capital of Austria JOHN RUSSELL 201
The Esterházy Palaces JOHN PAGET 210
From Hamburg to Stockholm MRS. ANDREW CROSSE 221
The Midnight Sun LANGLEY COLERIDGE 229
In the Russian Capital SAMUEL S. COX 236
A Visit to Finland DAVID KER 246
Moscow in 1800 EDWARD DANIEL CLARKE 257
A Russian Sleigh Journey FREDERICK BURNABY 267
List of Illustrations
VOLUME IV
THE COLOGNE CATHEDRAL _Frontispiece_
LOUVRE MUSEUM, APOLLO GALLERY 12
ST. GOTTHARD RAILWAY (Viaduct and Tunnel) 28
ARCH OF TITUS, ROME 38
THE FAMOUS BRIDGE OF THE RIALTO, VENICE 46
THE CHURCH OF ST. MARK, VENICE 74
ACROPOLIS AT ATHENS, GREECE 84
CORINTH, GREECE 96
THE LION MONUMENT, LUCERNE 114
KLEINE SCHEIDEGG (The Jungfrau) 124
A TYPICAL DUTCH WINDMILL 134
THE WATERLOO PYRAMID 144
THE TOWN AND CASTLE OF HEIDELBERG 160
INNSBRUCK, THERESA STREET 186
BUDAPEST 212
MOSCOW 258
WITH THE WORLD'S
GREAT TRAVELLERS.
THE WORLD'S GREAT CAPITALS OF TO-DAY.
OLIVER H. G. LEIGH.
PARIS, AMSTERDAM.
Paris, pleasure capital of the world, the ideal cosmopolitan city, a
thousand different delights for a thousand different tastes, is as
fascinating to the scholar and bookworm as to the tourist and the belle
of fashion. The weary old world would die of melancholy if the light
of gay Paris were to go out. Lutetia, as the Romans called the ancient
town, is still the merry child in the family of nations. Fortune gave
it favors without stint. Emperors and kings delighted to adorn it with
a lavishness equalled by the lasting splendor of their gifts. Art and
learning, the genius of ecclesiasticism and the desire for popular
enjoyment, contributed the venerable edifices and their priceless
treasures, and dowered the modern city with the heirlooms of many
centuries. Notre Dame rose eight hundred years ago from the ruins of a
fourth-century church. A few years ago were discovered the foundations
of an amphitheatre capable of seating ten thousand people as far back
as the year 350, when the city's population must have been at least
twice that number. No wonder all the world gathers periodically at this
natural centre of everything that can make a city a miniature world
in itself, for in the Paris of to-day stand side by side monuments and
memorials of antiquity, and the grandest triumphs of latter-day genius
in a profusion that bewilders the eye and the mind. It is as though the
genii of all time and all peoples had conspired to shower their fairest
gifts upon the favored spot of earth round which the drama of the ages
has enacted its tremendous tableaux.
A run through its history must be the first item in the programme of
the traveller who wishes to take with him his best pair of eyes. Then
he will find the old gray stones turn into glass to let him see into
the hidden glory behind. The lesser charms of the pretty city are
palpable to any child. Yet it is impossible to look at the building
or monument that first catches the eye without a flash-light of mere
newspaper lore casting a momentary shadow, or glare, over it. It is not
so long ago that the flames lit by the Commune brought the beautiful
city nearer to ruin than all the storms of centuries had effected. In
its long day Paris has suffered most of the ills that civic life is
heir to. Its people have been subject to political maladies from time
to time, that have endangered its very existence. A strange career, a
blend of demoniac fury and light-hearted gaiety, yesterday its streets
flowing with citizen and royal blood, to-day they echo with jubilant
laughter, to-morrow--? The wheel is more likely to revolve than to
stand long still. Paris alone among the great capitals of the world
prefers change to stability, which is only another expression of her
happy, mercurial temperament. France is sedate, plodding, content with
present conditions until sure they can be bettered. Paris must gallop
even if it costs a fall or two, which makes it the most interesting of
all places.
When a city is little else than "sights" there is monotony in naming
them. Paris itself commands first attention. The grandeur of its
design, its famous boulevards, avenues and streets, and many of its
ornamental features, must be credited to the last emperor, Napoleon
III., whose dynasty came to grief at Sedan. Modern Paris owes more
to his reign, and modern travellers more of their pleasure, than is
ordinarily acknowledged. He bade Haussmann replace the old streets
with the noble avenues that give inexhaustible sensations of delight
at every turn and vista. A happy thought was that which perpetuates
the great names of France in these street names; even literature is
not forgotten, but reflects the honor it receives from tablets naming
avenues after Montaigne, Voltaire, Hugo and others.
The three-mile walk from the Place de la Concorde to the site of
the old Bastille yields the ideal of city magnificence and personal
delight. There is no disappointment of even extravagant expectation.
This unrivalled _Place_ is in itself a grand intellectual as well
as artistic feast. The Luxor obelisk brings into mind Egypt's six
thousand years of strangest history, its Pyramids, its Sphinx, and
Napoleon. Close to it the Revolution guillotined a king and queen,
and an old aristocracy. Heroic sculptures range around the _Place_,
symbolizing eight great cities of France, that of lost Strasburg veiled
in mourning. From the _Place_ and the twelve streets radiating from the
Arc de Triomphe, it is not possible to go far without coming upon some
striking feature.
The Church of the Madeleine is accounted the most exquisite building
in the city, though it is modelled on the art of ancient Greece. There
are many triumphs of later styles, each grand, but yielding the palm
to this Temple of Glory, as Napoleon intended it to be. It is three
hundred and thirty feet long, one hundred and thirty wide, and one
hundred high, without windows, and surrounded by Corinthian columns.
The Arc de Triomphe is the stateliest arch ever built, perfect in every
respect. It was copied from the imperial arches of old Rome, with
grander massiveness. It commemorates the triumphs of Napoleon.
Notre Dame is not a modern imitation. The great cathedral stands on the
little Ile de la Cité which was the beginning of Paris, inhabited two
thousand years ago by the Parisii, a Celtic tribe whose name survives.
For eight centuries it has been a Christian church. The west front is
rich in statues of the kings of France. The originals were destroyed
in the Revolution, but have been replaced. The cathedral itself was
turned into the mockery of a Temple of Reason, with a woman of the
town enthroned as its deity. Napoleon's wise statesmanship restored
the church to its rightful usages. The Commune once more made free
with the old shrine, using it as barracks. Among its relics is the
robe Archbishop Darboy wore when the Communists put him to death. The
churches of Paris have weird stories to tell. The sacred spot where
Genevieve, the patron saint of Paris, was buried, in the sixth century,
was a place of worship until the Revolution changed it into a Pantheon.
It became a church once more in 1851, though in its crypt lie Voltaire,
Rousseau, and other famous writers. The tomb of Napoleon is beneath the
Dome of the Church of the Invalides, attached to the home for veterans
founded by Louis XIV.
The famous palace of the Tuileries was built in the sixteenth century
for Catherine de' Medici. It was the home of emperors and kings, and
the shrine of precious treasures of art from that time down to the fall
of the second empire, when the Communists destroyed it beyond repair.
The politics of spite never yet inspired its votaries to create a
thing of beauty for posterity to enjoy. Opposite the blank left by this
vandal outrage stands the Louvre, perhaps the greatest jewel casket of
art in existence, certainly beyond human power to replace if destroyed.
Yet even the Louvre was, in 1870, undermined by the mob in power, who
longed to blow it into nothingness--in their pious enthusiasm for
enlightened progress. This two-hundred-year old palace is a wonder
of architectural beauty. Its museums are famous for the statuary and
paintings by the great masters. The Venus of Melos stands as the chief
feature of one gallery. Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci, Raphael,
Titian and others of their rank are represented here among the two
thousand pictures, besides innumerable masterpieces in various arts.
The gallery of Apollo passes description as a chamber, were it empty.
Its contents have almost fabulous value.
The Luxembourg Palace was built in 1620. It has known strange
experiences--first royal habitation, then a prison during the
Revolution, again a palace under the Directory and Consulate, and at
last the house of the Republic's Senate. The Palais Royal was built
for Cardinal Richelieu. After his death it had a king for its master,
to-day its grand arcades echo to the chatter of bargain-seeking
shoppers, despite the firebrands of the Communists. Adjoining it is
the national playhouse, the Comédie Française, which also had a narrow
escape from the caresses of the reformers. Molière managed this theatre
for a while, for which, and because he gave the world immortal plays,
he was denied Christian burial. His statue, however, makes amends. A
greater theatre as to size and gorgeousness is the Grand Opera House.
Three acres of central ground were cleared of ordinary buildings and
streets to make room for this imposing structure, which is the most
ornate of its kind in the world. The mere pictures of its staircase and
foyer are bewildering in magnificence.
After weariness of city sights it is good to make for the Bois de
Boulogne, the main park of Paris. Its twenty-three hundred acres are
connected with the Champs-Élysées by several avenues, of which the
finest is the Avenue du Bois de Boulogne, three hundred and fifteen
feet wide and forty-two hundred long. The drive round the lake is the
rendezvous of fashion every afternoon. The zoological garden, model
dairy, the avenue of acacias, the field of Longchamps, where races and
reviews take place, are among the showplaces. At the opposite, the
east, side of the city is the spacious Bois de Vincennes, a favorite
park with many attractions. The monuments of Paris are familiar to
the average reader who stays at home. The July Column replaces the
Bastille, the Vendôme Column, with its statue of Napoleon as Cæsar, was
pulled down by the Commune and has risen again. Arches, fountains and
statuary abound on all sides. Père la Chaise cemetery is the favorite
field of oratory, many eulogies of the dead being political harangues
of extreme types. Here are buried enough celebrities to immortalize
a monumentless city, Abélard and Héloïse, Chopin, Rossini, Bellini,
Cherubini, Alfred de Musset, Bernardin de St.-Pierre, Beaumarchais,
Béranger, Talma, Racine, Molière, Lafontaine, Balzac, and many national
statesmen. In Montmartre cemetery lie Heine, Murger, Halévy, Gautier,
Troyon. Lafayette and many of the old nobility who perished in the
Revolution, repose in the Picpus burial-ground.
There are many attractive places near Paris, such as Versailles,
which must be counted among the city sights. This old town has grown
up around the palace built by Louis XIV. It has not been inhabited
by royalty since the Revolution, but is a museum devoted "to all
the glories of France." The halls are thronged with statues and
portraits of the great men of history and her victorious battles. The
bedroom of the Grand Monarch, the halls of the kings and marshals,
the Queen's Chamber, and every corner of the building are rich in
historical memories. The great park and famous fountains, the royal
coaches, the Grand Trianon villa which was the home of Madame de
Maintenon, and the Petit Trianon, the cosy country cottage of Marie
Antoinette, all have their fascinations. So might we notice St. Cloud,
the favorite residence of the last emperor, and St. Denis, with its
ancient cathedral, where the kings of France during eleven centuries
were buried. The Revolutionists dug up the royal bones and flung them
into a ditch, whence they were afterwards borne back into the crypt
of St. Denis. The region of Paris teems with associations, grown
sacred by age and sentiment, yet its citizens rarely appear to be in
the serious vein. Their mode of life conduces to rapidity of thought
and quick passing of emotions. Over a simple glass of sweetened water
grave-looking men will vivaciously enact a dialogue which a stranger to
the country might suppose was the prelude to a tragedy, when it is only
a comparison of views on last night's ballet. The outdoor gatherings
in front of the innumerable cafés is one of the charms of the gay
capital. The habit is Parisian to the core. They sit and quiz the human
menagerie as it parades for their delectation; at least this is the
complacent view taken of the moving crowd by the true Parisian. The
great streets are made for grand informal parades; there is elbow room
for hundreds of thousands and each avenue has a park-like aspect. The
French are gifted with the instinct of perfect taste in most things,
and this shows nowhere more effectively than in their planning and
using a city for artistic ends. Every street stall and lamppost is made
part of the general scheme of adornment.
The first few explorations of Paris will fill the mind with wonder
and admiration. Then comes the irrepressible desire to know what all
its magnificence, its historic object-lessons, all its inexhaustible
resources of art and invention, will lead to. A hopeless question, yet
the past piques curiosity about the future. So stupendous a monument to
human achievement of every order surely betokens an abiding greatness.
A people capable of creating a Paris must be destined to a millennium
of happy peace and unbroken prosperity. National temperament rarely
changes, but bitter experience cannot forget the consequences of
former laxity in managing the helm of state. Paris owes it to modern
civilization and to posterity to conserve its remaining treasures, at
whatever cost.
* * * * *
Amsterdam after Paris may suggest water after wine. A watery city it
is and water is excellent at times, if not always. The water streets
of the Dutch capital are, sometimes, if not always, inky, and ink of
an odor best described by prefixing a couple of consonants. Yet old
Amsterdam is full of charm, though not of the Parisian kinds. Its
quaint houses have a general look of being turned end-on to the street,
their ornamental gables make a sky-line suggestive of a lady's lace
collar. Many of them have a projecting crane with rope and pulley,
giving a warehouse appearance to private dwellings. They are still used
to save dirtying the stairs when goods are delivered. Cleanliness is
the prevailing vice of Amsterdam dames. From bedroom to kitchen every
room, and everything in every room, is painfully clean. Between six and
eight in the morning every good housewife swills the front of her home
from the roof to the curbstone, whether it needs it or not.
[Illustration: LOUVRE MUSEUM, APOLLO GALLERY]
The capital, as Erasmus of Rotterdam once remarked, is a place where
the people dwell on the tops of trees, like birds. Amsterdam is
built on three million piles, driven deep into the swampy soil. Half
of its streets are canals. A large population lives in canal-boats
the year round. The city is divided by large and small canals into
about a hundred islands, with three hundred bridges. The inhabitants
feel secure on their timber foundation, though buildings have sunk,
occasionally. While the wood-worms are few and feeble and the piles
keep wet there is little danger.
The river Amstel passes through the city and gives it its name from
the great system of embankments which dam the ever-threatening tide
from the arm of the Zuyder Zee on which Amstel-dam stands. This arm
is called the Y, spelled Ij in Dutch, and will form a ship-channel,
fifty miles long, to the North Sea when fully completed. A large
shipping trade is done in the spacious docks, where coffee, tobacco,
and sugar come in vast quantities from the Dutch East Indies. One of
the industries peculiar to Amsterdam is diamond-cutting. It is not
difficult to get access to one of the workshops, and the operation is
exceedingly interesting. On market-days and holidays there is a chance
to see the old-time picturesque costumes still worn in country parts.
The metal helmets, sometimes of silver and gold, with curious ear
ornaments have a fine antique air. On Sunday evenings the working folk
take their pleasures in the parks, of which swinging is with many the
favorite joy. A plump damsel or plumper matron stands facing the lover
or husband, and they can swing almost level with the treetop before
they tire, or tumble. They take no harm by a fall.
The churches are large, cold and gloomy. The Oude Kerk dates from about
1300. The stained windows are interesting and the organ, two or three
stories high, is powerful and mellow. Instead of the pews covering
the floor, they occupy a raised platform in the centre, enclosed by
a fence with locked doors. Near by may be seen a pile of boxes like
stools, which are charcoal stoves to warm the worshippers in winter.
The psalmody is so slow that the organ fills up the intervals between
words and lines with rolling chords. Near the palace in the centre of
the city is the Niewe Kerk, a more ornate and interesting church, built
in 1408, in which the sovereigns are crowned. Its monuments to Admiral
de Ruyter and Vondel, the national poet, are fine art-works, as also
are the carved pulpit and the bronzes in the choir.
The royal palace, on the central square called the Dam, was built in
1648. It stands on thirteen thousand piles. It was originally the
State House. Opposite is the Beurs, or Exchange. The Dutch school
of painting has qualities not excelled by the finest productions
of other nations. Its painters developed a marvellous proficiency
in detail-work, a literalness of interpretation, a realism which
is undoubtedly imitative, but in its mastery of execution compels
enthusiastic admiration. The flatness of their country afforded no
chance for painting fine landscapes. What they saw was the sky and
the sea in the distance, and people, cattle and household goods at
close range. No painters among the old masters equal the Dutchmen
in cloud-scapes and sea-pieces, in fidelity to nature and delicate
touch. Similarly, there are few, if any, portraits as strong as these
wonderful canvases of the Dutch school. No other artists had the
genius to see the possible triumphs awaiting the brush that could
counterfeit the dewdrop on a rose, the glisten of the copper stew-pan
or the satin gown, or the fluffy texture of a beggar's coat. Now that
two generations have learned these things by patient imitation of
the old Dutchmen this art has become familiar, but no copyist of our
time has approached the marvellous beauty and skill that mark the old
Dutch masterpieces. The traveller will enjoy himself to the full in
the famous galleries of Amsterdam, and the other towns that lie within
easy reach. There are four hundred paintings in the Trippenhuis museum,
of which the most famous is Rembrandt's great picture, "The Night
Watch." Still more impressive to many is the magnificent work of Vander
Helst, "The Banquet of the Civic Guard," an immense canvas, showing
a band of men in armor carousing around a table loaded with gold and
silver plate, glasses, flagons, etc., affording an opportunity for
the painter to show Dutch art at its highest. There are great treats
in these galleries for the lover of pictures and for the student of
manners. Some of the old painters either lacked poetical imagination or
indulged their whimsical humor to the verge of the shocking, in certain
subjects. They had at least the merit of being faithful to life as they
saw it, which satisfies the average man better, on the whole, than
impressionism run to seed.
Eight hundred years ago Amsterdam was a fishing village. In the
fifteenth century it became the most important commercial city in
the Netherlands. Peter the Great learned the art of ship-building in
the little village of Zaandam near the capital. A modern building
encloses the cottage in which he lived. The people are rightly proud
of their city and its history. They have not of late had opportunities
to test their old supremacy as sea-warriors, but they exhibit all
their sturdy characteristics in fighting the sea itself, repelling its
ceaseless attempts at invasion. The women may be expected to uphold
the national reputation for energy in any emergency, to judge by the
stolid contentment with which so many of them do men's work. They act
as railway signal men, boatmen, market porters, and do not object to
being harnessed with dogs as wagon teams. Yet they seem happy if not
exactly gay. In the cities less of this is noticeable. The capital
is not behind in artistic and literary culture. Scholarship has
always distinguished its people. Its old bookstores are a delightful
temptation. The zoological garden is one of the finest anywhere.
English is spoken in all the principal stores. The public charities
are on an extensive scale. The foreigner is occasionally embarrassed
at being politely saluted by members of the Exchange if he chances to
pass as they are coming out, and in many such ways he is impressed by
the courtesies shown him on all hands. One would not rush to Amsterdam
for Parisian excitements, but for nervous systems needing the tone
best secured by moderate activity in surroundings that are novel and
uniquely interesting, a visit to Amsterdam will prove as great a
pleasure as a benefit.
FLORENCE AND ITS ART TREASURES.
SARAH J. LIPPINCOTT.
[Mrs. Sarah J. Lippincott ("Grace Greenwood"), in her popular
"Haps and Mishaps of a Tour in Europe," has given a well-written
and appreciative account of Florence and its objects of art and
interest, which we here reproduce. Our extract begins with a
railway journey from Leghorn.]
The railway, which is a very good one, runs through a pleasant country
cultivated like a garden, which grows more and more lovely till you
reach Florence. The station is near Cascine, the fashionable drive
and promenade lying just beyond the city walls, along the Arno; so
that our first lookout was upon a gay and beautiful scene,--those
noble grounds thronged with equestrians, and pedestrians, and elegant
equipages. From that moment I have been charmed with Florence beyond
all expectation and precedent. Every picturing of fancy, every dream
of romance, has been met and surpassed. It is a city of enchantment,
rich in incomparable treasures for the lover of poetry and art. In
merely driving from the station to our hotel, on the Arno, near the
Ponte Vecchio, I was struck by the noble style of architecture; uniform
in solidity, and in a sort of antique solemnity, yet not monotonously
gloomy or curiously quaint. But when we drove about in the brightness
of a lovely morning, and saw the grand and ponderous old palaces, the
noble churches, the beautiful towers, the graceful bridges,--when we
caught, at almost every turn, natural pictures which art could never
approach,--I could only express by broken sentences and exclamations,
childishly repeated, the rare and glowing pleasure I enjoyed.
O pictures of beauty, O visions of brightness, how must ye fade under
my leaden pencil! It is strange, but I never feel so poor in expression
as when my very soul is staggering under the weight of new treasures of
thought and feeling.
One of our first visits was to the Royal Gallery, in the Uffizi.
Through several rooms and corridors, making little pause in any, we
passed to the Tribune,--for its size, doubtless the richest room
in the world in great works of art. In the centre stands the Venus
de Medici, "the wondrous statue that enchants the world," says the
poet; but as for me, I bow not before it with any heartiness of
adoration. Exquisite, tender, and delicate beyond my fairest fancy,
I found the form; graceful to the last point of perfection seemed to
me the attitude and action; but the smallness and the insignificant
character of the head, and the simpering senselessness of the face,
place it without my Olympus. I deny its divinity _in toto_, and bear my
offerings to other shrines. Yet the Venus de Medici does not strike me
as a voluptuous figure; it certainly is not powerfully and perilously
so, wanting, as it does, all strength of passion and noble development
of _soul_; for, paradoxical as it may seem, a soul of wild depths
and passionate intensity must lie beneath the alluring warmth and
brightness of a refined and perfect sensuality.
Of another, and a far more dangerous character, I should say, is the
Venus of Titian, which hangs near it. Here is voluptuousness, gorgeous,
undisguised, yet subtle, and in a certain sense poetic and refined.
She is neither innocent nor unconscious, yet not bold, nor coarse, nor
meretricious. She proudly and quietly revels in her own marvellous
beauties, if not like a goddess who knows herself every inch divine,
at least like a woman by character and position quite as free from the
obligations of morality and purity. For all the wonderful beauty of
this great picture, I cannot like it, cannot even tolerate it; but,
with an inexpressible feeling of relief, turn from it to the Bella
Donna and the Flora of the same artist. The latter is to me the most
fascinating and delicious picture I have ever beheld; the richness,
the fulness, the golden splendor of its beauty, flood my soul with a
strange and passionate delight. There is no high peculiar sentiment
about it, though it is grand in its pure simplicity; yet its soft,
sunny, luxurious loveliness alone brings tears to my eyes,--tears which
I dash away jealously, lest they hide for one instant the transcendent
vision.
In the Tribune are several of the finest paintings of Raphael,--the
Fornarina, a rich, glowing picture, but a face I cannot like; the young
St. John, a glorious figure, and the Madonna del Cardellino, one of
the loveliest of his holy families. There is also a great picture by
Andrea del Sarto, which impressed me much; the Adoration of the Magi,
by Albert Dürer, the heads full of a simple grandeur peculiar to that
noble artist; and an exquisite little Virgin and Child, by Correggio.
In another room, after looking at a bewildering number of pictures,
most of which have already passed from my mind, I came upon a head of
Medusa, by Leonardo da Vinci, which I fear will haunt me to my dying
day. It is surely the most terrible painting I have ever beheld.
In the magnificent Pitti palace, among many glorious pictures, I
saw two before which my heart bowed in most living adoration--the
Madonna della Seggiola of Raphael, and a Virgin and Child of Murillo.
The former is surely the sweetest group by the divine painter; and
the last, if not of a very elevated character, pure and tender,
and surpassingly lovely. In this gallery are Titian's Bella Donna,
Magdalene, and Marriage of St. Catharine. The first of these, which is
a portrait, seems to me far the finest. The more I see of them the more
am I impressed with the conviction that there is nothing in all his
grand and varied works displaying such profound and pre-eminent genius,
such subtle, masterly, miraculous power, as the portraits of Titian.
In this palace we saw Canova's Venus, which I liked no better than I
expected. There is about the head, attitude, and figure an affected,
fine-ladyish air, dainty, and conscious, and passionless, which is
worse than the absolute voluptuousness which would be in character at
least with the earthly Venus.
I am more and more convinced that there is in sculpture but one divine
mother of pure Love,--the grand and majestic Venus of Milo.
To-day we have driven out to Fiesole, and seen the massive walls of
the ancient Etruscan city. These ramparts, which are called "Cyclopean
constructions," are said to be at least three thousand years old, and
yet look as though they might endure to the end of time. From a hill
above the town we had a large and lovely view of the beautiful valley
of the Arno, and looked down upon Florence, lapped in its midst, small,
compact, yet beautiful and stately. I never beheld a more enchanting
picture than the broad and bright one there spread before me: the blue
mountains, the gleaming river, the green and smiling valley; hills
covered with olives and myrtles; roads winding between hedges of roses
to innumerable villas, nestled in flowery nooks, or crowning breezy
heights. Oh, this was enchantment of fairy-land, no dream of poetry; it
was in very truth a paradise on earth.
On our return we visited the house of Michael Angelo, which is
reverently kept by his descendants, as nearly as possible, in the same
state in which he left it. It is a handsome, quaint old house, quiet,
shadowy, and somewhat sombre, still pervaded with the awe-inspiring
atmosphere of the colossal genius of that Titanic artist.
As I stood in his studio, or in the little cabinet where he used to
write, and saw before me the many objects once familiar to his eye and
hand, I felt that it was but yesterday that he was borne forth from his
beloved home, and that it was the first funereal stillness and sadness
which pervaded it now.
We afterwards drove to "Dante's stone," a slab of marble by the side of
the way, on which he used to sit in the long summer evenings, rapt in
mournful meditations, and dreaming his immortal dreams. It is now as
sacred to his memory as the stone above his grave.
For the past two afternoons we have driven in the Cascine, by far
the most delightful drive and place of reunion I have ever seen. It
is much smaller and, of course, less magnificent than Hyde Park, but
pleasanter, I think, in having portions more sheltered, wild, and quiet
for riders and promenaders. In the centre of the grounds, opposite the
Grand Duke's farm-house, is an open space where the band is stationed,
and the carriages come together to exchange compliments and hear music.
Here are always to be seen many splendid turnouts, open carriages
filled with elegantly-dressed ladies; gallant officers and gay dames
on horseback; flower-girls, bearing about the most delicious lilies
and roses, pinks and lilacs, mignonette and heliotrope, freighting the
golden evening air with their intoxicating fragrance and amazing you
with their paradisian profusion,--altogether a cheering and charming
scene, colored and animated by the very soul of innocent pleasure.
This afternoon we met Charles Lever, riding with his wife and two
daughters. They are all fine riders, were well mounted, and looked a
very happy family party. Mr. Lever is much such a man as you would look
to see in the author of Charles O'Malley,--hale and hearty, careless,
merry, and a little dashing in his air.
This evening I have spent with the Brownings, to whom I brought
letters. They live in that Casa Guidi which Mrs. Browning has already
immortalized by the grandest poem ever penned by woman....
Mr. and Mrs. Browning have taken up their residence in Florence, a
place in every way congenial to them. I know that thousands of her
unknown friends across the water will rejoice to hear that the health
of Mrs. Browning improves with every year spent in Italy. Yet she is
still very delicate,--but a frail flower, ceaselessly requiring all the
sheltering and fostering care, all the wealth and watchfulness of love,
which is round about her....
Yesterday I saw, for the first time, the grand, antique group of Niobe
and her children. Of these wonderful figures, by far the most noble and
pathetic are those of the mother and the young daughter she is seeking
to shield. Oh, the proud anguish, the wild, hopeless, maternal agony,
of that face haunts me, and will haunt me forever.
I afterwards saw the Mercury of John of Bologna,--a marvel of beauty,
grace, and lightness. We visited the treasure-room of the Pitti palace,
and saw all the Grand Duke's plate, among which are several magnificent
articles by Benvenuto Cellini. In the evening we drove in the Cascine,
and to the Hill of Bellosguardo, from whence we had an enchanting view
of Florence and the Val d'Arno,--and so the day ended. To-day we have
made the tour of the churches. In the solemn old cathedral, whose
wonderful dome was the admiration and study of Michael Angelo, there
were extraordinary religious ceremonies, on the occasion of some great
festa. Some archbishop or other officiated in very gorgeous robes,
of course,--in capital condition, and looking indolent, proud, and
stupid, as another matter of course. The court came in great state and
pomp, with much trumpeting and beating of the drum. The Grand Duke was
accompanied by the Grand Duchess and his household, by the Guardia
Nobile, and by numerous ladies and gentlemen of high rank, all in full
dress. Those ball costumes of the courtly dames--gay silks and lace,
diamonds, flowers, and plumes--looked strange enough after the uniform
and decent sombreness of the dress prescribed for the "functions" of
St. Peter's.
The Grand Duke is a man of ordinary size, and appears not far from
seventy years of age, though it is said he is hardly sixty. His hair
and moustaches are nearly white, and he wears the white coat of the
Austrian uniform, and so looks more miller-like than majestic. There
was a sort of sullen sadness in his air, which I confess I was rather
gratified to remark,--remembering all the treachery of the past, and
beholding all the degradation of the present. The Grand Duchess is a
dignified-looking woman enough, but the ladies in attendance on her
to-day dazzled alone with their diamonds.
After hearing some fine music, we went to the Santa Croce, the
Westminster Abbey of Florence, where are the tombs of its most
illustrious dead. Of these, the noblest is that of Michael Angelo, and
the poorest, yet more pretentious, that of Dante. Canova has here a
monument to Alfieri, which is affected and sentimental, like nearly all
his works; and the tombs of Galileo and Machiavelli are anything but
pleasing and imposing. Infinitely better were the most simple slabs
than such pompous piles.
At the San Lorenzo we saw that marvellous mausoleum, the Medicean
Chapel,--the richest yet plainest structure of the kind in the
world. There is here a peculiar assumption and ostentation of
simplicity,--your eye, accustomed to the crowded ornament and vivid
gorgeousness of ordinary princely chapels, is shocked and cheated at
the first glance by the sombre magnificence, the sumptuous bareness,
of this singular structure; but right soon is disappointment changed
to admiration and amazement, as you see that all those lofty walls,
from floor to roof, are composed of the most rare and beautiful marbles
and precious stones, wrought into exquisite mosaics. Then you see the
stupendous and beautiful cenotaphs, and the solemn dark statues of the
Medici, and, at length, fully realize all their royal waste of wealth
over this mausoleum, all their princely pomp of death.
In the Sagrestia Nuova, built by Michael Angelo, are the statues of
Lorenzo and Julian de Medici, with their attendant groups, the Morn and
Night, Evening and Day, and the Virgin and Child,--surely the noblest
works of that mighty artist. I instinctively bowed in awe before the
gloomy grandeur of Lorenzo; and there was something in his still frown
which shook my soul more than the warlike air and almost startling
action of Julian. The unfinished group of the Virgin and Child has much
tenderness and sweetness with all its force and grandeur; but, as a
general thing, I must think that Michael Angelo's female figures are
far more remarkable for gigantic proportions and muscular development
than for grace, beauty, or any fine spiritual character. This Virgin
is majestic almost to sublimity, yet truly gentle, lovable, divinely
maternal....
In what was the refectory of an old monastery, but which was afterwards
used as a carriage-house, has been found, within a few years past, a
noble fresco by Raphael,--a Last Supper. This we went to see, and I
felt it to be one of the purest and most touching creations of that
angelic painter. In this picture, the "beloved disciple" seems to
have fallen asleep on the breast of the Master, and to have bowed his
head lower and lower, till it lies upon the table, while the hand of
Jesus is laid caressingly upon his shoulder. There is something so
exquisitely sweet and sad, so divinely pitiful, yet humanely tender, in
the action, that the very memory of it blinds my eyes with tears.
After dinner we drove in the Cascine, where we met all the world. As
it was an exceedingly beautiful sunset, and the evening of a festa,
the band continued to play, and the brilliant crowd remained long. I
revelled in the delicious air and the cheerful scene as fully as was
possible, with the intrusive consciousness that I was breathing the one
and beholding the other for the last time--probably forever--certainly
for many years.
Mrs. H. and I here took leave of a brace of charming young nobles,
in whom, I fear, we had become too deeply interested. These were two
beautiful Russian boys, brothers, of the ages of nine and seven,
with whom we voyaged on the Mediterranean and formed an acquaintance
which has been continued in Florence. In all my life I never saw such
enchanting little fellows,--simple, natural, frank, and free, yet
perfect gentlemen in air and expression, displaying, with the utmost
ease, grace and polish of manner, tact, wit, and _savoir-faire_ truly
astonishing. They always came to our carriage at the Cascine, and,
lounging on the steps, chatted to us in French between the pieces of
music. To-night, as the youngest was describing to me, very graphically,
the different countries through which he had travelled and the cities
which he had visited, I advised him to go next to England, and assured
him that he would be greatly interested and amused by the sights and
pleasures of London. With the slightest possible shrug, he replied,
"_Oui, madame, c'est une grande ville, sans doute; mais pour tous les
amusements il n'y a qu'une ville dans le monde,--c'est Paris._" ...
As I looked back upon Florence for the last time, when I could
distinguish only the battlemented Palazzo Vecchio, with its fine old
tower, and that incomparable group, the Duomo, the Campanile, and the
Baptistery, and a slender, shining line, which I knew for the Arno, I
suddenly felt my sight struggling through tears,--real hearty tears.
Ah, Bella Firenze, I went from you reluctantly, almost rebelliously; I
grieved to leave those glorious galleries, through which I seemed to
have merely run; I grieved to leave the Cascine, with its delicious
drives and walks, its music and gayety; but I "sorrowed most of all" at
parting, so soon, with my friends the Brownings. _My friends_, how rich
I feel in being able to write these words!
I think I must venture to say a little more of them, as, after writing
of my first evening at Casa Guidi, I was so happy as to enjoy much
of their society. Robert Browning is a brilliant talker, and more--a
pleasant, suggestive conversationist and a sympathetic listener. He
has a fine humor, a keen sense of the ridiculous, which he indulges,
at times, with the hearty abandon of a boy. In the gentle stream
of Elizabeth Browning's familiar talk shine deep and soft the high
thoughts and star-bright imaginations of her rare poetic nature. The
two have oneness of spirit, with distinct individuality; they are
mated, not merged together.
In the atmosphere of so much learning and genius, you naturally
expect to perceive some mustiness of old folios, some uncomfortable
brooding of solemn thought; to feel about you somewhat of the stretch
and struggle of grand aspiration and noble effort, or the exhausted
stillness of a brief suspension of the "toil divine." But in this
household all is simple, cheerful, and reposeful; here is neither lore
nor logic to appall one; here is not enough din of mental machinery
to drown the faintest heart-throb; here one breathes freely, acts
naturally, and speaks honestly.
THE LAKE REGION OF ITALY.
ROBERT A. McLEOD.
[The lakes of northern Italy have a world-wide fame, alike for
their natural beauty and for the charms of architecture and scenic
art which surround them. We give here a brief description of these
renowned places of pilgrimage for lovers of the beautiful.]
It was towards the end of last October that I strolled away from my
occupations in the French capital to spend a fortnight on the Italian
lakes. Of the many routes which from time immemorial have served for
the invasion of Italy by the barbarian and the tourist, I chose on this
occasion the Brenner. Apart from the pleasing views it offers, this
Alpine pass is interesting as being the first over which the Romans
ventured to lead their legions, and the first upon which a railway was
constructed. I halted at Trent, and it was several days before I could
free myself from the charm of the Etruscan city and plan my departure.
One afternoon I was making inquiries at the office of the diligence
which runs to Riva on the Lake of Garda, when a newly-married German
couple offered to share with me a private carriage which they had just
hired for the same journey. I accepted at once, and in an hour we were
off. The sober gray suit trimmed with green in which Hans was attired
contrasted oddly with the brilliant purple travelling-dress of his
fair-haired Gretchen. I wondered at first that they should have been
willing to embarrass themselves with a stranger, until I perceived
that my presence was no hinderance at all to their demonstrations of
affection. We climbed up by a steep and winding road to a narrow defile
which the impetuous Vella almost fills. One day, when St. Vigilius
was too much pressed for time to walk over the mountain, he wrenched
it apart and made this passage. The imprint of his holy hand is still
to be seen on the rock. Passing under the cyclopean eyes of scores of
Austrian cannon which now defend this important military position, we
began to descend the valley of the Sarca. It is a wild region, where
every hamlet has a ruined castle and a legend of knight or robber,
saint or fairy. The picturesque remains of the Madruzzo Castle bring
to mind the celebrated portraits which Titian painted of members of
this noble family. The artist's colors have survived the last of a long
line, and will doubtless outlive as well the crumbling stones of their
stronghold. As we skirted the little Lake of Dobling its still waters
reflected rocks and trees, sky and mountain, in an enchanting manner.
"Lovely!" I exclaimed.
"Lovely!" echoed Gretchen, without taking her eyes off Hans.
"Lovely!" answered Hans, still watching the beautiful things reflected
in her eyes.
After crossing the rapid Sarca and traversing a desolate tract where
rocks of every size, fallen from the overhanging mountain, lie strewn
about in chaotic confusion, we reached Arco. This sunny village nestles
at the foot of an immense detached boulder whose dizzy summit is
crowned by mediæval battlements and towers. Home fit only for birds of
prey, this castle was long the nest of a family of robbers. Scarcely
had we lost in the distance this greatest wonder of the valley when a
sharp turn of the road brought Riva and the Lake of Garda full in view.
It was a prospect of singular beauty. The sun had already set except
on the highest peaks, and a part of the lake was wrapped in purple
shadows. Another part, however, was as clear and light as the sky above
it, and all aglow with the images of crimson and orange-tinted clouds.
A shrill cry--of delight, I thought--burst from Gretchen's lips. I was
mistaken. Hans had pulled off too rudely a ring from her finger, and
the fair one was in tears....
[Illustration: ST. GOTTHARD RAILWAY (VIADUCT AND TUNNEL)]
In the afternoon I take the famous walk to the Ponale waterfall. The
road thither ascends continually. It has been skilfully led along the
ledges of a precipitous cliff which borders the lake to the west of
Riva, and occasionally pierces the mountain by short tunnels. After
passing through the third tunnel I come to a wooden bridge, under which
the Ponale dashes just before taking its final leap into the lake. The
frail structure on which I stand trembles and is wet with spray, and
the air is full of the roar and gurgle of the waters. But for me the
main charm of the walk is not the sight of this noisy torrent, but
the superb view of Riva that I get on my way back upon issuing from
one of the tunnels. The eye, accustomed for a moment to the darkness,
is all the more sensitive to the rich soft light which bathes the
mountains and the town. A gentle breeze ripples the lake, and the
brightly-painted houses that fringe the beach are seen indistinctly
in the water, where they look like a line of waving banners. Half a
dozen steeples and bell-towers rise gracefully from among the roofs,
and their presence explains the surprising frequency with which the
hours of the night are struck. From this height I can distinguish
the low walls which surround the town and compress its four thousand
inhabitants into the area of a small quadrilateral. But Riva, though
still fortified, has a thorough look of peaceful commercial prosperity,
and has quite laid aside the warlike air she wore in the Middle Ages.
In those troubled times this town saw countless wars and sustained many
sieges; belonged now to Venice, now to Milan, now to Austria; and at
times was independent and able to defy even a bull of the pope or a
rescript of the emperor....
Long before daybreak the next morning the great red and green eyes
of two small steamers are looking around for passengers, and their
whistles screeching that it is time to get up. I have chosen the boat
which skirts the western bank. It starts an hour later than the other,
but it is not yet sunrise when we push off. The after-deck is thinly
peopled, chiefly by tourists, but the fore-deck, where the seats are
cheaper, is crowded. We pass by the tumbling and roaring Ponale, and
before many minutes we cross the invisible boundary-line between
Austria and Italy. The motion of the boat is hardly felt, for we are
sailing with a strong current. The high peaks to the north have
already caught the first rays of the sun: masses of white vapor which
have been sleeping in the mountain-hollows are roused up and put on a
rosy tint. The sky is without a cloud, the lake without a ripple: we
seem to be floating in mid-air.
Limone, the first stopping-place, is quite given up to the culture of
the fruit from which it takes its name. A row of cypresses gives a
gloomy air to the village and awakens a melancholy recollection. It was
here that, in 1810, Andreas Hofer, the Tyrolese patriot, was arrested
by order of Napoleon. A boat conveyed him to the prison of Peschiera,
and he was soon afterwards shot in the citadel of Mantua.
We next stop before Tremosine, a village perched high up on a rock, and
to which no visible road leads. On the other side of the lake, which
is here narrow, the white houses of Malcesine cluster around the base
of an imposing castle. This stronghold of the Middle Ages, one of the
few in this neighborhood which Time has not been suffered to destroy,
was built by Charlemagne, and was formerly the boundary between Austria
and the Venetian territory; but it is chiefly interesting from an
adventure which here befell Goethe. He had sat down in the court-yard,
and was sketching one of the quaint old towers, when the crowd that
had gathered around him, taking him for a spy, fell on him, tore
his drawings to pieces and sent for the authorities to arrest him.
Fortunately, there was in the village a man who had worked in Frankfort
and knew the poet by sight, and through his influence Goethe was set
free.
[From Lake Garda the traveller proceeded to the more famous Lake
Como, passing localities where songful Catullus dwelt, and Virgil
and Dante loved to visit.]
On the map the Lake of Como looks like an inverted and somewhat
irregular =Y=, or, still more, like a child's first attempt to draw
a man, who without arms and with unequal legs is running off to the
left. Just at the moment his picture is taken he has one foot on Lecco
and the other on the town of Como. The hilly district between the two
southern branches of the lake is known as the Brianza, and is noted for
its bracing air, its fertile soil, and the coolness of its springs.
The Brianza ends at the middle of the lake in a dolomite promontory
several hundred feet high, on whose western slope lies the village of
Bellaggio. This point commands the finest views in every direction:
it is near the most interesting of those villas which are open to the
public, and it abounds in good hotels. To visit Bellaggio is therefore
the aim of every tourist who passes this way. My journey thither it is
best to pass over in silence, for I see nothing, and what I feel is
indescribable. I am shut up during a furious storm of wind and rain
in the cabin of a little steamer which is as nervous and uneasy as if
on the Atlantic. I am told, however, that in this part of the lake
the banks are lofty and steep, and frequently barren, and that there
are marble-quarries to be seen, and cascades and houses and villages
crowning the cliffs.
On arriving at Bellaggio, I take lodging in the Villa Serbelloni,
one of the many magnificent residences which poverty has induced the
Italian nobles to put into the hands of hotel-keepers. The house
stands high up on the very end of the promontory, and adjoining it is
an extensive park, on which the ruins of a robber's castle look down.
The panorama which on a fine day spreads itself out before one who
walks in these grounds is of singular beauty. The northern arm of the
lake, wider and more regular than the others, opens up a long vista
of headlands and bays and red-roofed villages as far as where Domaso
peeps out from a grove of giant elms. Beyond, the view is bounded by
the snow-covered Alps. Close at hand, near Varenna, the Fiume di Latte,
a milk-white waterfall, leaps down from a height of a thousand feet.
Towards Lecco huge walls of barren rock arise and wrap everything
near them in sombre shadows. Towards Como the tranquil water is shut
in by hills and low mountains, whose flowing lines blend gracefully
together. Some of these slopes are dark with pines, some are gray
with the olive, some are garlanded with vines which hang from tree to
tree, while others are clothed in a rich green foliage, amid which
glistens the golden fruit of the orange and the lemon. The banks are
lined with bright gardens and noble parks and villas, whose lawns run
down to the water's edge and are adorned with fountains, statues,
masses of brilliant flowers and clumps of tall trees. Above is a sky
of Italian blue, and below is a crystal mirror in which every charm of
the landscape is repeated. The impression made by all this loveliness
is increased by the air of happiness that pervades the spot. It is the
haunt of the rich, the gay, the newly-married: music and song, laughter
and mirthful talk, are the most familiar sounds. The smile of Nature
seems here to warm men's hearts and drive away the cares they have
brought with them.
It is on this site that Pliny the Younger is believed to have had the
villa which he called Cothurnus or "Tragedy." The present building
is several centuries old. Tradition relates that a certain countess,
one of its first occupants, had a habit of throwing her lovers down
the cliff when she was tired of them. Making this delightful abode
my head-quarters, I spend a week, partly in agreeable sight-seeing
and partly in still more agreeable idleness. I visit villas, towers,
fossil-beds, and waterfalls,--in short, everything interesting and
accessible,--now going on foot, now borne from point to point in one of
the sharp-prowed row-boats which are in use here, and now taking the
steamer up to Colico or down to Como and back....
Across the lake from here is the Villa Carlotta, called after its
former owner, the princess Charlotte of Prussia. Stepping out of his
boat, the visitor ascends the marble stairs which lead up from the
shore. After a few steps across the garden he reaches the villa, passes
through a porch fragrant with jasmine, and is at once ushered into a
small room where are some of the finest works of modern sculpture.
Canova's Mars and Venus and Palamedes are here, and they are most
admirable, but they are surpassed in charm by the famous group in
which Psyche is reclining and Cupid bending fondly over her. The
best piece of the collection is the frieze that runs round the room.
It is from the chisel of Thorwaldsen, and represents Alexander the
Great's triumphal entry into Babylon. Full of the beauty of youth,
the conqueror advances in his chariot; Victory comes to meet him;
vanquished nations bring presents; while behind him follow his brave
Greeks on horse and on foot, dragging along with them the prisoners and
the booty. The subject was suggested by Napoleon, who intended the work
for the Quirinal. It is in high relief, and in general effect resembles
strongly the frieze with which Phidias encircled the Parthenon. It is a
pity that these masterpieces are shown first, for after seeing them one
does not fully enjoy the statues and paintings in the other rooms.
Two hours may be delightfully spent in making the journey by steamboat
from Bellaggio to Como. Here the lake is so narrow and winding that
it seems to be a river. At every moment bold mountain-spurs project
into the water appearing to bar all passage, and one's curiosity is
continually excited to find the outlet. The views shift and change with
surprising quickness, for the boat stops at a dozen little towns on the
way, and for this purpose keeps crossing and recrossing from shore to
shore.
[Passing next to Lake Maggiore, the traveller takes a row-boat
down the latter in preference to waiting for the steamer.]
The four islands that we have passed on the way are known as the
Borromean Islands, because they belong for the most part to the rich
and powerful Borromeo family. The rare beauty of one of them makes it
the wonder of the lake. It was towards the middle of the seventeenth
century that Count Vitaliano Borromeo, finding himself the possessor of
almost the whole of this island, which was then a barren rock, resolved
to make it his residence, and to surround himself with gardens that
should rival those of Armida. For more than twenty years architects,
gardeners, sculptors, and painters labored to give material form to
the count's fancies. A spacious palace was erected on one end of the
island; on the other ten lofty terraces rose one above the other,
like the hanging-gardens of Babylon. The rock was covered with good
soil, and the choicest trees and shrubs were brought from every land.
Only evergreens, however, were admitted into this Eden, for the count
would have about him no sign of winter or death. In 1671 the work was
finished. The island was called Isabella, after the count's mother,--a
name which has since, by a happy corruption, become changed to Isola
Bella.
It is on a sunny afternoon that I direct my bark towards the "Beautiful
Island." I look on the landing-place with respect, for it is worn by
the footsteps of six generations of travellers. The interior of the
palace, which I visit first, is fitted up with princely magnificence
and is rich in art-treasures. Mementos of kings and queens who
accepted hospitality here are shown, and a bed in which Bonaparte once
slept. There is a chapel where a priest daily says mass; a throne-room,
as in the palaces of the Spanish grandees; and a gallery with numerous
paintings. A whole suite of rooms is given up to the works of Peter
Molyn, a Dutch artist, fitly nicknamed "Sir Tempest." This erratic man,
having killed his wife to marry another woman, was condemned to death.
He escaped from prison, however, found an asylum here, and in return
for the protection of the Borromeo of that day he adorned his walls
with more than fifty landscapes and pastoral scenes.
The garden betrays the epoch at which it was laid out. Prim parterres,
where masses of brilliant flowers bloom all the year round, are
enclosed by walks along which orange-trees and myrtles have been bent
and trimmed into whimsical patterns. There are dark and winding alleys
of cedars where at every turn some surprise is planned. Here is a
grotto made of shells,--there an obelisk, or a mosaic column, or a
horse of bronze, or a fountain of clear water in which the attendant
tritons and nymphs would doubtless disport were they not petrified
into marble. There is one lovely spot where, at the middle point of
a rotunda, a large statue of Hercules stands finely out against a
background of dark foliage. Other Olympians keep him company and calmly
eye the visitor from their painted niches. Not far from there is a
venerable laurel on which Bonaparte cut the word "Battaglia" a few days
before the battle of Marengo. The B is still plainly visible.
Pines and firs planted thickly along the northern side of the island
defend it from cold winds. In the sunny nooks of the terraces the
delicate lemon-tree bears abundant fruit and the oleander grows to a
size which it attains nowhere else in Europe. The tea-plant from China,
the banana from Africa, and the sugar-cane from Mississippi flourish
side by side; the camphor-tree distils its aromatic essence and the
magnolia loads the air with perfume. The cactus and the aloe border
walks over which the bamboo bends and throws its grateful shade. Turf
and flowerbeds carpet each terrace, and a tapestry of ivy and flowering
vines conceals the walls of the structure. From the summit a huge stone
unicorn looks down upon his master's splendid domain. He overlooks
also a corner of the island where his master's authority is not
acknowledged. The small patch of land on which the Dolphin Hotel stands
has for many centuries descended from father to son in a plebeian
family, nor have the Borromeos ever been able to buy it. They have to
endure the inn, therefore, as Frederick endured the mill at Sans-Souci
and Napoleon the house he could not buy at Paris.
At last the moment comes when I must quit Stresa, not, however, before
I have visited the remaining islands and other points of interest. The
steamer puts off, and soon separates me from the landscape that has
been my delight for three days,--the blue bay with its verdant banks,
the softly-shaded hills which enclose it, the snow-covered chain of
the Simplon in the background. As we approach the southern end of the
lake a colossal bronze statue of San Carlo Borromeo on the summit of a
hill near Arona comes into sight. From head to foot the saint measures
little less than eighty feet, and the pedestal on which he stands adds
to his height half as much more. His face is turned towards Arona, his
native town, and one hand is extended to bless it. With my glass I
descry a party of liliputian tourists engaged in examining this great
Gulliver. Most of them are satisfied when they have reached the top of
the pedestal and have ranged themselves in a row on one foot of the
statue. Others, more daring, climb up by a ladder to the saint's knee,
where they disappear through an aperture in the skirt of his robe.
From this point the ascent continues inside of the statue, by means of
iron bars, to the head, in which four persons can conveniently remain
at once.
At Arona the railway-station and the wharf are near each other, and in
a few minutes after I have landed an express-train starts and bears
me away from the region of the Italian lakes. When we have passed the
last houses of Arona and gained the open plain, the statue of the great
Borromeo with his outstretched arm comes again for a few moments into
view. Perhaps the uncertain light of evening and the jolting of the
train deceive me, but I fancy that the good old saint is waving his
hand in the familiar Italian way, as much as to say, "A rivederci!"
A DAY IN ROME.
BAYARD TAYLOR.
[The things worth seeing in the Eternal City are so many, and
crowd so closely upon each other, that the lover of the antique
finds himself almost overwhelmed by the rapid succession of
striking objects and historic ruins. It would seem that little
could be seen in a day's walk among these marvels of the past,
yet Taylor's observing eyes managed to take in a long series of
interesting objects, his graphic account of which is given below.]
One day's walk through Rome,--how shall I describe it? The Capitol, the
Forum, St. Peter's, the Coliseum,--what few hours' ramble ever took in
places so hallowed by poetry, history, and art? It was a golden leaf
in my calendar of life. In thinking over it now, and drawing out the
threads of recollection from the varied woof of thought I have woven
to-day, I almost wonder how I dared so much at once; but within reach
of them all, how was it possible to wait? Let me give a sketch of our
day's ramble.
Hearing that it was better to visit the ruins by evening or moonlight
(alas! there is no moon now) we started out to hunt St. Peter's. Going
in the direction of the Corso, we passed the ruined front of the
magnificent Temple of Antoninus, now used as the Papal Custom-House. We
turned to the right on entering the Corso, expecting to have a view of
the city from the hill at its southern end. It is a magnificent street,
lined with palaces and splendid edifices of every kind, and always
filled with crowds of carriages and people. On leaving it, however, we
became bewildered among the narrow streets, passed through a market of
vegetables, crowded with beggars and contadini, threaded many by-ways
between dark old buildings, saw one or two antique fountains and many
modern churches, and finally arrived at a hill.
We ascended many steps, and then descending a little towards the other
side, saw suddenly below us the _Roman Forum_! I knew it at once; and
those three Corinthian columns that stood near us, what could they
be but the remains of the temple of Jupiter Stator? We stood on the
Capitoline Hill; at the foot was the Arch of Septimius Severus, brown
with age and shattered; near it stood the majestic front of the Temple
of Fortune, its pillars of polished granite glistening in the sun as if
they had been erected yesterday, while on the left the rank grass was
waving from the arches and mighty walls of the palace of the Cæsars! In
front ruin upon ruin lined the way for half a mile, where the Coliseum
towered grandly through the blue morning mist, at the base of the
Esquiline Hill!
[Illustration: ARCH OF TITUS, ROME]
Good heavens, what a scene! Grandeur such as the world never saw once
rose through that blue atmosphere; splendor inconceivable, the spoils
of a world, the triumphs of a thousand armies had passed over that
earth; minds which for ages moved the ancient world had thought there,
and words of power and glory from the lips of immortal men had been
syllabled on that hallowed air. To call back all this on the very spot,
while the wreck of what once was rose mouldering and desolate around,
aroused a sublimity of thought and feeling too powerful for words.
Returning at hazard through the streets, we came suddenly upon the
Column of Trajan, standing in an excavated square below the level of
the city, amid a number of broken granite columns, which formed part
of the Forum dedicated to him by Rome after the conquest of Dacia.
The column is one hundred and thirty-two feet high, and entirely
covered with bas reliefs representing his victories, winding about it
in a spiral line to the top. The number of figures is computed at two
thousand five hundred, and they were of such excellence that Raphael
used many of them for his models. They are now much defaced, and the
column is surmounted by a statue of some saint. The inscription on
the pedestal has been erased, and the name of Sixtus V. substituted.
Nothing can exceed the ridiculous vanity of the old popes in thus
mutilating the finest monuments of ancient art. You cannot look upon
any relic of antiquity in Rome but your eyes are assailed by the words
"PONTIFEX MAXIMUS," in staring modern letters. Even the magnificent
bronzes of the Pantheon were stripped to make the baldachin under the
dome of St. Peter's.
Finding our way back again, we took a fresh start, happily in the right
direction, and after walking some time, came out on the Tiber, at the
Bridge of St. Angelo. The river rolled below in his muddy glory, and in
front, on the opposite bank, stood "the pile which Hadrian reared on
high," _now_ the Castle of St. Angelo. Knowing that St. Peter's was
to be seen from this bridge. I looked about in search of it. There was
only one dome in sight, large and of beautiful proportions. I said at
once, "Surely that cannot be St. Peter's!" On looking again, however, I
saw the top of a massive range of building near it, which corresponded
so nearly with the pictures of the Vatican, that I was unwillingly
forced to believe the mighty dome was really before me. I recognized
it as one of those we saw from the Capitol, but it appeared so much
smaller when viewed from a greater distance that I was quite deceived.
On considering that we were still three-fourths of a mile from it,
and that we could see its minutest parts distinctly, the illusion was
explained.
Going directly down the _Borgo Vecchio_ towards it, it seemed a long
time before we arrived at the square of St. Peter's; when at length
we stood in front, with the majestic colonnade sweeping around, the
fountains on each side sending up their showers of silvery spray,
the mighty obelisk of Egyptian granite piercing the sky, and beyond,
the great front and dome of the Cathedral, I confessed my unmingled
admiration. It recalled to my mind the grandeur of ancient Rome, and
mighty as her edifices must have been, I doubt if there were many views
more overpowering than this. The facade of St. Peter's seemed close to
us, but it was a third of a mile distant, and the people ascending the
steps dwindled to pigmies.
I passed the obelisk, went up the long ascent, crossed the portico,
pushed aside the heavy leathern curtain at the entrance, and stood in
the great nave. I need not describe my feelings at the sight, but I
will tell the dimensions, and you may then fancy what they were. Before
me was a marble plain six hundred feet long, and under the cross four
hundred and seventeen feet wide! One hundred and fifty feet above
sprang a glorious arch, dazzling with inlaid gold, and in the centre
of the cross there were four hundred feet of air between me and the top
of the dome! The sunbeam stealing through the lofty window at one end
of the transept made a bar of light on the blue air, hazy with incense,
one-tenth of a mile long before it fell on the mosaics and gilded
shrines of the other extremity. The grand cupola alone, including
lantern and cross, is two hundred and eighty-five feet high, or sixty
feet higher than the Bunker Hill Monument, and the four immense pillars
on which it rests are each one hundred and thirty-seven feet in
circumference. It seems as if human art had outdone itself in producing
this temple,--the grandest which the world ever erected for the worship
of the Living God! The awe felt in looking up at the giant arch of
marble and gold did not humble me; on the contrary, I felt exalted,
ennobled,--beings in the form I wore planned the glorious edifice, and
it seemed that in godlike power and perseverance they were indeed but
a "little lower than the angels." I felt that, if fallen, my race was
still mighty and immortal.
The Vatican is only open twice a week, on days which are not _festas_;
most fortunately, to-day happened to be one of these, and we took a
_run_ through its endless halls. The extent and magnificence of the
gallery of sculpture is perfectly amazing. The halls, which are filled
to overflowing with the finest works of ancient art, would, if placed
side by side, make a row more than two miles in length! You enter
at once into a hall of marble, with a magnificent arched ceiling, a
third of a mile long; the sides are covered for a great distance with
inscriptions of every kind, divided into compartments according to the
era of the empire to which they refer. One which I examined appeared to
be a kind of index of the roads in Italy, with the towns on them; and
we could decipher on that time-worn block the very route I had followed
from Florence hither.
Then came the statues, and here I am bewildered how to describe them.
Hundreds upon hundreds of figures,--statues of citizens, generals,
emperors, and gods; fauns, satyrs, and nymphs, born of the loftiest
dreams of grace; fauns on whose faces shone the very soul of humor, and
heroes and divinities with an air of majesty worthy the "land of lost
gods and godlike men!"
I am lost in astonishment at the perfection of art attained by the
Greeks and Romans. There is scarcely a fourth of the beauty that has
ever met my eye which is not to be found in this gallery. I should
almost despair of such another blaze of glory on the world were it not
for my devout belief that what has been done may be done again, and
had I not faith that the dawn in which we live will bring another day
equally glorious. And why should not America with the experience and
added wisdom which three thousand years have slowly yielded to the old
world, joined to the giant energy of her youth and freedom, re-bestow
on the world the divine creations of art? Let Powers answer!
But let us step on to the hemicycle of the Belvedere, and view some
works greater than any we have yet seen or even imagined. The adjoining
gallery is filled with masterpieces of sculpture, but we will keep our
eyes unwearied and merely glance along the rows. At length we reach a
circular court with a fountain flinging up its waters in the centre.
Before us is an open cabinet; there is a beautiful manly form within,
but you would not for an instant take it for the Apollo. By the Gorgon
head it holds aloft we recognize Canova's Perseus,--he has copied the
form and attitude of the Apollo, but he could not breathe into it the
same warming fire. It seemed to me particularly lifeless, and I greatly
preferred his Boxers, who stand on either side of it. One, who has
drawn back in the attitude of striking, looks as if he could fell an ox
with a single blow of his powerful arm. The other is a more lithe and
agile figure, and there is a quick fire in his countenance which might
overbalance the massive strength of his opponent.
Another cabinet,--this is the far-famed Antinous. A countenance of
perfect Grecian beauty, with a form such as we would imagine for one of
Homer's heroes. His features are in repose, and there is something in
their calm, settled expression strikingly like life.
Now we look on a scene of the deepest physical agony. Mark how every
muscle of old Laocoon's body is distended to the utmost in the mighty
struggle! What intensity of pain in the quivering distorted features!
Every nerve which despair can call into action is excited in one giant
effort, and a scream of anguish seems first to have quivered on those
marble lips. The serpents have rolled their strangling coils around
father and sons, but terror has taken away the strength of the latter,
and they make but feeble resistance. After looking with indifference on
the many casts of this group, I was the more moved by the magnificent
original. It deserves all the admiration that has been heaped upon it.
I absolutely trembled on approaching the cabinet of the Apollo. I had
built up in fancy a glorious ideal, drawn from all that bards have
sung or artists have rhapsodized about its divine beauty,--I feared
disappointment,--I dreaded to have my ideal displaced and my faith in
the power of human genius overthrown by a form less perfect. However,
with a feeling of desperate excitement I entered and looked upon it.
Now, what shall I say of it? How make you comprehend its immortal
beauty? To what shall I liken its glorious perfection of form, or the
fire that imbues the cold marble with the soul of a god? Not with
sculpture, for it stands alone and above all other works of art,--nor
with men, for it has a majesty more than human. I gazed on it,
lost in wonder and joy,--joy that I could at last take into my mind
a faultless ideal of godlike, exalted manhood. The figure appears
actually to possess a spirit, and I looked on it not as on a piece of
marble but a being of loftier mould, and half expected to see him step
forward when the arrow reached its mark. I would give worlds to feel
one moment the sculptor's mental triumph when his work was completed;
that one exulting thrill must have repaid him for every ill he might
have suffered on earth! With what divine inspiration has he wrought its
faultless lines! There is a spirit in every limb which mere toil could
not have given. It must have been caught in those lofty moments
"When each conception was a heavenly guest--
A ray of immortality--and stood,
Star-like, around, until they gathered to a god?"
We ran through a series of halls, roofed with golden stars on a deep
blue midnight sky, and filled with porphyry vases, black marble gods,
and mummies. Some of the statues shone with the matchless polish they
had received from a Theban artisan before Athens was founded, and are,
apparently, as fresh and perfect as when looked upon by the vassals of
Sesostris. Notwithstanding their stiff, rough-hewn limbs, there were
some figures of great beauty, and they gave me a much higher idea of
Egyptian sculpture. In an adjoining hall, containing colossal busts of
the gods, is a vase forty-one feet in circumference, of one solid block
of red porphyry.
The "Transfiguration" is truly called the first picture in the world.
The same glow of inspiration which created the Belvedere must have been
required to paint the Saviour's aerial form. The three figures hover
above the earth in a blaze of glory, seemingly independent of all
material laws. The terrified Apostles on the mount, and the wondering
group below, correspond in the grandeur of their expression to the awe
and majesty of the scene. The only blemish in the sublime perfection of
the picture is the introduction of the two small figures on the left
hand, who, by the bye, were Cardinals, inserted there _by command_.
Some travellers say the color is all lost, but I was agreeably
surprised to find it well preserved. It is, undoubtedly, somewhat
imperfect in this respect, as Raphael died before it was entirely
finished; but "take it all in all," you may search the world in vain to
find its equal.
[This ended the day's tour of observation. On a succeeding day
the traveller saw as many objects of interest; among them the
graves of Shelley and Keats. These, however, we must pass by, and
describe his visit to the ruins of the great Roman amphitheatre.]
Amid the excitement of continually changing scenes I have forgotten
to mention our first visit to the Coliseum. The day after our arrival
we set out with two English friends to see it by sunset. Passing by
the glorious fountain of Trevi, we made our way to the Forum, and from
thence took the road to the Coliseum, lined on both sides with remains
of splendid edifices. The grass-grown ruins of the palace of the Cæsars
stretched along on our right; on our left we passed in succession
the granite front of the Temple of Antoninus and Faustina, the three
grand arches of the Temple of Peace, and the ruins of the Temple of
Venus and Rome. We went under the ruined triumphal arch of Titus, with
broken friezes representing the taking of Jerusalem, and the mighty
walls of the Coliseum gradually rose before us. They grew in grandeur
as we approached them, and when at length we stood in the centre, with
the shattered arches and grassy walls rising above and beyond one
another far around us, the red light of sunset giving them a soft and
melancholy beauty, I was fain to confess that another form of grandeur
had entered my mind of which before I knew not.
A majesty like that of nature clothes this wonderful edifice. Walls
rise above walls, and arches above arches, from every side of the grand
arena, like a sweep of craggy pinnacled mountains around an oval lake.
The two outer circles have almost entirely disappeared, torn away by
the rapacious nobles of Rome, during the middle ages, to build their
palaces. When entire and filled with its hundred thousand spectators,
it must have exceeded any pageant which the world can now produce. No
wonder it was said,--
"While stands the Coliseum, Rome shall stand;
When falls the Coliseum, Rome shall fall;
And when Rome falls, the world!"
--a prediction which time has not verified. The world is now going
forward prouder than ever, and though we thank Rome for the legacy
she has left us, we would not wish the dust of her ruin to cumber our
path....
Next to the Coliseum, the baths of Caracalla are the grandest remains
at Rome. The building is a thousand feet square, and its massive walls
look as if built by a race of giants. These Titan remains are covered
with green shrubbery, and long trailing vines sweep over the cornice
and wave down like tresses from the architrave and arch. In some of
its grand halls the mosaic pavement is yet entire. The excavations are
still carried on. From the number of statues already found, this would
seem to have been one of the most gorgeous edifices of the olden time.
[Illustration: THE FAMOUS BRIDGE OF THE RIALTO, VENICE]
I have been now several days loitering and sketching among the ruins,
and I feel as if I could willingly wander for months beside these
mournful relics, and draw inspiration from the lofty yet melancholy
lore they teach. There is a spirit haunting them real and undoubted.
Every shattered column, every broken arch and mouldering wall, but
calls up more vividly to mind the glory that has passed away. Each
lonely pillar stands as proudly as if it still helped to bear up a
great and glorious temple, and the air seems scarcely to have ceased
vibrating with the clarions that heralded a conqueror's triumph....
In Rome there is no need that the imagination be excited to call up
thrilling emotion or poetic revery; they are forced on the mind by the
sublime spirit of the scene. The roused bard might here pour forth his
thoughts in the wildest climaces, and I could believe he felt it all.
This is like the Italy of my dreams,--that golden realm whose image
has been nearly chased away by the earthly reality. I expected to
find a land of light and beauty, where every step crushed a flower or
displaced a sunbeam; where every air was poetic inspiration, and whose
every scene filled the soul with romantic feelings. Nothing is left of
my picture but the far-off mountains, robed in the sapphire veil of the
Ausonian air, and these ruins, amid whose fallen glory sits triumphant
the spirit of ancient song.
I have seen the flush of morn and eve rest on the Coliseum; I have
seen the noonday sky framed in its broken loop-holes, like plates of
polished sapphire; and last night, as the moon has grown into the
zenith, I went to view it with her. Around the Forum all was silent and
spectral; a sentinel challenged us at the Arch of Titus, under which we
passed, and along the Cæsars' wall, which lay in shadow. Dead stillness
brooded around the Coliseum; the pale, silvery lustre streamed through
its arches and over the grassy walls, giving them a look of shadowy
grandeur which day could not bestow. The scene will remain fresh in my
memory forever.
POMPEII AND ITS DESTROYER.
ALFRED E. LEE.
[The ruins of Pompeii perhaps surpass in general interest any
other of the exhumed remains of man's ancient industry, and the
story of them has been very frequently told. For a good general
description we go to the "European Days and Ways" of Alfred E.
Lee, who also deals with Vesuvius as well as with its victim. He
tells us the whole history of the excavation, of which we can
but say here that up to 1860 not more than one-third of the town
was excavated, and that in 1863 the archæologist Fiorelli was
appointed to supervise the work, which has gone on steadily since.]
The ancient Pompeiians who gazed upon and admired the beauteous groves
and pastures which covered the symmetrical cone up to the very rim of
its smokeless, silent crater must have had but a faint idea of the real
nature of their terrible neighbor. But in the year 63 they received
a most impressive and--had it been heeded--timely warning of what
they were to expect. A fearful earthquake shook down their temples,
colonnades, and dwellings, giving awful premonition of the reawakening
of the stupendous forces of nature, which had been slumbering for
centuries. The city was a wreck, but it was immediately rebuilt, and
was greatly improved by conforming its architecture more nearly than
before to the style of imperial Rome. A reaction from the depressing
effects of disaster was at high tide, and Pompeii was doubtless more
splendid and more gay than ever, when, on the 24th of August, 79, it
was overtaken by the supreme catastrophe, the details of which, in
the absence of authentic narrative, have been supplied by the romance
of Bulwer. First came a dense shower of ashes, which covered the town
to the depth of three feet, impelling most of its inhabitants to fly
from its precincts. This was followed by a delusive lull, during which
many of the fugitives returned to seek their valuables, and perhaps
to care for the sick and infirm who could not be readily removed. But
directly the shower of ashes was succeeded by a heavy rain of red-hot
cinders and pumice, called rapilii, from which there was no escape.
This covered the town with another stratum, seven to eight feet thick,
burning the wooden upper stories from the houses, and extinguishing the
last vestige of animal life. On top of this the remorseless Cyclops
shook down more showers of ashes and then fiery rapilii, until the
superincumbent mass attained an average thickness of twenty feet,
and the beautiful city of the Sarno was literally smothered,--buried
alive, with scarcely a single trace of it above ground. For nearly
seventeen centuries Pompeii, except as a name and memory, disappeared
from history. In ancient times its ruins were ransacked, partly by
the survivors of its wreck, in recovering their valuables and the
dead bodies of their friends, and partly in the search for decorative
materials with which to embellish temples and other buildings. In this
way the city was stripped of nearly everything easily accessible which
was worth carrying away. Subsequent Vesuvian eruptions covered it still
more deeply, vegetation grew over it, and a village bearing its name
rose upon the ground which covered its ancient site. During the Middle
Ages the place was entirely unknown. In 1592 a subterranean aqueduct,
which is in use to this day, was carried under it without leading to
its discovery. In 1748 some statues and bronze utensils, discovered
by a peasant, attracted the attention of the reigning king of Naples
and Sicily, Charles III., who caused excavations to be made. At that
time the theatre, amphitheatre, and other portions of the buried town
were brought to light, discoveries which caused great surprise and
enthusiasm throughout the civilized world....
The excavated portion of the city, together with its museum and
library, are under the care of a corps of government guards, who, for
a European wonder, are forbidden to accept gratuities. Quite agreeably
to me, my visit fell on a holiday, when the guides were off duty,
so that I was permitted to wander at will among the silent streets,
unembarrassed by long and apocryphal verbal explanations. A previous
visit had familiarized me with the principal streets, buildings, and
localities, so that I had no difficulty in finding my way. Besides a
considerable region which had been excavated since my first visit,
eighteen months before, there were some important buildings which I had
not then been able to inspect. Among these was the Villa Diomed, so
conspicuous in Bulwer's romance. This villa--more properly speaking,
the house of M. Arrius Diomedes--was one of the largest and most
splendid of the Pompeiian residences, and, in addition to the usual
conveniences and luxuries of an elegant mansion of that day, enclosed
an interior court, or garden, one hundred and seven feet square,
open to the sky, surrounded by a colonnade, and embellished by a
central fountain. Beneath this court, on three sides, are long vaulted
chambers, reached by stair-ways, and lighted by narrow apertures in the
upper pavement. These cellars, now entirely cleared of rubbish, are
believed to have been used in the summer season as family promenades.
"In them," says Bulwer, "twenty skeletons (two of them babes,
embracing) were discovered in one spot by the door, covered by a fine
ashen dust that had evidently been slowly wafted through the apertures
until it had filled the whole space. There were jewels and coins, and
candelabra for unavailing light, and wine, hardened in the amphoræ, for
a prolongation of agonized life. The sand, consolidated by damps, had
taken the forms of the skeletons as in a cast, and the traveller may
yet see the impression of a female neck and bosom, of young and round
proportions, the trace of the fated Julia! It seems to the inquirer
as if the air had been gradually changed into a sulphurous vapor;
the inmates of the vaults had rushed to the door and found it closed
and blocked up by the scoriæ without, and in their attempts to force
it had been suffocated with the atmosphere. In the garden was found
a skeleton with a key by its bony hand, and near it a bag of coins.
This is believed to have been the master of the house, the unfortunate
Diomed, who had probably sought to escape by the garden, and been
destroyed either by the vapors or some fragment of stone. Beside some
silver vases lay another skeleton, probably a slave." The impression of
a girl's breast in the ashes, which Bulwer's fancy represents as the
sole remaining trace of one of his heroines, is still preserved in the
museum at Naples, and is as shapely and perfect as if the flesh of the
fair young victim had been moulded but yesterday instead of eighteen
hundred years ago. The bodies found in the Diomedan corridors had their
heads wrapped up, and were half covered by the fine infiltrated ashes,
in which was preserved even the imprint of the chemises worn by the
women and children. The bodies had decayed, like those embedded in
other parts of the town, but their forms had been moulded in the ashes
with wonderful precision and distinctness.
In many cases such cavities, after the skeletons contained in them had
been carefully removed, were filled with liquid plaster, which produced
an accurate and durable image of the imprinted form. The museum at
Pompeii contains a collection of such images, which impress upon the
beholder, more vividly, perhaps, than any other objects, the horror
and consternation of those awful days when the rain of volcanic ashes
turned noon to night and overwhelmed the doomed city. One of these
figures is that of a girl with a ring on her finger; another, that of a
woman enceinte; a third, a man whose features are singularly distinct
and natural. A group of three includes father, mother, and daughter,
found lying near one another. The figure of a female shows even the
folds of her drapery and the arrangement of her hair. The attitudes are
generally those which follow a short and fierce death-struggle. Some of
the victims seem to have fallen upon their faces and died suddenly in
their flight. Others, who were perhaps asphyxiated by vapors, have the
calm attitude of sleep, as though death had been but a pleasant dream.
Near the Great Theatre an open court with a peristyle of seventy-four
columns is surrounded by a series of detached cells. This is supposed
to have been a barrack for confinement of the gladiators who were
chosen for the contests of the arena. Sixty-three skeletons found here
are believed to have been those of soldiers who remained on duty during
the eruption. In one of the chambers, used as a prison, the skeletons
of two presumable criminals were found, together with the stocks and
irons with which they were bound for punishment. The story that the
people were assembled, in great numbers, to witness some spectacular
entertainment at the time the volcano began to belch upon them its
rain of ashes is probably a myth. The theatre had been badly wrecked
by the earthquake of 63, and its restoration was yet far from complete
when the eruption broke forth. The streets of Pompeii are generally
narrow, not over twenty-four--some of them not over fourteen--feet in
width, and are paved with blocks of lava, with high stepping-stones at
intervals, for the convenience of foot-passengers in rainy weather.
At the street corners public fountains are placed, from which the
water poured through the decorative head of a god, a mask, or some
similar ornament. Trade signs are rare, but political announcements are
frequently seen, conspicuously printed in red letters. Phallic emblems,
boldly cut in stone and built into the walls, surprise and shock us by
their frequency, notwithstanding their innocently meant purpose as a
means of protection against witchcraft. The architecture of the temples
and other public buildings is a clumsy mixture of the Greek and Roman
style, the columns being invariably laid up in brick or travertine, and
covered with stucco. The dwellings, built of the same materials, or of
travertine, have very little exterior adornment. Yet at the time of
its catastrophe Pompeii must have been a highly decorated town. Marble
was but little used architecturally, but the stucco which took its
place was admirably adapted to decorative painting, and this means of
ornamentation was lavishly employed.
The lower halves of the columns are generally painted red, with
harmonizing colors on the capitals. Interior walls are also laid
with bright, gay coloring, usually red or yellow. But the most
attractive and striking of the mural decorations are the paintings,
the wonderful variety and delicacy of which are only surpassed by
the more astonishing wonder of their preservation. The subjects of
these pictures are generally drawn from poetry or mythology, as, for
instance, Theseus abandoning Ariadne, Ulysses relating his adventures
to Penelope, Cupid holding a mirror up to Venus, Apollo and the Muses,
Polyphemus receiving Galatea's letter from Cupid, Leda and the Swan,
Diana surprised in her bath by Actæon, Achilles and Patroclus, and
representations of Venus, Cupid, Bacchus, Silenus, Mercury, and the
fauns in endless variety. A favorite subject was the beautiful youth
Narcissus, son of the river-god Cephisus and the nymph Liriope.
According to the Greek fable, this youth, seeing his image in a
fountain, became enamoured of it, and, in punishment for his hardness
of heart towards Echo and other nymphs, pined away and was changed to a
flower. In consequence of its origin, this flower loves the borders of
streams, and, bending on its fragile stem, seems to seek its own image
in the waters, but soon fades and dies.
The larger and finer dwellings of Pompeii have generally been named
from their supposed possessors, or from the works of art found in
them. The House of the Tragic Poet, so called from the representation
of a poet reading found in its tablinium, was one of the most elegant
in Pompeii. From the pavement of its vestibule was taken a celebrated
mosaic, now in the museum at Naples, representing a chained dog
barking, with the legend "_cave canem_"--"beware of the dog." The
periphery of the columns of the peristyle is fluted, except the lower
third of the shaft, which is smooth and painted red. The walls of
the interior are decorated with paintings, among which are Venus and
Cupid fishing, Diana with Orion, and a representation of Leda and
Tyndarus, which is very beautiful and remarkably well preserved. This
house, which figures in Bulwer's "Last Days of Pompeii" as the home
of Glaucus, was probably the dwelling of a goldsmith. One of the most
palatial residences yet brought to light is the House of Pansa,--one
hundred and twenty-four by three hundred and nineteen feet,--which
finely illustrates, in its complete and well-preserved appointments,
the plan of an aristocratic Pompeiian mansion of the imperial epoch.
Entering from the street by a vestibule, in the floor of which the
greeting, "_Salve_," was wrought in beautiful mosaic, we reach a large
interior court (atrium), which, owing to the absence of glass or
exterior openings, was necessary for the admission of light and air
to the surrounding chambers. A reservoir for rain-water (impluvium)
occupies the centre of the atrium. Passing from the atrium through a
large apartment called the tablinium, we enter, towards the rear, the
strictly domestic part of the house, which occupies more than half the
space within its walls, and is also provided with an interior court.
The family apartments open into this court, and derive from it their
light and ventilation. It encloses a garden surrounded by a peristyle,
and hence takes the name of peristylium. The front part of the house,
surrounding the atrium, was that in which the proprietor transacted his
business and held intercourse with the external world; the rear part,
surrounding the peristylium, was devoted to domestic use exclusively.
The roof, sloping inward, and open over the interior courts, discharged
the rain which fell upon it into the impluvium. The images of the
household gods usually occupied a place in the vestibule. The House of
Sallust, so named from an epigraph on its outside wall, appears from
later discoveries to have been the property of A. Cossius Libanus.
This house was finished in gay colors and embellished with mural
paintings, one of which--a representation of Actæon surprising Diana
at her bath--is singularly well preserved. Other subjects treated are
the rape of Europa (badly defaced), and Helle in the sea extending her
arm to Phryxus. Opposite to the Actæon is a dainty chamber, arbitrarily
named the venereum, surrounded by polygonal columns painted red.
The impluvium was adorned with a bronze group--now in the museum at
Palermo--representing Hercules contending with a stag. Out of the mouth
of the stag, in this group, the waters of the fountain gushed. Some of
the bedrooms of this house were floored with African marble.
The House of Meleager takes its name from one of its mural decorations
illustrating the story of Meleager and Atalanta. Other frescos adorn
its walls, representing the judgment of Paris, Mercury presenting
a purse to Ceres, and a young satyr frightening a bacchante with a
serpent. Its peristylium, sixty by seventy-three feet, is the finest
yet found in Pompeii. The columns of the peristylium are covered with
yellow stucco and its chambers are floored with mosaic. A colonnade
rises on three sides of the dining-room, and one of twenty-four
columns, red below and white above, supports the portico. A garden to
the left of the atrium and in front of the portico is adorned by a
pretty fountain. An exquisite bronze statuette of a dancing faun, now
in the Naples museum, gave its present title to the most beautiful and
also one of the largest houses in Pompeii. The discovery of this house
was first made in 1830, in the presence of a son of the poet Goethe. A
small pedestal, on which the statuette of the faun stood, is still seen
in the marble-lined impluvium. In the mosaic floor of one of the rooms
near by three doves are represented drawing a string of pearls from a
casket. Mosaics in the dining-room represented Acratus (companion of
Bacchus) riding on a lion, a cat devouring a partridge, and a group
of crustaceans and fishes. The salutation, "_Have_," (welcome) is
wrought with colored marble in the pavement of the vestibule before the
main entrance. The walls are covered with stucco made of cement, in
imitation of colored marble.
The atrium, thirty-five by thirty-eight feet, is finished in the Tuscan
style, but the twenty-eight columns surrounding the peristylium are
Ionic. In the rear of the mansion opens a garden, one hundred and
five by one hundred and fifteen feet, enclosed with a peristyle of
fifty-six Doric columns. Various articles in gold, silver, bronze, and
terra-cotta were found in this house, and also some skeletons, one
of which was that of a woman with a gold ring on her finger engraved
with the name Cassia. But the most important discovery of all made in
the House of the Faun was that of the magnificent mosaic of Alexander
in the battle of Issus. "This work, which is almost the only ancient
historical composition in existence, represents the battle at the
moment when Alexander, whose helmet has fallen from his head, charges
Darius with his cavalry and transfixes the general of the Persians,
who has fallen from his wounded horse. The chariot of the Persian
monarch is prepared for retreat, whilst in the foreground a Persian of
rank, in order to insure the more speedy escape of the king, who is
absorbed in thought at the sight of his expiring general, offers him
his horse."--Baedeker.
Such are some of the principal mansions of Pompeii and the objects
found in them. All of the most precious works of art which were or
could be detached, including many exquisite little mural frescos,
have been removed and deposited in the museum at Naples. The ruins
and the museum explain each other, and taken together furnish the
most complete and vivid illustration of ancient life in the world. No
books, no pictures, can tell us so clearly and comprehensively how the
people of that day and country lived as the remains of this buried
city. Its dwellings, shops, streets, prisons, temples, theatres, and
tombs disclose with amazing fulness and accuracy the pursuits, habits,
follies, vices, and even the thoughts of its inhabitants, just as they
were living and moving when caught, overwhelmed, and forever stilled
in the full tide of their existence. Well-curbs worn by the sliding
rope, stepping-stones hollowed by the march of eager multitudes,
pavements scarred by the stamp of horses' hoofs, advertisements
painted on public walls, shops and magazines containing the symbols
and utensils of trade, fountains where the crystal torrent might have
hushed but an hour ago its rippling voice, temples whose altars bear
yet the marks of sacrificial fires, frescos whose color and outline
are bright and delicate in spite of calamity and time, mosaic floors
smooth and shining as if polished only yesterday by the dance of dainty
feet,--these and a thousand more traces of the life of that ancient
time help the imagination to re-people and restore the ruined city as
it was in the day of its pride and splendor.
An inspection of the ruins of Pompeii deepens upon the mind its
impressions of the sublimity and terror of Vesuvius. Physically
speaking, the volcano is but a monstrous heap of ashes, stones, and
scoriæ, hollow, or partially so, in the centre, and streaked with
black, solidified lava-currents on the outside. From the crater,
whirling volumes of steam and smoke constantly issue, each rotary gush
representing an interior explosion, usually heard only on the summit.
In the varying states of the atmosphere this monstrous volume of vapor
rises in columnar form for thousands of feet, and is then borne far to
seaward, or landward, by the upper currents of the air; or it falls in
a dense, sulphurous, shapeless cloud, which envelops and conceals the
upper part of the mountain. In the latter condition of things I made my
first ascent; in the former my second. On the first occasion we went up
from Portici and down to Pompeii; on the second, the route was reversed.
From Pompeii the summit may be made--on horseback as far as the foot of
the cone--in about three hours. The railway on the Portici side ascends
to the outside rim of the crater, within which, separated by fissured
slabs of lava, which a yard below the surface yet glow with living
fire, the main chimney or flue of the volcano rises some hundreds of
feet higher. On the eastern side, below the rim, a lava stream of
considerable magnitude had burst forth at the time of my visit, and was
issuing with a fierce hissing sound. Its course could be traced down
the slopes of the mountain for the distance of a mile. Its movement,
at first quite rapid, was soon checked by the cooling effect of the
atmosphere. The operations of the crater at this time were extremely
interesting. Near the base of the finial cone a small secondary
volcanic funnel had recently been formed, which sometimes almost
silenced with its screeching and blubber the thunderous rumbling within
the main chimney. Neither of the active craters could be approached
with safety, but they made no objections to being looked at, and so,
dismissing my guide, I remained about two hours on the summit, watching
their antics. Sometimes the smaller crater, or safety-valve, as it
seemed to be, would work itself up to a perfect frenzy of hysterical
hissing and shrieking, as though all the misery of a hundred colicky
locomotives were venting itself in one prolonged scream. During such
spells the red liquid lava would bubble over the rim for a time, like
the boiling of an overfilled pot; then suddenly some explosive interior
force would throw it into the air in a sheaf of beautiful red spray,
rising and descending in graceful parabolas all around the cone. After
this performance, the little fellow would subside and keep tolerably
quiet for ten minutes or so, when it would be seized with another
paroxysm.
The larger crater, though also intermittent, was more progressive
and less fidgety in its action. Its behavior had the dignified air
of regular business, while the safety-valve demeaned itself more as
a transient upstart, impatient of attracting popular attention. The
masses of steam and smoke issuing from the main orifice were somewhat
irregular, both in quantity and velocity, their increase in both
respects being always accompanied by louder and more rapid interior
explosions. At the moments of greatest activity showers of stones
and lumps of red lava were hurled into the air to heights varying
from three hundred to one thousand feet, and, descending, rolled
rattling and smoking down the yellow, sulphurous sides of the cone.
The spectacle was terrifically sublime at times, particularly when the
safety-valve chimed in with its screaming accompaniment, and flung
aloft its _jet-d'eau_-like pyrotechnics. The missiles projected from
the main crater soared at an angle of about fifty degrees, and almost
uniformly in the same direction, so that they fell on territory of
which the spectator, looking on from the opposite point of the compass,
was quite willing to accord monopoly of possession, with a liberal
margin for unadjusted boundary.
As sunset approached, and the shades of evening were beginning to add
new touches of grandeur to the sublime spectacle, I took leave of
it reluctantly, and, with Brobdingnagian strides down the volcanic
ash-heap, descended in not more than seven minutes a space which it had
once cost me a weary half-hour and the help of two guides to climb.
Three hours later the red currents of lava could be seen from my window
in Naples, glittering far away in the darkness, and streaking the black
sides of the volcano like descending streams of molten gold.
MOUNT ETNA IN ERUPTION.
BAYARD TAYLOR.
[It is not Etna in one of its gigantic throes of eruption that
we propose to describe. The traveller whose story of the mountain
we append was not fortunate enough to witness such a spectacle.
But he saw it in a minor phase of activity, and describes the
vision so well that his account is well worth repeating. It was
on his way from Malta to Sicily that he first caught sight of
the volcano, ninety miles away, rising in solitary state behind
the nearer mountains. He continued his course till abreast of
Syracuse, "with Etna as distant as ever."]
The fourth morning dawned, and--great Neptune be praised!--we were
actually within the Gulf of Catania. Etna loomed up in all his sublime
bulk, unobscured by cloud or mist, while a slender jet of smoke, rising
from his crater, was slowly curling its wreaths in the clear air, as
if happy to receive the first beam of the sun. The towers of Syracuse,
which had mocked us all the preceding day, were no longer visible; the
land-locked little port of Augusta lay behind us; and, as the wind
continued favorable, ere long we saw a faint white mark at the foot of
the mountain. This was Catania.
The shores of the bay were enlivened with orange-groves and the gleam
of the villages, while here and there a single palm dreamed of its
brothers across the sea. Etna, of course, had the monarch's place in
the landscape, but even his large, magnificent outlines could not usurp
all my feelings. The purple peaks to the westward and farther inland
had a beauty of their own, and in the gentle curves with which they
leaned towards each other there was a promise of the flowery meadows of
Enna....
Catania presented a lovely picture as we drew near its harbor. Planted
at the very foot of Etna, it has a background such as neither Naples
nor Genoa can boast. The hills next the sea are covered with gardens
and orchards, sprinkled with little villages and the country-places
of the nobles,--a rich, cultured landscape, which gradually merges
into the forests of oak and chestnut that girdle the waist of the
great volcano. But all the wealth of southern vegetation cannot hide
the footsteps of that Ruin, which from time to time visits the soil.
Half-way up the mountain-side is dotted with cones of ashes and
cinders, some covered with the scanty shrubbery which centuries have
called forth, some barren and recent; while two dark, winding streams
of sterile lava descend to the very shore, where they stand congealed
in ragged needles and pyramids. Part of one of these black floods has
swept the town, and, tumbling into the sea, walls one side of the port.
[What shall we say of Catania? It has not dwelt at the foot of
Mount Etna with impunity, but has been more than once destroyed.
During the week of Mr. Taylor's visit the centennial festival of
St. Agatha, the miracles of whose martyrdom had here their scene,
took place. This saint still performs miracles, "and her power
is equally efficacious in preventing earthquakes and eruptions
of Mount Etna." The festival was brilliant in illuminations and
pyrotechnic displays.]
Truly, except the illumination of the Golden Horn on the Night of
Predestination, I have seen nothing equal to the spectacle presented by
Catania during the past three nights. The city, which has been built
up from her ruins more stately than ever, was in a blaze of light,
all her domes, towers, and the long lines of her beautiful palaces
revealed in the varying red and golden flames of a hundred thousand
lamps and torches. Pyramids of fire, transparencies, and illuminated
triumphal arches filled the four principal streets, and the fountain
in the cathedral square gleamed like a jet of molten silver, spinning
up from one of the pores of Etna. At ten o'clock a gorgeous display of
fireworks closed the day's festivities, but the lamps remained burning
nearly all night.
On the second night the grand Procession of the Veil took place. I
witnessed the imposing spectacle from the balcony of Prince Gessina's
palace. Long lines of waxen torches led the way, followed by a military
band, and then a company of the highest prelates in their most
brilliant costumes, surrounding the bishop, who walked under a canopy
of silk and gold, bearing the miraculous veil of St. Agatha. I was
blessed with a distant view of it, but could see no traces of the rosy
hue left upon it by the flames of the saint's martyrdom....
To-night Signor Scava, the American vice-consul, took me to the palace
of Prince Biscari, overlooking the harbor, in order to behold the
grand display of fireworks from the end of the mole. The showers of
rockets and colored stars, and the temples of blue and silver fire,
were repeated in the dark, quiet bosom of the sea, producing the most
dazzling and startling effects....
Among the antiquities of Catania which I have visited are the
Amphitheatre, capable of holding fifteen thousand persons, the old
Greek Theatre, in which Alcibiades made his noted harangue to the
Catanians, the Odeon, and the ancient baths. The theatre, which is
in tolerable preservation, is built of lava, like many of the modern
edifices in the city. The baths proved to me, what I had supposed, that
the Oriental bath of the present day is identical with that of the
ancients. Why so admirable an institution has never been introduced
into Europe is more than I can tell. From the pavement of these baths,
which is nearly twenty feet below the surface of the earth, the lava of
later eruptions has burst up, in places, in hard black jets. The most
wonderful token of that flood which whelmed Catania two hundred years
ago is to be seen at the grand Benedictine convent of San Nicola, in
the upper part of the city. Here the stream of lava divides itself just
before the convent, and flows past on both sides, leaving the buildings
and garden untouched. The marble courts, the fountains, the splendid
galleries, and the gardens of richest Southern bloom and fragrance
stand like an epicurean island in the midst of the terrible stony
waves, whose edges bristle with the thorny aloe and cactus....
The noises of the festival had not ceased when I closed my eyes at
midnight. I slept soundly through the night, but was awakened before
sunrise by my Sicilian landlord. "Oh, Excellenza! have you heard the
Mountain? He is going to break out again; may the holy St. Agatha
protect us!"
It is rather ill-timed on the part of the Mountain, was my involuntary
first thought, that he should choose for a new eruption precisely the
centennial festival of the only saint who is supposed to have any power
over him. It shows a disregard of female influence not at all suited
to the present day, and I scarcely believe that he seriously means it.
Next comes along the jabbering landlady: "I don't like his looks. It
was just so the last time. Come, Excellenza, you can see him from the
back terrace."
The sun was not yet risen, but the east was bright with his coming, and
there was not a cloud in the sky. All the features of Etna were sharply
sculptured in the clear air. From the topmost cone a thick stream of
white smoke was slowly puffed out at short intervals, and rolled lazily
down the eastern side. It had a heavy, languid character, and I should
have thought nothing of the appearance but for the alarm of my hosts.
It was like the slow fire of earth's incense burning on that grand
mountain altar.
I hurried off to the post-office to await the arrival of the diligence
from Palermo. The office is in the Strada Etnea, the main street of
Catania, which runs straight through the city from the sea to the base
of the mountain whose peak closes the long vista. The diligence was an
hour later than usual, and I passed the time in watching the smoke,
which continued to increase in volume, and was mingled, from time to
time, with jets of inky blackness. The postilion said he had seen fires
and heard loud noises during the night. According to his account, the
disturbances commenced about midnight.
At last we rolled out of Catania. There were in the diligence, besides
myself, two men and a woman, Sicilians of the secondary class. The road
followed the shore, over rugged tracts of lava, the different epochs of
which could be distinctly traced in the character of their vegetation.
The last great flow (of 1679) stood piled in long ridges of terrible
sterility, barely allowing the aloe and cactus to take root in the
hollows between. The older deposits were sufficiently decomposed to
nourish the olive and vine, but even here the orchards were studded
with pyramids of the harder fragments, which are laboriously collected
by the husbandmen. In the few favored spots which have been untouched
for so many ages that a tolerable depth of soil has accumulated, the
vegetation has all the richness and brilliancy of tropical lands.
The palm, orange, and pomegranate thrive luxuriantly, and the vines
almost break under their heavy clusters. The villages are frequent and
well-built, and the hills are studded, far and near, with the villas
of rich proprietors, mostly buildings of one story, with verandas
extending their whole length. Looking up towards Etna, whose base the
road encircles, the views are gloriously rich and beautiful. On the
other hand is the blue Mediterranean and the irregular outline of the
shore, here and there sending forth promontories of lava, cooled by the
waves into the most fantastic forms.
We had not proceeded far before a new sign called my attention to
the mountain. Not only was there a perceptible jar or vibration in
the earth, but a dull, groaning sound, like the muttering of distant
thunder, began to be heard. The smoke increased in volume, and, as we
advanced farther to the eastward, and much nearer to the great cone,
I perceived that it consisted of two jets issuing from different
mouths. A broad stream of very dense white smoke still flowed over the
lip of the topmost crater and down the eastern side. As its breadth
did not vary, and the edges were distinctly defined, it was no doubt
the sulphureous vapor rising from a river of molten lava. Perhaps a
thousand yards below a much stronger column of mingled black and white
smoke gushed up in regular beats or pants from a depression in the
mountain-side, between two small extinct cones. All this part of Etna
was scarred with deep chasms, and in the bottoms of those nearest the
opening I could see the red gleam of fire. The air was perfectly still,
and as yet there was no cloud in the sky.
When we stopped to change horses at the town of Aci Reale, I first felt
the violence of the tremor and the awful sternness of the sound. The
smoke by this time seemed to be gathering on the side towards Catania,
and hung in a dark mass about half-way down the mountain. Groups of the
villagers were gathered in the streets which looked upward to Etna and
discussing the chances of an eruption. "Ah," said an old peasant, "the
Mountain knows how to make himself respected. When he talks, everybody
listens." The sound was the most awful that ever met my ears. It was a
hard, painful moan, now and then fluttering like a suppressed sob, and
had, at the same time, an expression of threatening and of agony. It
did not come from Etna alone. It had no fixed location; it pervaded
all space. It was in the air, in the depths of the sea, in the earth
under my feet, everywhere, in fact; and as it continued to increase in
violence I experienced a sensation of positive pain. The people looked
anxious and alarmed, although they said it was a good thing for all
Sicily; the last year they had been in constant fear from earthquakes,
and an eruption invariably left the earth quiet for several years. It
is true that during the past year parts of Sicily and Calabria have
been visited with severe shocks, occasioning much damage to property.
A merchant of this city [Messina] informed me yesterday that his whole
family had slept for two months in the vaults of his warehouse, fearing
that their residence might be shaken down in the night.
As we rode along from Aci Reale to Taormina, all the rattling of the
diligence over the rough road could not drown the awful noise. There
was a strong smell of sulphur in the air, and the thick pants of smoke
from the lower crater continued to increase in strength. The sun was
fierce and hot, and the edges of the sulphureous clouds shone with a
dazzling whiteness. A mounted soldier overtook us, and rode beside the
diligence, talking with the postilion. He had been up to the mountain,
and was taking his report to the governor of the district.
The heat of the day and the continued tremor of the air lulled me
into a sort of doze, when I was suddenly aroused by a cry from the
soldier and the stopping of the diligence. At the same time there was
a terrific peal of sound, followed by a jar that must have shaken the
whole island. We looked up to Etna, which was fortunately in full
view before us. An immense mass of snow-white smoke had burst up from
the crater, and was rising perpendicularly into the air, the rounded
volumes rapidly whirling one over the other, yet urged with such
impetus that they only rolled outward after they had ascended to an
immense height. It might have been one minute or five, for I was so
entranced by this wonderful spectacle that I lost the sense of time,
but it seemed instantaneous (so rapid and violent were the effects of
the explosion), when there stood in the air, based on the summit of the
mountain, a mass of smoke four or five miles high, and shaped precisely
like the Italian pine-tree.
Words cannot paint the grandeur of this mighty tree. Its trunk of
columned smoke, one side of which was silvered by the sun, while the
other, in shadow, was lurid with red flame, rose for more than a mile
before it sent out its cloudy boughs. Then parting into a thousand
streams, each of which again threw out its branching tufts of smoke,
rolling and waving in the air, it stood in intense relief against the
dark blue of the sky. Its rounded masses of foliage were dazzlingly
white on one side, while, in the shadowy depths of the branches, there
was a constant play of brown, yellow, and crimson tints, revealing
the central shaft of fire. It was like the tree celebrated in the
Scandinavian sagas, as seen by the mother of Harold Hardrada,--that
tree whose roots pierced through the earth, whose trunk was of the
color of blood, and whose branches filled the uttermost corners of the
heavens.
The outburst seemed to have relieved the mountain, for the tremors were
now less violent, though the terrible noise still droned in the air,
and earth, and sea. And now, from the base of the tree, three white
streams slowly crept into as many separate chasms, against the walls
of which played the flickering glow of the burning lava. The column of
smoke and flame was still hurled upward, and the tree, after standing
about ten minutes,--a new and awful revelation of the active forces of
nature,--gradually rose and spread, lost its form, and, slowly moved
by a light wind (the first that disturbed the dead calm of the day),
bent over to the eastward.
We resumed our course. The vast belt of smoke at last arched over the
strait, here about twenty miles wide, and sank towards the distant
Calabrian shore. As we drove under it, for some miles of our way, the
sun was totally obscured, and the sky presented the singular spectacle
of two hemispheres of clear blue, with a broad belt of darkness drawn
between them. There was a hot, sulphureous vapor in the air, and
showers of white ashes fell from time to time. We were distant about
twelve miles, in a straight line, from the crater, but the air was so
clear, even under the shadow of the smoke, that I could distinctly
trace the downward movement of the rivers of lava.
This was the eruption, at last, to which all the phenomena of the
morning had been only preparatory. For the first time in ten years the
depths of Etna had been stirred, and I thanked God for my detention at
Malta, and the singular hazard of travel which had brought me here,
to his very base, to witness a scene the impression of which I shall
never lose to my dying day. Although the eruption may continue, and the
mountain pour forth fiercer fires and broader tides of lava, I cannot
but think that the first upheaval, which lets out the long-imprisoned
forces, will not be equalled in grandeur by any later spectacle.
After passing Taormina, our road led us under the hills of the coast,
and although I occasionally caught glimpses of Etna, and saw the
reflection of fire from the lava which was filling up his savage
ravines, the smoke at last encircled his waist, and he was then shut
out of sight by the intervening mountains. We lost a bolt in the deep
valley opening to the sea, and during our stoppage I could still hear
the groans of the mountain, though farther off and less painful to the
ear. As evening came on, the beautiful hills of Calabria, with white
towns and villages on their sides, gleamed in the purple light of the
setting sun. We drove around headland after headland, till the strait
opened, and we looked over the harbor of Messina to Cape Faro and the
distant islands of the Tyrrhene Sea.
PLEBEIAN LIFE IN VENICE.
HORACE ST. JOHN.
[Venice is not all made up of palaces and patricians, not all
bronze and marble, pictures and statuary. Out of the range of all
this, unseen by the ordinary traveller, lies another and humbler
Venice, where the poor pass their straitened lives, but which has
a character and attraction of its own, worthy of being seen and
described. We give St. John's story of discovery in this realm of
what he calls "vulgar Venice."]
It may not be a discovery, but it is a fact not often noticed, that
there is an every-day Venice which is decidedly vulgar,--which means
that it is not all Rialto, Bridge of Sighs, Grand Canal, or Doge's
Palace. But, to judge from poems, pictures, and tourists, the city is
one beautiful dream, of marble and bronze, of jasper and vermilion, of
pictures and the sculptor's breathing models. The temptation is, no
doubt, seducing to pass all your time where the great columns stand,
where the bronze horses, near St. Mark's, glow with all the colors of
the sunset, and where that strangely composed young girl shows you
through the horrible labyrinths of the state prison.
Yet there is another Venice which artists rarely touch, as if all low
life were confined to the Low Countries, where they are eager enough
to sketch fish-stalls and kitchens by the light of "single candle"
Schendel. And this Venice has not a solitary element of romance or
beauty about it. Step into the "omnibus gondola"--the very thought is
enough to obliterate an epic of enthusiasm--and it will land you where
the Venetians lead their common lives, without any Byron to bewail
them. The songless gondoliers of these public boats are a miserable
set of folk. They never save anything; their fathers never saved
anything before them; but they keep up their spirits notwithstanding.
Thus, between Giacomo passing Beppo, "Good luck to you!" "Thanks!" "Be
hanged, you and your thanks!" Or, "Many patrons?" "Many." "You and your
patrons be hanged!" These affectionate greetings are universal.
But the grimy gondola has stopped, and the buying and selling quarter
has been reached. No stately ladies, or very few, here "serpentining,"
as Balzac says, whatever he may mean, along the pavement, and not too
many of the white-bodiced damsels, who look so graceful on canvas, as
if they were always clean and dark Madonnas into the bargain; because,
to tell the truth, these ladies are accustomed, in warm weather, to lay
aside those pretty bodices, and work in an attire at once more light
and more loose. They are exceedingly busy, and the scene is wonderfully
animated.
Venice, providing its dinner, has been compared with a huge ship in
port, taking in provisions. Padua and Vicenza have brought their corn
and oil; the islands have sent their indescribably superb fruit;
Friuli, Istria, Illyria, and the Turkish Archipelago contribute grain,
meat, game, conserves, and pickles; Austria, Hungary, and Dalmatia
supply wine, which is diluted, by the humbler sort of consumers, with
sea water, which the "stick girls," so called from the yokes they
carry on their shoulders, bring about. They are from Friuli, whose
snow-white summits are just visible from here,--and striking enough
they are in their bright bodices, short blue or green skirts, with red
borders, and white Calabrian hats, daintily tipped on one side, in
order that the massive gold hair ornaments or polished steel pins may
be admired. But these charming water-carriers are despised; they live
apart from the other inhabitants; and not a Venetian will ever marry
one of them. Still, they often return to their mountains, tolerably
rich, and their Titian faces are quite as proud with scorn of the
Venetians as those of Venetians are for them.
However, it is market-time, which must not be wasted upon international
antipathies. Nearly everything in Venice is sold, and nearly
everything eatable is eaten, among the inferior classes, in the open
air,--polenta, beef, mutton, fish, frying, grilling, roasting, and
perpetually passing hot into the hands of the _al fresco_ customers.
It is generally very good; but best of all is the bread made "on the
Continent" expressly for Venice, in the incomparable little district of
Piava. Armed with a "tasting order," which a few of the smallest coins
imaginable will command, you pass through the hungry throng. This is
soup, by no means bad, at two-thirds of a half-penny the basin. That is
calves'-head; these are lamb- and pork-chops, with heart and tripe, the
savor whereof is suggestive of ancient sacrifices.
Some of the people keep stalls; others shops, without doors or windows.
It appears odd to a stranger, upon entering a wine-hall, to be offered
a plateful of highly-salted mutton, a comestible which everybody
appears to be devouring. After it a service of fish, the entire flavor
of which has been absorbed in brine. Then you are ready to drink; but
the wine is salted also! There are two delicacies, however, in which
persons of every degree delight, and which induce the denizens of the
opulent quarter to bring their nobility here. The first is a small
white biscuit, made of the most exquisite flour and fresh butter, so
speckless, light, and fragile that they crumble at a rough touch, and
will not keep longer than twelve hours. Who wants to feast upon them,
then, must come to the oven, and, tenderly handling the _bianchetti_,
dip them in the wine of Cyprus, and believe in solid ambrosia. The
second rarity--uniqueness I would say, if there were such a word--is a
little fish, fried in oil, which is sold from morning till night, all
through the season. You shall see a maiden of Venice, gloved like a
Parisian, "well knotted," elegant of costume, and in air patrician, buy
two pennyworth of these dainties,--the whitebait of Italy,--smelling
of oil, fire, and the frying-pan, wrap them in paper, take them to
a cabaret, sit down, and relish them unmistakably over a flask of
Cyprus. She is never alone, however, but accompanied by an escort, who
is stamped a gentleman by that sign infallible in Venice, whether or
not it be so elsewhere,--his dress. At the same table may be seated,
possibly, the very fisherman who provided the banquet.
But what is the meaning of the phrase just used, "well knotted"? Let
her wear the richest silk ever spun in Italy, and the haughtiest
Hungarian hat, with its aigrette of a dove's wing, your Venetian lady
of blue blood is not distinguishable, except by what she has upon
her neck. And this is a gold chain, of apparently countless links,
beautifully brilliant, with that reddish tinge which has so often
been the perplexity of painters, though Titian mastered it, as he did
everything else; and falling from the throat is gathered in a coil
at the waist, where, the larger and heavier the knot, the higher the
patent of social splendor.
Though I am not concerned at present with the aristocracy of the
sea-born city, still, if lofty dames will eat little fishes in a
market-place, they cannot complain of personalities, should the remark
be made that some are dark as ever Giorgione or Carpaccio painted;
while others, to borrow the ejaculation of a rapturous wanderer from
Paris, who was not really in a rapture, and who, of course, did not
mean what he was saying, might be mistaken for the daughters of Aurora,
a contrast reminding you of Adam's two wives in the Talmud.
But madame has finished her _gouter_, and, once more taking a liberty
with my Frenchman, I remark that she "undulates always with an
appearance of perfect satisfaction." She will not be seen here again
until the same freak of appetite seizes her. For, as a rule, the lower
classes--as, indeed, they do everywhere--have their own neighborhoods
to themselves, though in Venice, naturally, owing to the peculiarity
of its position, there are subdivisions. The workmen and artificers
and traders are quite distinct from the boatmen and fishermen, upon
whom they look with contempt, and with whom they were formerly in a
state of incessant feud. The former wear red caps and belts; the belts
and caps of the latter are entirely either black or blue, the capes
having tassels of the same color, which give an Oriental character to a
Venetian crowd.
[Illustration: THE CHURCH OF ST. MARK, VENICE]
And here a curious point occurs. Your great lady prides herself upon
the knot in her gold chain; your fisherman or ferryman wears a scarf
round his neck, and the bigger the knot he can tie the prouder he
is of himself. Again, the gondoliers have their grades of rank. The
lords of the black "water broughams," as some one very much in want of
a smart saying termed them, are in the service of private families,
and hold themselves ready for orders like coachmen. The second degree
is composed--to carry on the analogy--of the canal cabmen, who live
upon chance, upon travellers, and upon Romeos and Juliets, whenever
these young persons are engaged in adventure. Lastly, there are the
gondoliers with fixed stations and fixed destinations, ferrymen who
float to and fro. But they are all very important to Venice. They are
the links of its life; for, singularly enough, it has not bridges
enough, and in this respect is utterly unlike Amsterdam, with which
it is so often and so absurdly compared. If, however, they swear at
one another, they swear at the railway in a chorus. It is rarely,
in these days, that any good luck befalls them. Now and then, to be
sure, a music and singing party, dizzy with the juice of the Dalmatian
grape, attempt to wake the echoes of Tasso among the lagoons, or two
fond fools, fresh from their nuptials in the north, glide over the
moonlit sea, regardless of expense, and look at life through the stars;
yet such Jessica evenings are few and far between, and the Venetian
gondoliers, seen by daylight, look like anything rather than Fenimore
Cooper's hero, or even a daub in a Canaletti canvas. Still, his
ancient art has not deserted him, and he can push his craft along at a
wonderful speed.
There is one peculiarity about them which the stranger does not readily
understand. They speak as though their language was as limpid as the
water on which they live, and made up almost entirely of vowels. You
wish to be set ashore at the steps of the "Luna" hotel? Certainly;
your gondolier knows the "Una" hotel perfectly well. He has another
characteristic, not quite so uncommon: he is an unblushing cheat.
His Venetian customers pay him tenpence, when you, being a stranger,
must pay him half a crown, which is an Italian method of expressing
patriotism, I suppose. Yet he is continually to be found upon his knees
before the altar, and has a patron of his own, whom he invokes upon
every necessary or unnecessary occasion.
From him I turn for a moment to another type,--the _ciceroni_,--only,
however, to mention a single example. She was a young girl who
undertook to show the visitor, fresh from the glories of the ducal
palace, through the black labyrinths of the ducal prison. She took two
wax tapers, lighted them, gave him one, keeping the other herself, and
jingled a great bunch of keys. Then the really pretty and graceful
maiden led the way down a worn, slippery, dark staircase, up another
across the Bridge of Sighs, down again, telling all the way fearful
legends of the place, and plunged deeper into the shadowy recesses at
every step.
"Are you not afraid?" she is asked.
"A Venetian girl feels no fear," is her answer.
That is a terrible interior, however, with its range upon range of
hideous cells; but worst of all is a vault, without a spark of natural
light in it, which seems as if dug in the rock. Its roof is stained
by lampblack; its walls bear traces of clamps and chains. "Here the
secret executions took place; here the son of a doge was beheaded for
daring to love a foreign lady. Only great criminals--that is, great
lords--were put to death here." I wonder whether this tender turnkey,
if she had prisoners under her charge, would be pitiless to them. There
is something painful in the contrast between such a gaol and such a
gaoler.
Leaving her, you pass across the square with its corner group of
beggars, its swarm of bare-headed children, its clusters of boys with
their hair flowing wild, and their brown necks and chests exposed, who
give you an idea that they are expecting their photographs to be taken,
but who, nevertheless, bake themselves in the sun languidly enough, and
act upon the national maxim, "_bisogna stare allegro_." There is but
a solitary influence which can rouse your true Venetian to a state of
excitement, and that is the presence of death. Rich or poor, he hates
it; rich, he rides or rows away to the farthest possible distance;
poor, he hides, if he can, until the object of his abhorrence is
removed. Somehow these vagrants of the island city never starve. They
earn, by one means or another, sufficient for the day, which signifies
sufficient for dinner,--two pennyworth of fish, ready cooked, as
already described; one pennyworth of soup, and one of bread; and it may
be suspected that women and girls do a principal part of whatever work
is done in Venice at all.
You turn into a sequestered nook, resembling one of the smaller
courts opening upon Fleet Street, and a number of damsels, without
dulcimers, are chattering or singing. These are the pearl-threaders,
for pearl-threading is a universal occupation, just as embroidery was
at one time in England. The wealthy do it for amusement, the humbler
classes for gain, of which, as I have said, a very little goes a
long way. It is a popular saying, "You may die of love or hatred in
Venice, but not of hunger;" still, you see many ragged, hollow-eyed,
and pallid wretches, who, in former days, might have been mistaken for
lottery-hunters; but those times, happily, have passed away, though
they presented a spectacle sufficiently interesting four or five years
ago....
Some one has compared Venice to a page of music, with its curious
streets, palaces, museums, canals, and bridges; resembling lines,
notes, double notes, points, crotchets, pauses; its long and straight,
its short, narrow and crooked ways; its open spaces scattered up and
down; its mounting and descending of bridges. I cannot myself see the
truth of the comparison; but so much may be readily admitted,--that
the stranger can easily lose his way, and not easily find it again, in
this maze of land and water, worse than Amsterdam. Unless, however, the
wanderer has some business on hand, the very best way to see Venice
is to be lost in it; because then, instead of the regulation round of
sights, a thousand unexpected novelties strike the eye, in the narrow,
ill-paved, and generally noiseless streets that intersect the islands,
though the hoof of a horse or rumbling of a wheel is never heard in
them.
Opening upon these dingy and tortuous thoroughfares are many of those
back entrances to the mansions of the opulent, which play so prominent
a part in romance and drama, though, as a rule, they are inhabited
by the poorest of the poor to whom an abode is a retreat, not a
home,--since their lives are habitually passed out of doors. As for
furniture, a bedstead and a huge chest or coffer, with a stool or two,
and a small but solid table, constitute the inventory,--if exception be
made of the bowls, and spoons, and bread-knives which the inmates carry
abroad when they intend to banquet beneath that sky in which Tintoretto
and Veronese exulted.
Nothing of marble or mosaic here; nothing of gold or purple; only
squalor, such as is never seen in a town of Holland; such as is
seldom met with, indeed, anywhere out of Ireland or Italy. The water,
however, mingles so intricately with the land that it is impossible
to go many steps without coming upon a bridge and a canal,--not the
canal of the artist, all blue except where richer tints are reflected
by the architecture on either side, but narrow, crooked, overhung by
ugly houses, and rather less sweet to the nostrils than becomes a
city famous for its love of violets. Hither come the itinerants of
the public places when the last loiterers have left the square of
St. Mark's and there is no longer a chance of selling fried cakes or
fish, salt mutton or salt tripe, mock pearls or gold thread to string
them upon; and here my glimpse closes upon Venice, a thousand times
described, yet rarely, I think, from this particular point of view.
ATHENS AND ITS TEMPLES.
J. L. T. PHILLIPS.
[To say anything concerning the claims of Athens to the
traveller's attention would be but a waste of words. For the
student of art and architecture it will long remain a place of
pilgrimage. We reproduce here such a student's story of a visit
to the antiquities of Athens. It is the ancient city of which he
speaks; modern Athens has far less to commend it to attention.]
The day is a happy one to the student-traveller from the Western World
in which he first looks upon the lovely plain of Athens. Rounding the
point where Hymettus thrusts his huge length into the sea, the long,
featureless mountain-wall of Southern Attica suddenly breaks down, and
gives place to a broad expanse of fertile and well-cultivated soil,
sloping gently back with ever-narrowing bounds until it reaches the
foot-hills of lofty Pentelicus. The wooded heights of Parnes enclose it
on the north, while bald Hymettus rears an impassable barrier along the
south. In front of the gently recurved shore stretch the smooth waters
of the Gulf of Salamis, while beyond rises range upon range of lofty
mountain-peaks with strikingly varied outline, terminating on the one
hand in the towering cone of Egina, and on the other in the pyramidal,
fir-clad summit of Cithæron.
Upon the plain, at the distance of three or four miles from the sea,
are several small rocky hills of picturesque appearance, isolated and
seemingly independent, but really parts of a low range parallel to
Hymettus. Upon one of the most considerable of these, whose precipitous
sides make it a natural fortress, stood the Acropolis, and upon the
group of lesser heights around and in the valleys between clustered the
dwellings of ancient Athens.
It was a fitting site for the capital of a people keenly sensitive to
beauty, and destined to become the leaders of the world in matters of
taste, especially in the important department of the Fine Arts. Nowhere
are there more charming contrasts of mountain, sea, and plain,--nowhere
a more perfect harmony of picturesque effect. The sea is not a dreary
waste of waters without bounds, but a smiling gulf mirroring its
mountain-walls and winding about embosomed isles, yet ever broadening
as it recedes, and suggesting the mighty flood beyond from which it
springs. The plain is not an illimitable expanse over which the weary
eye ranges in vain in quest of some resting-place, but is so small
as to be embraced in its whole contour in a single view, while its
separate features--the broad, dense belt of olives which marks the
bed of its principal stream, the ancient Cephisus, the vineyards, the
grain-fields, and the sunny hill-side pastures--are made to produce
their full impression. The mountains are not near enough to be
obtrusive, much less oppressive; neither are they so distant as to be
indistinct or to seem insignificant. Seen through the clear air, their
naked summits are so sharply defined and so individual in appearance as
to seem almost like sculptured forms chiselled out of the hard rock....
So the student-pilgrim from the Western World with native ardor strains
his sight to catch the first glimpse of the Athenian plain and city. He
is fresh from his studies, and familiar with what books teach of the
geography of Greece and the topography of Athens. He needs not to be
informed which mountain-range is Parnes, and which Pentelicus,--which
island is Salamis, and which Egina. Yet much of what he sees is a
revelation to him. The mountains are higher, more varied, and more
beautiful than he had supposed, Lycabettus and the Acropolis more
imposing, Pentelicus farther away, and the plain larger, the gulf
narrower, and Egina nearer and more mountainous, than he had fancied.
He is astonished at the smallness of the harbor at Peiræus, having
insensibly formed his conception of its size from the notices of the
mighty fleets which sailed from it in the palmy days when Athens was
mistress of the seas. He is not prepared to see the southern shore
of Salamis so near to the Peiræus, though it explains the close
connection between that island and Athens, and throws some light upon
the great naval defeat of the Persians. In short, while every object
is recognized as it presents itself, yet a more correct conception is
formed of its relative position and aspect from a single glance of the
eye than had been acquired from books during years of study.
Arrived at the city, his experience is the same. He needs no guide to
conduct him to its antiquities, nor cicerone to explain in bad French
or worse English their names and history. Still, unexpected appearances
present themselves not unfrequently. Hastening towards the Acropolis,
he will first inspect the remains of the great theatre of Dionysus,
so familiar to him as the place where, in the presence of all the
people and many strangers, were acted the plays of his favorite poets,
Æschylus and Sophocles, and where they won many prizes. Hurrying over
the eastern brow of the hill, he comes suddenly upon the spot, enters
at the summit, as many an Athenian did in the olden time, and is
smitten with amazement at the first glance, and led to question whether
this be indeed the site of the ancient theatre. He finds, it is true,
the topmost seats cut in the solid rock, row above row, stripped now
of their marble lining and weather-worn, but yet the genuine ancient
seats of the upper tier. These he expected to find. But whence are
those fresh seats which fill the lower part of the hollow, arranged as
neatly as if intended for immediate use? and whence the massive stage
beyond? He bethinks himself that he has heard of recent excavations
under the patronage of the government, and closer inspection shows that
these are actually the lower seats of the theatre in the time of the
emperor Hadrian, whose favorite residence was Athens, and who did so
much to embellish the city. The front seats consist of massive stone
chairs, each inscribed with the name of its occupant, generally the
priestess of some one of the numerous gods worshipped by that people
so given to idolatry. In the centre of the second row is an elevated
throne inscribed with the name of Hadrian. The stage is seen to be the
ancient Greek stage enlarged to the Roman size to suit the demands of a
later style of theatrical representation.
After looking in vain for the seat occupied by the priestess of the
Unknown God, our traveller passes on and enters with a beating heart
the charmed precincts of the Acropolis itself. The Propylæa, which he
has been accustomed to regard too exclusively as a mere entrance-gate
to the glories beyond, impresses him with its size and grandeur, and
the little temple of Victory by its side with its elegance. But the
steepness of the ascent perplexes him. It seems impracticable for
horses, yet he knows by unexceptionable testimony that the Athenian
youth prided themselves upon driving their matched steeds in the
great Panathenaic procession which once every four years wound up
the hill, bearing the sacred peplus to the temple of the goddess. A
closer examination reveals the transverse creases of the pavement
designed to give a footing to the beasts, as well as the marks of the
chariot-wheels. Nevertheless, the ascent (and much more the descent)
must have been a perilous undertaking, unless the teams were better
broken than the various accounts of chariot-races furnished by the
poets would indicate.
Entering beneath the great gate, a little distance forward to the left
may readily be found the site of the colossal bronze statue of the
warrior-goddess in complete armor, formed by Phidias out of the spoils
taken at Marathon. The square base, partly sunk in the uneven rock,
is as perfect as if just put in readiness to receive the pedestal of
that famous work. A road bending to the right and slightly hollowed out
of the rock leads to the Parthenon. The outer platform which sustains
this celebrated temple is partly cut from the rock of the hill and
partly built up of common limestone. The inner one of three courses,
as well as the whole superstructure, is formed of Pentelic marble of a
compact crystalline structure and of dazzling whiteness. Long exposure
has not availed to destroy its lustre, but only to soften its tone.
The visitor, planting himself at the western front, is in a position
to gain some adequate idea of the perfection of the noble building.
The interior and central parts suffered the principal injury from the
explosion of the Turkish powder magazine in 1687. The western front
remains nearly entire. It has been despoiled, indeed, of its movable
ornaments. The statues which filled the pediment are gone, with
the exception of a fragment or two. The sculptured slabs have been
removed from the spaces between the triglyphs, and the gilded shields
which hung beneath have been taken down. Of the magnificent frieze,
representing the procession of the great quadrennial festival, only the
portion surrounding the western vestibule is still in place. Still, as
these were strictly decorations, and wholly subordinate to the organic
parts of the structure, their presence, while it would doubtless
greatly enhance the effect of the whole, is not felt to be essential
to its completeness. The whole Doric columns still bear the massive
entablature sheltered by the covering roof. The simple greatness of the
conception, the just proportion of the several parts, together with the
elaborate finishing of the whole work, invest it with a charm such as
the works of man seldom possess,--the pure and lasting pleasure which
flows from apparent perfection.
Entering the principal apartment of the building, traces are seen of
the stucco and pictures with which the walls were covered when it was
fitted up as a Christian church in the Byzantine period. Near the
centre of the marble pavement is a rectangular space laid with dark
stone from the Peiræus or from Eleusis. It marks the probable site of
the colossal precious statue of the goddess in gold and ivory,--one of
the most celebrated works of Phidias. The smaller apartment beyond,
accessible only from the opposite front of the temple, was used by the
state as a place of deposit and safe-keeping for bullion and other
valuables in the care of the state treasurer.
Having examined the great temple, and tested the curvature of its
seemingly horizontal lines by sighting along the unencumbered platform,
and having stopped at several points of the grand portico to admire
the fine views of the city and surrounding country, the traveller
picks his way northward, across a thick layer of fragments of columns,
statues, and blocks of marble, towards the low-placed, irregular, but
elegant Erechtheum, the temple of the most ancient worship and statue
of the patron-goddess of the city. This building sits close by the
northern as the Parthenon does by the southern wall of the enclosure.
It has suffered equally with the other from the ravages of time, and
its ruins, though less grand, are more beautiful. Most of the graceful
Ionic columns are still standing, but large portions of the roof and
entablature have fallen. Fragments of decorated cornice strew the
ground, some of them of considerable length, and afford a near view of
that delicate ornamentation and exquisite finish so rare outside the
limits of Greece.
[Illustration: ACROPOLIS AT ATHENS, GREECE]
The elevated porch of the Caryatides, lately restored by the
substitution of a new figure in place of the missing statue now in
the British Museum, attracts attention as a unique specimen of Greek
art, and also as showing how far a skilful treatment will overcome the
inherent difficulties of a subject. The row of fair maidens looking out
towards the Parthenon do not seem much oppressed by the burden which
rests upon them, while their graceful forms lend a pleasing variety to
the scene. Passing out by the northern wing of the Propylæa, a survey
is had of the numerous fragments of sculpture discovered among the
ruins upon the hill, and temporarily placed in the ancient Pinacotheca.
The eye rests upon sweet infant faces and upon rugged manly ones.
Sometimes a single feature only remains, which, touched by the finger
of genius, awakens admiration. A naked arm severed from the trunk, of
feminine cast, but with muscles tightly strained and hand clinched as
in agony, will arrest attention and dwell in the memory.
Northwest of the Acropolis, across a narrow chasm, lies the low, rocky
height of the Areopagus, accessible at the southeast angle by a narrow
flight of sixteen rudely-cut steps, which lead to a small rectangular
excavation on the summit, which faces the Acropolis, and is surrounded
upon three sides by a double tier of benches hewn out of the rock. Here
undoubtedly the most venerable court of justice at Athens had its seat
and tried its cases in the open air. Here too, without doubt, stood the
great apostle when, with bold spirit and weighty words, he declared
unto the men of Athens that God of whom they confessed their ignorance;
who was not to be represented by gold or silver or stone graven by art
and man's device; who dwelt not in temples made with hands, and needed
not to be worshipped with men's hands. In no other place can one feel
so sure that he comes upon the very footsteps of the apostle, and on no
other spot can one better appreciate his high gifts as an orator or the
noble devotion of his whole soul to the work of the Master. How poor in
comparison with his life-work appear the performances of the greatest
of the Athenian thinkers or doers!
A little more than a quarter of a mile west of the Acropolis is another
rocky hill,--the Pnyx,--celebrated as the place where the assembly
of all the citizens met to transact the business of the state. A
large semicircular area was formed, partly by excavation, partly
by building up from beneath, the bounds of which can be distinctly
traced. Considerable remains of the terrace-wall at the foot of the
slope exist,--huge stones twelve or fourteen feet in length by eight
or ten in breadth. The chord of the semicircle is near the top of the
hill, formed by the perpendicular face of the excavated rock, and is
about four hundred feet in length by twenty in depth. Projecting from
it at the centre, and hewn out of the same rock, is the bema or stone
platform from which the great orators from the time of Themistocles and
Aristides, and perhaps of Solon, down to the age of Demosthenes and
the Attic Ten, addressed the mass of their fellow-citizens. It is a
massive cubic block, with a linear edge of eleven feet, standing upon
a graduated base of nearly equal height, and is mounted on either side
by a flight of nine stone steps. From its connection with the most
celebrated efforts of some of the greatest orators our race has yet
seen, it is one of the most interesting relics in the world, and its
solid structure will cause it to endure as long as the world itself
shall stand, unless, as there is some reason to apprehend will be
the case, it is knocked to pieces and carried off in the carpet-bags
of travellers. No traces of the Agora, which occupied the shallow
valley between the Pnyx and the Acropolis, remain. It was the heart of
the city, and was adorned with numerous public buildings, porticoes,
temples, and statues. It was often thronged with citizens gathered for
purposes of trade, discussion, or to hear and tell some new thing.
Half a mile or more to the southeast, on the banks of the Ilissus,
stood a magnificent structure dedicated to Olympian Zeus,--one of the
four largest temples of Greece, ranking with that of Demeter at Eleusis
and that of Diana at Ephesus. Its foundations remain, and sixteen of
the huge Corinthian columns belonging to its majestic triple colonnade.
One of these is fallen. Breaking up into the numerous disks of which
it was composed,--six and a half feet in diameter by two or more in
thickness,--and stretching out to a length of over sixty feet, it gives
an impressive conception of the size of these columns, said to be the
largest standing in Europe. The level area of the temple is now used
as a training-ground for soldiers. Close by, and almost in the bed
of the stream, which is dry the larger part of the year, issues from
beneath a ledge of rock the copious fountain of sweet waters known to
the ancients as Callirrhoe. It furnished the only good drinking-water
of the city, and was used in all the sacrifices to the gods. A little
way above, on the opposite bank of the Ilissus, is the site of the
Panathenaic stadium, whose shape is perfectly preserved in the smooth
grass-grown hollow with semicircular extremity which here lies at right
angles to the stream, between parallel ridges partly artificial.
Northward from the Acropolis, on a slight elevation, is the
best-preserved and one of the most ancient structures of Athens,--the
temple of Theseus, built under the administration of Cimon by the
generation preceding Pericles and the Parthenon. It is of the Doric
order, and shaped like the Parthenon, but considerably inferior to
it in size as well as in execution. It has been roofed with wood in
modern times, and was long used as a church, but is now a place of
deposit for the numerous statues and sculptured stones of various
kinds--mostly sepulchral monuments--which have been recently discovered
in and about the city. They are for the most part unimportant as
works of art, though many are interesting from their antiquity or
historic associations. Among these is the stone which once crowned the
burial-mound on the plain of Marathon. It bears a single figure, said
to represent the messenger who brought the tidings of victory to his
countrymen.
Near the Theseium was the double gate (Dipylum) in the ancient wall of
the city whence issued the Sacred Way leading to Eleusis, and bordered,
like the Appian Way at Rome, with tombs, many of them cenotaphs of
persons who died in the public service and were deemed worthy of a
monument in the public burying-ground. Within a few years an excavation
has been made through an artificial mound of ashes, pottery, and other
refuse emptied out of the city, and a section of a few rods of this
celebrated road has been laid bare. The sepulchral monuments are ranged
on one side rather thickly, and crowd somewhat closely upon the narrow
pavement. They are, for the most part, simple, thick slabs of white
marble, with a triangular or pediment-shaped top, beneath which is
sculptured in low relief the closing scene of the person commemorated,
followed by a short inscription. The work is done in an artistic style
worthy of the publicity its location gave it. On one of these slabs you
recognize the familiar full-length figure of Demosthenes, standing with
two companions and clasping in a parting grasp the hand of a woman, who
is reclining upon her death-bed. The inscription is, _Collyrion, wife
of Agathon_. On another stone of larger size is a more imposing piece
of sculpture. A horseman fully armed is thrusting his spear into the
body of his fallen foe,--a hoplite. The inscription relates that the
unhappy foot-soldier fell at Corinth _by reason of those five words of
his!_--a record intelligible enough, doubtless, to his contemporaries,
but sufficiently obscure and provocative of curiosity to later
generations.
There are other noted structures at Athens, such as the Choragic
Monument of Lysicrates--the highest type of the Corinthian order of
architecture, as the Erechtheum is of the Ionic and the Parthenon of
the Doric,--but want of space forbids any further description.
THE ISLES OF GREECE.
HENRY M. FIELD.
[History and poetry alike celebrate the beauty of those charming
isles, which fill with their sunny grace and rich fertility
the seas of Greece, and on which many of the poets of that
song-girdled land were born. No work on general travels can be
complete without some description of these celebrated islands,
and we select from Dr. H. M. Field's "The Greek Islands" an
appreciative account of their aspect to the modern traveller.]
In the old picture-books there used to be a picture of the Colossus of
Rhodes, which stood bestriding an arm of the sea with ships in full
sail passing between his mighty legs. Though it was a picture for
children, yet to some who are not children the chief association with
the island of Rhodes is the place where the Colossus stood; and there
are travellers still who come on deck, and look round inquiringly for
some fragment of a ruin which should mark the site of that majestic
figure. But not a vestige remains. Though "His Highness" lifted his
head so proudly, as if he disdained the earth on which he stood, he did
not hold it up very long. Pride must have a fall. He did not live even
to the allotted age of man. He had been standing but fifty-six when an
earthquake shook him down, and for nearly a thousand years he lay like
Dagon, prone upon the ground, with all his glory buried in the dust,
his _disjecta membra_ being trodden underfoot by the barbarous Turk,
till at last they were sold to a Jew(!), who broke them up as men break
up the hull of an old ship, and, packing them on the backs of nine
hundred camels, carried them away. Such was the ignominious end of one
of the Seven Wonders of the World.
But though the Colossus did not stand long, the mere fact of its
standing at all--that a figure over a hundred feet high, wrought in
bronze, like the column of Trajan at Rome, should have been reared
nearly three hundred years before Christ--is a proof of the degree of
civilization attained at that early period. It was a statue to the sun,
and stood in front of the city, where its head would catch the first
rays of the sunlight as it came over the hills of Asia Minor, which lay
on the eastern horizon.
Rhodes is second to Cyprus (if it be second) in antiquity, and its
civilization may be traced to the same sources. Its position at the
mouth of the Ægean Sea, whose waters here mingle with those of the
Mediterranean, invited immigration both from Asia and Africa. The
Phoenicians, sailing westward, landed on its shores; while from farther
south men of another race brought to it the wisdom of the Egyptians.
At the same time, as one of the islands of the Greek Archipelago, it
shared in the intellectual influences of Greece. It stood "where two
seas met," or two civilizations. Like the Channel Islands, which look
upon two kingdoms, it was joined by a chain of islands to Greece,
while it was in full sight of Asia, to which it was nearer than the
white chalk cliffs of Dover to the shores of France. Probably the
island was settled as early as the siege of Troy, though the city was
not founded until about four hundred years before Christ.
It was in the century following that Alexander the Great conquered the
world, and Rhodes bowed to a power which it could not resist, and was
held in awe by the terror of his name, even while he was pursuing his
conquests in the heart of Asia. But as soon as he breathed his last
the spell was broken. The people rose against the Macedonian garrison,
and drove them out, and with recovered liberty came new and increased
prosperity, and the city rose to its greatest splendor. Then was reared
the mighty Colossus; and then sculptors who rivalled those of Greece
filled the city with the products of their art. It was said to contain
not less than three thousand statues. The famous group of the Farnese
Bull--the largest antique sculpture which has been preserved to us, and
which, having once adorned the baths of Caracalla at Rome, is now the
pride of the museum at Naples--was the work of two sculptors of Rhodes.
Such noble statues, adorning the public places of the city, showed that
in the cultivation of art Rhodes, if not the equal, was at least a
worthy imitator, of Athens itself.
All this has passed away. But though despoiled of its treasures; though
the conquerors, who
"Brought many captives home to Rome,"
brought the sculptures of Rhodes with those of Greece; yet the island
itself remains, fair as when it first rose from the bosom of the Ægean
Sea. Never was it fairer than this morning, as the sunrise, flashing
across the blue waters, lighted up the gray old town, with its walls
and towers, which stand out from a background of hills. The island
rises abruptly from the sea. Beyond the walls of the town houses are
sprinkled over the hill-sides, that are covered with olive-groves,
which at this season are fresh and green. Behind these lower hills are
others that are higher, whose steep sides and rocky crests reminded our
good Dr. Wylie of Arthur's Seat and Salisbury Crags.
The chief remains of historic interest are those connected with the
Crusaders, when the island was ruled by the Knights of St. John, who
took it, however, not in the advance to the Holy Land, but in the
retreat. When they were driven out of Syria by Saladin, they fell back
upon Rhodes, which they conquered from the Saracens, and held for over
two hundred years,--from 1309 to 1522,--when Solyman the Magnificent
came against it with two hundred thousand men. Then followed a siege
in which men took courage from despair. The city had a garrison of but
six thousand men; yet for six months, in spite of repeated assaults,
it defied the besiegers,--a courage which compelled the respect of
the conqueror, who after the city fell permitted its brave defenders
to retire in safety. A few years later the Emperor Charles V. gave
them the island of Malta, which they fortified till it was one of the
strongest places in the world, and held it till the close of the last
century.
No doubt to us, in this practical and prosaic age, there is something
fantastic and absurd in the institution of the Knights of St. John,
an order in which the profession of arms was strongly united with the
profession of religion. But was it so very absurd, in an age full of
oppression and cruelty, that manly strength and courage should be
devoted to the protection of women against brutal tyranny? For such
was the purpose of the institution of chivalry, which figures so much
in the Middle Ages, where it often supplied the place of a civilized
government. Or when the Moslem conquered Western Asia and threatened
Europe, was it strange that men devoted to arms should band together
for the defence of their faith? This order of St. John was not made up
of carpet knights. No braver men ever fought on bloody fields. Now,
indeed, their wars and battles and sieges are over.
"The good Knights are dust,
Their armor rust,
Their souls are with the saints, we trust."
Though the order still exists, it is not for purposes of war, but of
peace. Its only war is against human misery. This, indeed, was always
a part of its design. There are few things in history more touching
than the solemn vow of those armed knights, which they took "as the
servants of the poor and of Christ." How well that vow has been kept to
this day, the traveller may see who visits the Hospital of the Knights
of St. John in Beirut. True, the order remains, as it has always been,
a very aristocratic one, composed largely of nobles and princes. Its
Grand Master is the Emperor of Germany. But when kings and princes
care for the poor and the sick, when they found hospitals and seek
to relieve human suffering, they deserve the honor and gratitude of
mankind.
When these gallant Knights of St. John took their sad farewell of
Rhodes, they left behind them traces of their occupation which still
remain in the long sea-wall which guards the city's front, to keep out
an enemy as it keeps out the dashing of the waves. This castellated
wall is a very picturesque object, as it not only lies along the sea,
but turns at either end, winding up the sides of the hill till it has
compassed the city round with its lines of defence, which did such
valiant service in the memorable siege. But apart from its look of a
fortified place, there is nothing warlike in the city of Rhodes. I did
not see a single sentinel keeping guard on the walls, nor see a gun
mounted, nor hear a drum beat. There was nothing to break the silence
of the sleepy old town; and over the wall, which once swarmed with
Crusaders, hurling defiance at the besieging Moslems, there are no more
formidable demonstrations than those of the windmills, which brandish
their long arms against invisible foes.
The "port," if such it may be called, is a diminutive little loch of
water, shut in by a projecting mole, or ledge of rocks, at either end,
on which stands a round tower, a picturesque object in the landscape,
but not very formidable in case of war. One broadside from a man-of-war
would make it a heap of ruins. Indeed, when a fort is converted into a
light-house, it seems to abdicate its martial design, and to be devoted
to the purposes of peace,--all that it is good for now.
It was tantalizing to lie but two or three hundred yards off, and not
be able to land; but there was a high sea, the waves were dashing on
the rocks, tossing their white crests in the air, and if we had gone on
shore it might be difficult to get off in time for the steamer. So we
lay broadside to the town for two or three hours, looking wistfully at
the gates we could not enter.
But though we did not go on shore, we had visitors from the shore. The
Greek boatmen are at home in any sea, and never miss an opportunity
to visit a ship. They came on board to sell little boxes of olive-and
lemon-wood, and other small wares, which the passengers purchased as
souvenirs of Rhodes.
Apart from these petty traffickers, there was a grand old Turk, who
sat gloomily in conversation with one who knew him. He was a pasha who
had been high in power in Constantinople, but for some cause lost the
favor of the Sultan, and was banished to Rhodes. Whether he was guilty
of any crime we knew not, nor did it matter whether he was guilty or
innocent. Perhaps he had been too inflexibly honest, and so encountered
the ill-favor of the Grand Vizier. In either case he had to suffer. The
Turkish rule knows neither justice nor mercy. However, his fate was
lighter than that of many. He was not kept a prisoner, shut up in a
fortress; there was no chain upon his hand; and yet we could not look
upon that sad face without feeling how bitter was the bread of exile.
Leaving the city behind us, we sail along the shores of the island,
and are charmed with their picturesque beauty. The long line of
elevated coast sweeps in and out, projecting and receding, with bays
stretching inland, at the end of which one catches glimpses of soft
valleys sloping upward to the hills, behind and above which is the
mountain-ridge which forms the backbone of the island. These valleys
once supported a large population; but now, under the destructive
Turkish rule, it has dwindled till there are not forty thousand left.
A few poor villages cling to the hill-sides whose inhabitants live
on their small plantations of olives, or derive a scanty living from
the sea, from which they gather sponges and coral. But with a better
government and increased facilities for agriculture and commerce,
there is no reason why Rhodes may not recover something of its former
prosperity. Its climate is still the finest in the Mediterranean; the
sun shines brightly as ever; and the valleys, spite of all the waste
and neglect, still retain their natural fertility. With proper culture,
they would yield rich harvests, besides oranges and lemons and citrons,
with the figs and raisins, which are now exported so largely from
Smyrna; while the olive-trees, which grow abundantly, would pour forth
"rivers of oil."
We are now in the heart of the Greek Archipelago, which has been
famed for its beauty from the days of Homer. As we stood in a group
on deck, entranced with the swiftly-changing scene, it was natural
that we should compare it with our observation in other parts of the
world. A couple of our fellow-passengers, who were on their return
from the Far East, said that it reminded them of the Inland Sea of
Japan. My thoughts turned to the Malayan Archipelago, where the islands
hang rich with tropical vegetation, and the seas flash at night with
phosphorescent splendor. But with all that is attractive in those
groups of islands, I can hardly believe anything to be equal to this
Greek Archipelago. It seems to me that no waters can be so beautiful
as those of the Ægean Sea, although there are waters of wonderful
clearness in our Western Hemisphere, notably those round the Bahamas
and the Bermudas.
And then the Greek islands, so many in number, are of all sizes, large
and small, from the rocky islet, fit only for a sea-gull's nest, to an
island containing hundreds of square miles. All have the same general
character, rising directly from the sea. The coasts are often so rocky
that it seems as if a goat could hardly live upon them, and yet midway
between the cliffs are little hamlets and patches of cultivation. The
outlines of the higher peaks of the islands, broken and jagged, remind
us, as they stand up against the sky, of Capri and Ischia in the Bay
of Naples, or those African mountains which we saw from the Peninsula
of Sinai, on the other side of the Red Sea. Putting all these things
together, whatever may be said of the Malayan Archipelago, or of the
Inland Sea of Japan, I give my voice for the Greek Archipelago as the
most wonderful combination of land and sea, where the most picturesque
of islands rise out of the fairest of waters.
[Illustration: CORINTH, GREECE]
We did not touch at Patmos. There is nothing to invite a steamer to
turn aside from its course to visit it, except it were to gratify the
curiosity of travellers. It has no commerce of any kind. Indeed, its
few inhabitants have at certain seasons of the year to cross to other
islands to procure the means of subsistence. So barren is it that it
was chosen by the Roman emperors as a place of banishment, on which
prisoners could be confined as to a rock in the ocean. Yet this poor
little island has gathered about it a mighty tradition, for it was
the place of exile of the last of the Apostles. "I, John, was in the
isle that is called Patmos, for the Word of God, and for the testimony
of Jesus Christ." Here he wrote the Book of Revelation, and here was
erected in the twelfth century a monastery bearing his name. We thought
we could just discern the outline of the island and the convent rising
above it on the western horizon.
The next morning at daylight we were off Scio, that island of sad
and bloody memories. Sixty years ago it was the scene of an event
which made the ears of the civilized world to tingle. When the Greek
Revolution broke out in 1822 it is said that the people here were
reluctant to take part in it, but were stirred up by emissaries from
Samos; and, perhaps because Scio had been one of the most prosperous of
the Greek islands, it was to be the special mark of Turkish vengeance.
A fleet anchored off the town, and without a warning of its terrible
fate, soldiers were let loose upon the inhabitants. No age or sex was
spared. Not only were men cut down in their homes, but their wives and
children with them. Twenty-two thousand were put to the sword, and
forty-seven thousand were sold into slavery. But this massacre was not
to go unavenged. The Greeks had no ships of war, but they converted old
hulks into fire-ships, in which they sailed with the utmost daring into
the centre of the Turkish fleet, and setting them on fire, escaped in
their boats. The flag-ship was burnt, and the admiral and crew perished
in the flames,--a terrible retribution for the massacre of Scio. Since
Greek independence was secured, it has partly recovered; but several
years since the town was nearly destroyed by an earthquake, so that it
seems as if the island were doomed to destruction.
But all over this wreck and ruin shines the brightness of a name that
will ever give to it a place in history. It is the reputed birthplace
of Homer, and as such cannot be passed by without notice by the
traveller.
[From Scio, Dr. Field sailed for Asia Minor, and spent some time
among its historic cities. On his return he passed the island
of Lesbos, which has long been famous as the home of Sappho and
others of the lyric poets of Greece.]
As the afternoon drew on, we were approaching a large island,--the
ancient Lesbos, now Mitylene,--and as we were on its eastern side,
and the sun was sinking in the west, we were coming under its shadow,
and this softer light enabled us to see it better than we could have
done in the glare of noonday. The tops of the mountains stood out
with wonderful clearness against the sky, while the outline of the
coast winding in and out with its headlands and its bays, and the soft
green valleys rising from the shore and running upward to the slopes
of the hills, gave it an infinite variety and beauty. Clinging to the
hill-sides were pretty villages, with groves of oak cultivated for the
acorns they yield, which are used for tanning purposes and exported
to Europe, while the pine-forests on the mountains furnish timber and
pitch.
The valleys are very fertile, and if they are not "covered over with
corn," they have large plantations of fig and other fruit-trees; while
the olive-orchards, if they do not pour out "rivers of oil," yet yield
it in such abundance as makes it the chief industry of the island,
and furnishes a source of wealth to the thrifty inhabitants. All these
varieties of vegetation were now in their perfect bloom, as it was the
middle of May, when in the East the earth rejoices in the freshness
of spring-time. As we sailed along these shores in the twilight, I
wondered if a fairer Arcadia ever rose out of the waters of this
troubled world.
The island of Lesbos has an important place in Greek history, even at
its most remote period. As early as the siege of Troy it had a large
population, and continued to flourish for centuries.
When Athens had its Academy, Lesbos had its schools of philosophy,
which attracted the wise men of Greece. It was even more famous as the
birthplace of a school of lyric poets,--
"Where burning Sappho lived and sung,"
and others whose stirring odes live in the collections of Greek poetry.
When the Romans became masters of the East they were attracted by
the beauty of the Greek islands. Their fondness for a mild-tempered
climate, such as is found in greatest perfection in an island lying in
summer seas, where the temperature of the sea softens alike the heat
of summer and the cold of winter,--which led them to choose Ischia
and Capri, at the mouth of the Bay of Naples, as favorite abodes of
Imperial luxury,--led them, when sent to distant provinces, to choose
Lesbos, which Tacitus describes in a line as "_insula nobilis et
amoena_" [a noble and pleasant island], as one of those semi-royal
retreats in which a Roman governor might pass his splendid exile, and
almost forget his absence from the imperial city....
On the whole, Mitylene seems to me the most important, as well as the
most beautiful, island of the Archipelago, and this very beauty and
fertility but increase the regret that it should be under the rule of
Turkey when it ought to belong to Greece. It is nearer to Athens than
to Constantinople. It lies midway between the shores of Asia Minor and
the mainland of Greece, and its population is almost wholly Greek. It
is Greek in religion. One coming into Mitylene sees neither mosque nor
minaret. Thus it is Greek by its position, its history, and its people.
If ever there comes a time of "the restitution of all things," the
island will be taken from Turkey and restored to its natural place as
part of the young kingdom of Greece.
THE SERAGLIO ON THE GOLDEN HORN.
EDWARD DANIEL CLARKE.
[Dr. Clarke, in his animated descriptions of the countries of
Eastern Europe, gives picturesque accounts of what is to be seen
in Constantinople and other portions of the Sultan's domain.
Perhaps the most interesting of these is his description of a
stolen visit to the seraglio, a tabooed place only to be inspected
at imminent risk of life. Our traveller managed to see it quite
thoroughly, as will be seen from his story of the dangerous
enterprise.]
I eagerly sought an opportunity to examine the interior of the
seraglio; and, difficult as the undertaking may seem, soon found the
means of its accomplishment. The harmony existing between England and
the Porte at that critical juncture when Egypt was to be restored
to the Turks by the valor of our troops, greatly facilitated the
enterprise. I felt convinced that within the walls of the seraglio many
interesting antiquities were concealed from observation; and I was not
disappointed.
The first place to which my observations were directed was the
imperial armory; and here, to my great gratification, I beheld the
weapons, shields, and military engines of the Greek emperors, exactly
corresponding with those represented on the medals and bas-reliefs of
the ancients, suspended as trophies of the capture of the city by the
Turks....
Soon after this some pages, belonging to the seraglio, brought
from the Sultan's apartments the fragments of a magnificent vase
of jasper-agate, which, it was said, his highness had dashed to
pieces in a moment of anger. As these fragments were cast away, and
disregarded, they came at last into the hands of a poor lapidary, who
earned a scanty livelihood by cutting and polishing stones for the
signet-rings of the Turks. In one of my mineralogical excursions, the
merchants of the _bez esten_, where jewels are sold, directed me to the
laboratory of this man, to obtain the precious stones of the country
in their natural state. He was then employed upon the fragments of
this vase, and very gladly spared the labor which he would otherwise
have bestowed by consigning, for a small sum, the whole of them to
me. It is hardly possible to conceive a more extraordinary proof of
the genius and industry of Grecian artists than was presented by
this vase. Its fragments are still in my possession; and have been
reserved for annual exhibition, during a course of public lectures in
the University of Cambridge. When it is stated that the treasury of
Mithridates contained four thousand specimens of similar manufacture,
all of which came into the hands of the Romans, and that the Turks are
unable to execute anything of the same nature, it is highly probable
this curious relique originally constituted one of the number, which,
after passing into the possession of the Turks at the conquest of the
city, had continued to adorn the palace of their sovereigns. Such a
conjecture is strengthened by the mythological figure, represented in
exquisite sculpture, on the vase itself. It consists of an entire mass
of green jasper-agate, beautifully variegated with veins and spots of
a vermilion color; so that part of it exhibits the ribbon-jasper and
part the bloodstone. The handle is formed to represent the head of
a griffin (carved in all the perfection of the finest cameo), whose
extended wings and claws cover the exterior surface. The difficulty of
working a silicious concretion of such extraordinary hardness needs not
to be specified; it may be presumed that the entire life of the ancient
lapidary, by whom it was wrought, could have been scarcely adequate to
such a performance; nor do we at all know in what manner the work was
effected. Yet there are parts of it in which the sides of the vase are
as thin as the finest porcelain.
A second visit, which I made to the interior of the seraglio, was not
attended by any very interesting discovery; but as it enabled me to
describe with minuteness scenes hitherto impervious to European eyes,
the reader may be gratified by the observations made within those
walls. Every one is curious to know what exists within recesses which
have been long closed against the intrusion of Christians. In vain does
the eye, roaming from the towers of Galata, Pera, and Constantinople,
attempt to penetrate the thick gloom of cypresses and domes which
distinguishes the most beautiful part of Constantinople. Imagination
magnifies things unknown; and when, in addition to the curiosity
always excited by mystery, the reflection is suggested that ancient
Byzantium occupied the site of the Sultan's palace, a thirst of inquiry
is proportionably augmented. I promise to conduct my readers not only
within the retirement of the seraglio, but into the charem itself, and
the most secluded haunts of the Turkish sovereign. Would only I could
also promise a degree of satisfaction, in this respect, adequate to
their desire of information.
It so happened that the gardener of the Grand Seignior, during our
residence in Constantinople, was a German. This person used to mix
with the society in Pera, and often joined in the evening parties
given by the different foreign ministers. In this manner we became
acquainted with him, and were invited to his apartments within the
walls of the seraglio, close to the gates of the Sultan's garden.
We were accompanied during our first visit by his intimate friend,
the secretary and chaplain of the Swedish mission, who, but a short
time before, had succeeded in obtaining a sight of the four principal
Sultanas and the Sultan mother, in consequence of his frequent visits
to the gardener. They were sitting together one morning, when the
cries of the black eunuchs, opening the door of the charem, which
communicated with the seraglio gardens, announced that these ladies
were going to take the air. In order to do this it was necessary to
pass the gates adjoining the gardener's lodge, where an _arabat_ was
stationed to receive them, in which it was usual for them to drive
round the walks of the seraglio, within the walls of the palace.
Upon these occasions the black eunuchs examine every part of the
garden, and run before the women, calling out to all persons to avoid
approaching or beholding them, under pain of death. The gardener and
his friend the Swede instantly closed all the shutters and locked the
doors. The black eunuchs arriving soon after, and finding the lodge
shut, supposed the gardener to be absent. Presently followed the Sultan
mother, with the four principal Sultanas, who were in high glee,
romping and laughing with each other. A small scullery window of the
gardener's lodge looked directly towards the gate through which these
ladies were to pass, and was separated from it only by a few yards.
Here, through two small gimlet-holes, bored for that purpose, they
beheld very distinctly the features of the women, whom they described
as possessing extraordinary beauty. Three of the four were Georgians,
having dark complexions and very long dark hair; but the fourth was
remarkably fair, and her hair, also of singular length and thickness,
was of a flaxen color; neither were their teeth dyed black, as those of
Turkish women generally are.
The Swedish gentleman said he was almost sure they suspected they were
seen, from the address they manifested in displaying their charms and
in loitering at the gate. This gave him and his friend no small degree
of terror, as they would have paid for their curiosity with their lives
if any such suspicion had entered the minds of the black eunuchs. He
described their dresses as rich beyond all that can be imagined. Long
spangled robes, open in front, with pantaloons embroidered in gold
and silver, and covered by a profusion of pearls and precious stones,
displayed their persons to great advantage, but were so heavy as to
actually encumber their motion and almost to impede their walking.
Their hair hung in loose and very thick tresses on each side of their
cheeks, falling quite down to the waist, and covering their shoulders
behind. Those tresses were quite powdered with diamonds, not displayed
according to any studied arrangement, but as if carelessly scattered
by handfuls among their flowing locks. On the top of their heads, and
rather leaning to one side, they wore each of them a small circular
patch or diadem. Their faces, necks, and even their breasts were quite
exposed, not one of them having any veil.
The German gardener, who had daily access to different parts of the
seraglio, offered to conduct us not only over the gardens, but
promised, if we would come singly, during the season of the _Ramadan_,
when the guards, being up all night, would be stupefied during the day
with sleep and intoxication, to undertake the greater risk of showing
us the interior of the charem, or apartments of the women,--that is
to say, of that part which they inhabit during the summer; for they
were still in their winter chambers. We readily accepted this offer.
I only solicited the further indulgence of being accompanied by a
French artist of the name of Preaux, whose extraordinary promptitude
in design would enable him to bring away sketches of anything we might
find interesting, either in the charem or gardens of the seraglio.
The apprehensions of Monsieur Preaux were, however, so great, that it
was with the greatest difficulty I could prevail upon him to venture
into the seraglio, and he afterwards either lost or secreted the only
drawing which his fears would allow him to make while he was there.
We left Pera, in a gondola, about seven o'clock in the morning,
embarking at Tophana, and steering towards that gate of the seraglio
which faces the Bosporus on the southeastern side, where the entrance
to the seraglio gardens and the gardener's lodge are situated. A
bostanghy, as a sort of porter, is usually seated, with his attendants,
within the portal. Upon entering the seraglio, the spectator is struck
by a wild and confused assemblage of great and interesting objects.
Among the first of these are enormous cypresses, massive and lofty
masonry, neglected and broken sarcophagi, high-rising mounds, and a
long, gloomy avenue, leading from the gates of the garden between
the double walls of the seraglio. This gate is the same by which the
Sultanas came out for the airing before alluded to, and the gardener's
lodge is on the right hand of it. The avenue extending from it towards
the west offers a broad and beautiful, although solitary, walk, to a
very considerable extent shut in by high walls on both sides. Directly
opposite this entrance of the seraglio is a very lofty mound, or bank,
covered by large trees, and traversed by terraces, over which, on the
top, are walls with turrets. On the right hand, after entering, are the
large wooden folding doors of the Grand Seignior's gardens, and near
them lie many fragments of ancient marbles, appropriated to the vilest
purposes; among others, a sarcophagus of one block of marble, covered
with a simple though unmeaning bas-relief.
Entering the gardens by the folding doors, a pleasing _coup d'oeil_
of trellis-work and covered walks is displayed, more after the
taste of Holland than that of any other country. Various and very
despicable _jets d'eau_, straight gravel-walks, and borders disposed
in parallelograms, with the exception of a long greenhouse filled with
orange-trees, compose all that appears in the small spot which bears
the name of the seraglio gardens. The view on entering is down the
principal gravel-walk, and all the walks meet at the central point,
beneath a dome of the same trellis-work by which they are covered.
Small fountains spout a few quarts of water into large shells, or
form parachutes over lighted bougies, by the sides of the walks.
The trellis-work is of wood, painted white, and covered by jasmine;
and this, as it does not conceal the artificial frame by which it
is supported, produces a wretched effect. On the outside of the
trellis-work appear small parterres, edged with box, containing very
common flowers, and adorned with fountains. On the right hand, after
entering the garden, appears the magnificent kiosk, which constitutes
the Sultan's summer residence; and farther on is the orangery before
mentioned, occupying the whole extent of the wall on that side.
Exactly opposite the garden gates is the door of the charem, or palace
of the women belonging to the Grand Seignior; a building not unlike
one of the small colleges in Cambridge, and enclosing the same sort of
cloistered court. One side of this building extends across the upper
extremity of the garden, so that the windows look into it. Below these
windows are two small greenhouses, filled with very common plants, and
a number of canary-birds. Before the charem windows, on the right hand,
is a ponderous, gloomy, wooden door; and this, creaking on its massive
hinges, opens to the quadrangle, or interior court of the charem
itself.... We will keep this door shut for a short time, in order to
describe the seraglio gardens more minutely; and afterwards open it, to
gratify the reader's curiosity.
Still facing the charem on the left hand is a paved ascent, leading,
through a handsome gilded iron gate, from the lower to the upper
garden. Here is a kiosk, which I shall presently describe. Returning
from the charem to the door by which we first entered, a lofty wall on
the right hand supports a terrace with a few small parterres: these,
at a considerable height above the lower garden, constitute what is
now called the upper part of the seraglio; and, till within these few
years, it was the only one.
Having thus completed the tour of this small and insignificant spot
of ground, let us now enter the kiosk, which I first mentioned as
the Sultan's summer residence. It is situated on the sea-shore, and
commands one of the finest views the eye ever beheld, of Scutari and
the Asiatic coast, the mouth of the canal, and a moving picture of
ships, gondolas, dolphins, birds, with all the floating pageantry of
this vast metropolis, such as no other capital in the world can pretend
to exhibit. The kiosk itself, fashioned after the airy fantastic
style of Eastern architecture, presents a spacious chamber, covered
by a dome, from which, towards the sea, advances a raised platform
surrounded by windows, and terminated by a divan. On the right and
left are the private apartments of the Sultan and his ladies. From
the centre of the dome is suspended a large lustre presented by the
English ambassador. Above the raised platform hangs another lustre of a
smaller size, but more elegant. Immediately over the sofas constituting
the divan are mirrors engraved with Turkish inscriptions; poetry and
passages from the Korân. The sofas are of white satin beautifully
embroidered by the women of the seraglio.
[Our traveller proceeds to describe the various apartments
visited, including the rooms devoted to the women of the
seraglio, and the charem (or harem) itself. Passing through large
dormitories, the great chamber of audience of the Sultan mother
was reached, an apartment theatrical in adornment, and giving "a
striking idea of the pomp, the seclusion, and the magnificence of
the Ottoman court."]
Beyond the great chamber of audience is the Assembly Room of the
Sultan, when he is in the charem. Here we observed the magnificent
lustre before mentioned. The Sultan sometimes visits this chamber
during the winter, to hear music and to amuse himself with his
favorites. It is surrounded by mirrors. The other ornaments display
that strange mixture of magnificence and wretchedness which
characterize all the state chambers of Turkish grandees. Leaving the
Assembly Room by the same door through which we entered, and continuing
along the passage as before, which runs parallel to the sea-shore, we
at length reached what might be termed the _sanctum sanctorum_ of this
Paphian temple, the baths of the Sultan mother and the four principal
Sultanas. These are small, but very elegant, constructed of white
marble, and lighted by ground glass above. At the upper end is a raised
sudatory and bath for the Sultan mother, concealed by lattice-work from
the rest of the apartment. Fountains play constantly into the floor of
this bath from all its sides; and every degree of refined luxury has
been added to the work which a people, above all others best versed in
the ceremonies of the bath, have been capable of inventing or requiring.
Leaving the bath and returning along the passage by which we came, we
entered what is called the Chamber of Repose. Nothing need be said of
it, except that it commands the finest view anywhere afforded from
this point of the seraglio. It forms a part of the building well known
to strangers, from the circumstance of its being supported, towards
the sea, by twelve columns of that beautiful and rare _breccia_, the
_viride Lacedoemonium_ of Pliny, called by Italians _Il verde antico_.
These columns are of the finest quality ever seen, and each of them
consists of one entire stone. The two interior pillars are of green
Egyptian breccia, more beautiful than any specimen of the kind existing.
[An apartment overlooking the gardens was now reached, on
attempting to leave which for the garden, they found to their
consternation that the door had been locked since their entrance.
A slave had entered to feed some turkeys, and fortunately the
noise made by these birds enabled them to force back the lock
without being heard and escape.]
We now quitted the lower garden of the seraglio and ascended by a paved
road towards the chamber of the Garden of Hyacinths. This promised
to be interesting, as we were told the Sultan passed almost all his
private hours in that apartment, and the view of it might make us
acquainted with occupations and amusements which characterize the man,
divested of the outward parade of the sultan. We presently turned
from the paved ascent towards the right, and entered a small garden,
laid out into very neat oblong borders, edged with porcelain or Dutch
tiles. Here no plant is suffered to grow except the hyacinth, whence
the name of this garden and the chamber it contains. We examined this
apartment by looking through a window.
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