+---------------------------------------------------------+ | Transcriber's Note: | | | | Inconsistent hyphenation and spelling in the original | | document has been preserved. | | | | Greek text has been transliterated and marked with +'s. | | | | Obvious typographical errors have been corrected. For | | a complete list, please see the end of this document. | | | +---------------------------------------------------------+

 NEW

 ITALIAN SKETCHES. 

 BY

 JOHN ADDINGTON SYMONDS, AUTHOR OF "SKETCHES IN ITALY, " ETC. 

 _COPYRIGHT EDITION. _

 LEIPZIG

 BERNHARD TAUCHNITZ

 1884. 

 _The Right of Translation is reserved. _

PREFATORY NOTE. 

This volume of New Italian Sketches has been made up from two bookspublished in England and America under the titles of "Sketches andStudies in Italy" and "Italian Byways. " It forms in some respects acompanion volume to my "Sketches in Italy" already published in theTauchnitz Collection of British Authors. But it is quite independent ofthat other book, and is in no sense a continuation of it. In making theselection, I have however followed the same principles of choice. Thatis to say, I have included only those studies of places, rather than ofliterature or history, which may suit the needs of travellers in Italy. 

 JOHN ADDINGTON SYMONDS. 

 DAVOS PLATZ, _Dec. 1883_. 

 TO

 CHRISTIAN BUOL AND CHRISTIAN PALMY

 MY FRIENDS AND FELLOW-TRAVELLERS

 I DEDICATE THIS BOOK. 

CONTENTS

 Page AUTUMN WANDERINGS 11

 MONTE OLIVETO 34

 MONTEPULCIANO 57

 SPRING WANDERINGS 84

 MAY IN UMBRIA 106

 THE PALACE OF URBINO 138

 A VENETIAN MEDLEY 169

 THE GONDOLIER'S WEDDING 212

 FORNOVO 238

 BERGAMO AND BARTOLOMMEO COLLEONI 261

 LOMBARD VIGNETTES 282

 NEW ITALIAN SKETCHES. 

 AUTUMN WANDERINGS. 

 I. --ITALIAM PETIMUS. 

_Italiam petimus!_ We left our upland home before daybreak on a clearOctober morning. There had been a hard frost, spangling the meadows withrime-crystals, which twinkled where the sun's rays touched them. Men andwomen were mowing the frozen grass with thin short Alpine scythes; andas the swathes fell, they gave a crisp, an almost tinkling sound. Downinto the gorge, surnamed of Avalanche, our horses plunged; and there welost the sunshine till we reached the Bear's Walk, opening upon thevales of Albula, and Julier, and Schyn. But up above, shone morninglight upon fresh snow, and steep torrent-cloven slopes reddening with ahundred fading plants; now and then it caught the grey-green iciclesthat hung from cliffs where summer streams had dripped. There is nocolour lovelier than the blue of an autumn sky in the high Alps, defining ridges powdered with light snow, and melting imperceptiblydownward into the warm yellow of the larches and the crimson of thebilberry. Wiesen was radiantly beautiful: those aërial ranges of thehills that separate Albula from Julier soared crystal-clear above theirforests; and for a foreground, on the green fields starred with lilaccrocuses, careered a group of children on their sledges. Then came therow of giant peaks--Pitz d'Aela, Tinzenhorn, and Michelhorn, above thedeep ravine of Albula--all seen across wide undulating golden swards, close-shaven and awaiting winter. Carnations hung from cottage windowsin full bloom, casting sharp angular black shadows on white walls. 

_Italiam petimus!_ We have climbed the valley of the Julier, followingits green, transparent torrent. A night has come and gone at Mühlen. Thestream still leads us up, diminishing in volume as we rise, up throughthe fleecy mists that roll asunder for the sun, disclosing far-off snowyridges and blocks of granite mountains. The lifeless, soundless waste ofrock, where only thin winds whistle out of silence and fade suddenlyinto still air, is passed. Then comes the descent, with its forests oflarch and cembra, golden and dark green upon a ground of grey, and infront the serried shafts of the Bernina, and here and there a glimpse ofemerald lake at turnings of the road. Autumn is the season for thislandscape. Through the fading of innumerable leaflets, the yellowing oflarches, and something vaporous in the low sun, it gains a colour notunlike that of the lands we seek. By the side of the lake at Silvaplanathe light was strong and warm, but mellow. Pearly clouds hung over theMaloja, and floating overhead cast shadows on the opaque water, whichmay literally be compared to chrysoprase. The breadth of golden, brown, and russet tints upon the valley at this moment adds softness to itslines of level strength. Devotees of the Engadine contend that itpossesses an austere charm beyond the common beauty of Swiss landscape;but this charm is only perfected in autumn. The fresh snow on theheights that guard it helps. And then there are the forests of darkpines upon those many knolls and undulating mountain-flanks beside thelakes. Sitting and dreaming there in noonday sun, I kept repeating tomyself _Italiam petimus!_

A hurricane blew upward from the pass as we left Silvaplana, rufflingthe lake with gusts of the Italian wind. By Silz Maria we came in sightof a dozen Italian workmen, arm linked in arm in two rows, tramping inrhythmic stride, and singing as they went. Two of them were suchnobly-built young men, that for a moment the beauty of the landscapefaded from my sight, and I was saddened. They moved to their singing, like some of Mason's or Frederick Walker's figures, with the free graceof living statues, and laughed as we drove by. And yet, with all theirbeauty, industry, sobriety, intelligence, these Italians of the northernvalleys serve the sterner people of the Grisons like negroes, doingtheir roughest work at scanty wages. 

So we came to the vast Alpine wall, and stood on a bare granite slab, and looked over into Italy, as men might lean from the battlements of afortress. Behind lies the Alpine valley, grim, declining slowlynorthward, with wind-lashed lakes and glaciers sprawling fromstorm-broken pyramids of gneiss. Below spread the unfathomable depthsthat lead to Lombardy, flooded with sunlight, filled with swirlingvapour, but never wholly hidden from our sight. For the blast keptshifting the cloud-masses, and the sun streamed through in spears andbands of sheeny rays. Over the parapet our horses dropped, down throughsable spruce and amber larch, down between tangles of rowan and autumnalunderwood. Ever as we sank, the mountains rose--those sharp embattledprecipices, toppling spires, impendent chasms blurred with mist, thatmake the entrance into Italy sublime. Nowhere do the Alps exhibit theirfull stature, their commanding puissance, with such majesty as in thegates of Italy; and of all those gates I think there is none to comparewith Maloja, none certainly to rival it in abruptness of initiation intothe Italian secret. Below Vico Soprano we pass already into the violetsand blues of Titian's landscape. Then come the purple boulders amongchestnut trees; then the double dolomite-like peak of Pitz Badin andPromontogno. 

It is sad that words can do even less than painting could to bring thiswindow-scene at Promontogno before another eye. The casement just framesit. In the foreground are meadow slopes, thinly, capriciously plantedwith chestnut trees and walnuts, each standing with its shadow cast uponthe sward. A little farther falls the torrent, foaming down betweenblack jaws of rain-stained granite, with the wooden buildings of arustic mill set on a ledge of rock. Suddenly above this landscape soarsthe valley, clothing its steep sides on either hand with pines; andthere are emerald isles of pasture on the wooded flanks; and thencliffs, where the red-stemmed larches glow; and at the summit, shootinginto ether with a swathe of mist around their basement, soar the doublepeaks, the one a pyramid, the other a bold broken crystal not unlike theFinsteraarhorn seen from Furka. These are connected by a snowy saddle, and snow is lying on their inaccessible crags in powdery drifts. Sunlight pours between them into the ravine. The green and goldenforests now join from either side, and now recede, according as thesinuous valley brings their lines together or disparts them. There is asound of cow-bells on the meadows; and the roar of the stream is dulledor quickened as the gusts of this October wind sweep by or slacken. _Italiam petimus!_

_Tangimus Italiam!_ Chiavenna is a worthy key to this great gate Italian. We walked at night in the open galleries of the cathedral-cloister--white, smoothly curving, well-proportioned logge, enclosing a green space, whencesoars the campanile to the stars. The moon had sunk, but her light stillsilvered the mountains that stand at watch round Chiavenna; and the castlerock was flat and black against that dreamy background. Jupiter, whowalked so lately for us on the long ridge of the Jacobshorn above ourpines, had now an ample space of sky over Lombardy to light his lamp in. Why is it, we asked each other, as we smoked our pipes and strolled, myfriend and I;--why is it that Italian beauty does not leave the spirit sountroubled as an Alpine scene? Why do we here desire the flower of someemergent feeling to grow from the air, or from the soil, or from humanityto greet us? This sense of want evoked by Southern beauty is perhaps theantique mythopoeic yearning. But in our perplexed life it takes anotherform, and seems the longing for emotion, ever fleeting, ever new, unrealised, unreal, insatiable. 

II. --OVER THE APENNINES. 

At Parma we slept in the Albergo della Croce Bianca, which is more abric-à-brac shop than an inn; and slept but badly, for the good folk ofParma twanged guitars and exercised their hoarse male voices all nightin the street below. We were glad when Christian called us, at 5 A. M. , for an early start across the Apennines. This was the day of a rightRoman journey. In thirteen and a half hours, leaving Parma at 6, andarriving in Sarzana at 7. 30, we flung ourselves across the spine ofItaly, from the plains of Eridanus to the seashore of Etruscan Luna. Ihad secured a carriage and extra post-horses the night before; thereforewe found no obstacles upon the road, but eager drivers, quick relays, obsequious postmasters, change, speed, perpetual movement. The roaditself is a noble one, and nobly entertained in all things butaccommodation for travellers. At Berceto, near the summit of the pass, we stopped just half an hour, to lunch off a mouldly hen and six eggs;but that was all the halt we made. 

As we drove out of Parma, striking across the plain to the _ghiara_ ofthe Taro, the sun rose over the austere autumnal landscape, with itswithered vines and crimson haws. Christian, the mountaineer, who at homehad never seen the sun rise from a flat horizon, stooped from the box tocall attention to this daily recurring miracle, which on the plain ofLombardy is no less wonderful than on a rolling sea. From the village ofFornovo, where the Italian League was camped awaiting Charles VIII. Uponthat memorable July morn in 1495, the road strikes suddenly aside, gainsa spur of the descending Apennines, and keeps this vantage till thepass of La Cisa is reached. Many windings are occasioned by thus adheringto arêtes, but the total result is a gradual ascent with free prospectover plain and mountain. The Apennines, built up upon a smaller scalethan the Alps, perplexed in detail and entangled with cross sections andconvergent systems, lend themselves to this plan of carrying highroadsalong their ridges instead of following the valley. 

What is beautiful in the landscape of that northern water-shed is thesubtlety, delicacy, variety, and intricacy of the mountain outlines. There is drawing wherever the eye falls. Each section of the vastexpanse is a picture of tossed crests and complicated undulations. Andover the whole sea of stationary billows, light is shed like an etherealraiment, with spare colour--blue and grey, and parsimonious green--inthe near foreground. The detail is somewhat dry and monotonous; forthese so finely moulded hills are made up of washed earth, the immemorialwrecks of earlier mountain ranges. Brown villages, not unlike those ofMidland England, low houses built of stone and tiled with stone, andsquare-towered churches, occur at rare intervals in cultivated hollows, where there are fields and fruit trees. Water is nowhere visible exceptin the wasteful river-beds. As we rise, we break into a wilder country, forested with oak, where oxen and goats are browsing. The turf is starredwith lilac gentian and crocus bells, but sparely. Then comes the highestvillage, Berceto, with keen Alpine air. After that, broad rolling downsof yellowing grass and russet beech-scrub lead onward to the pass La Cisa. The sense of breadth in composition is continually satisfied through thisascent by the fine-drawn lines, faint tints, and immense air-spaces ofItalian landscape. Each little piece reminds one of England; but thegeographical scale is enormously more grandiose, and the effect of majestyproportionately greater. 

From La Cisa the road descends suddenly; for the southern escarpment ofthe Apennines, as of the Alpine, barrier is pitched at a far steeperangle than the northern. Yet there is no view of the sea. That isexcluded by the lower hills which hem the Magra. The upper valley isbeautiful, with verdant lawns and purple hill-sides breaking down intothick chestnut woods, through which we wound at a rapid pace for nearlyan hour. The leaves were still green, mellowing to golden; but the fruitwas ripe and heavy, ready at all points to fall. In the still October airthe husks above our heads would loosen, and the brown nuts rustle throughthe foliage, and with a dull short thud, like drops of thunder-rain, break down upon the sod. At the foot of this rich forest, wedged inbetween huge buttresses, we found Pontremoli, and changed our horses herefor the last time. It was Sunday, and the little town was alive withcountry-folk; tall stalwart fellows wearing peacock's feathers in theirblack slouched hats, and nut-brown maids. 

From this point the valley of the Magra is exceeding rich with fruittrees, vines, and olives. The tendrils of the vine are yellow now, andin some places hued like generous wine; through their thick leaves thesun shot crimson. In one cool garden, as the day grew dusk, I noticedquince trees laden with pale fruit entangled with pomegranates--greenspheres and ruddy amid burnished leaves. By the roadside too were manyberries of bright hues; the glowing red of haws and hips, the amber ofthe pyracanthus, the rose tints of the spindle-wood. These make autumneven lovelier than spring. And then there was a wood of chestnutscarpeted with pale pink ling, a place to dream of in the twilight. Butthe main motive of this landscape was the indescribable Carrara range, an island of pure form and shooting peaks, solid marble, crystalline inshape and texture, faintly blue against the blue sky, from which theywere but scarce divided. These mountains close the valley to south-east, and seem as though they belonged to another and more celestial region. 

Soon the sunlight was gone, and moonrise came to close the day, as werolled onward to Sarzana, through arundo donax and vine-girdled olivetrees and villages, where contadini lounged upon the bridges. There wasa stream of sound in our ears, and in my brain a rhythmic dance ofbeauties caught through the long-drawn glorious golden autumn-day. 

III. --FOSDINOVO. 

The hamlet and the castle of Fosdinovo stand upon a mountain-spur aboveSarzana, commanding the valley of the Magra and the plains of Luni. Thisis an ancient fief of the Malaspina House, and still in the possessionof the Marquis of that name. 

The road to Fosdinovo strikes across the level through an avenue ofplane trees, shedding their discoloured leaves. It then takes to theopen fields, bordered with tall reeds waving from the foss on eitherhand, where grapes are hanging to the vines. The country-folk allowtheir vines to climb into the olives, and these golden festoons are agreat ornament to the grey branches. The berries on the trees are stillquite green, and it is a good olive season. Leaving the main road, wepass a villa of the Malaspini, shrouded in immense thickets of sweet bayand ilex, forming a grove for the Nymphs or Pan. Here may you see justsuch clean stems and lucid foliage as Gian Bellini painted, inch byinch, in his Peter Martyr picture. The place is neglected now; thesemicircular seats of white Carrara marble are stained with green mosses, the altars chipped, the fountains choked with bay leaves; and the rosetrees, escaped from what were once trim garden alleys, have gone wanderinga-riot into country hedges. There is no demarcation between the greatman's villa and the neighbouring farms. From this point the path rises, and the barren hill-side is a-bloom with late-flowering myrtles. Why didthe Greeks consecrate these myrtle-rods to Death as well as Love? Electracomplained that her father's tomb had not received the honour of themyrtle branch; and the Athenians wreathed their swords with myrtle inmemory of Harmodius. Thinking of these matters, I cannot but rememberlines of Greek, which have themselves the rectitude and elasticity ofmyrtle wands:

 +kai prospesôn eklaus' erêmias tychôn spondas te lysas askon on pherô zenois espeisa tymbô d' amphethêka mursinas. +

As we approach Fosdinovo, the hills above us gain sublimity; theprospect over plain and sea--the fields where Luna was, the widening bayof Spezzia--grows ever grander. The castle is a ruin, still capable ofpartial habitation, and now undergoing repair--the state in which a ruinlooks most sordid and forlorn. How strange it is, too, that, to enforcethis sense of desolation, sad dishevelled weeds cling ever to suchantique masonry! Here are the henbane, the sow-thistle, the wildcucumber. At Avignon, at Orvieto, at Dolce Acqua, at Les Baux, we nevermissed them. And they have the dusty courtyards, the massive portals, where portcullises still threaten, of Fosdinovo to themselves. Over thegate, and here and there on corbels, are carved the arms of Malaspina--abarren thorn-tree, gnarled with the geometrical precision of heraldicirony. 

Leaning from the narrow windows of this castle, with the spacious viewto westward, I thought of Dante. For Dante in this castle was the guestof Moroello Malaspina, what time he was yet finishing the "Inferno. "There is a little old neglected garden, full to south, enclosed upon arampart which commands the Borgo, where we found frail canker-roses andyellow amaryllis. Here, perhaps, he may have sat with ladies--for thiswas the Marchesa's pleasance; or may have watched through a shortsummer's night, until he saw that _tremolar della marina_, portendingdawn, which afterwards he painted in the "Purgatory. "

From Fosdinovo one can trace the Magra work its way out seaward, notinto the plain where once the _candentia moenia Lunæ_ flashed sunrisefrom their battlements, but close beside the little hills which back thethe southern arm of the Spezzian gulf. At the extreme end of thatpromontory, called Del Corvo, stood the Benedictine convent of S. Croce;and it was here in 1309, if we may trust to tradition, that Dante, beforehis projected journey into France, appeared and left the first part ofhis poem with the Prior. Fra Ilario, such was the good father's name, received commission to transmit the "Inferno" to Uguccione dellaFaggiuola; and he subsequently recorded the fact of Dante's visit in aletter which, though its genuineness has been called in question, is fartoo interesting to be left without allusion. The writer says that onoccasion of a journey into lands beyond the Riviera, Dante visited thisconvent, appearing silent and unknown among the monks. To the Prior'squestion what he wanted, he gazed upon the brotherhood, and only answered, "Peace!" Afterwards, in private conversation, he communicated his name andspoke about his poem. A portion of the "Divine Comedy" composed in theItalian tongue aroused Ilario's wonder, and led him to inquire why hisguest had not followed the usual course of learned poets by committing histhoughts to Latin. Dante replied that he had first intended to write inthat language, and that he had gone so far as to begin the poem inVirgilian hexameters. Reflection upon the altered conditions of society inthat age led him, however, to reconsider the matter; and he was resolvedto tune another lyre, "suited to the sense of modern men. " "For, " said he, "it is idle to set solid food before the lips of sucklings. "

If we can trust Fra Ilario's letter as a genuine record, which isunhappily a matter of some doubt, we have in this narration not only apicturesque, almost a melodramatically picturesque glimpse of the poet'sapparition to those quiet monks in their seagirt house of peace, butalso an interesting record of the destiny which presided over the firstgreat work of literary art in a distinctly modern language. 

IV. LA SPEZZIA. 

While we were at Fosdinovo the sky filmed over, and there came a haloround the sun. This portended change; and by evening, after we hadreached La Spezzia, earth, sea, and air were conscious of a comingtempest. At night I went down to the shore, and paced the sea-wall theyhave lately built along the Rada. The moon was up, but overdriven withdry smoky clouds, now thickening to blackness over the whole bay, nowleaving intervals through which the light poured fitfully and fretfullyupon the wrinkled waves; and ever and anon they shuddered with electricgleams which were not actual lightning. Heaven seemed to be descendingon the sea; one might have fancied that some powerful charms weredrawing down the moon with influence malign upon those still resistingbillows. For not as yet the gulf was troubled to its depth, and not asyet the breakers dashed in foam against the moonlight-smittenpromontories. There was but an uneasy murmuring of wave to wave; awhispering of wind, that stooped its wing and hissed along the surface, and withdrew into the mystery of clouds again; a momentary chafing ofchurned water round the harbour piers, subsiding into silence petulantand sullen. I leaned against an iron stanchion and longed for the sea'smessage. But nothing came to me, and the drowned secret of Shelley'sdeath those waves which were his grave revealed not. 

 "Howler and scooper of storms! capricious and dainty sea!"

Meanwhile the incantation swelled in shrillness, the electric shuddersdeepened. Alone in this elemental overture to tempest I took no note oftime, but felt, through self-abandonment to the symphonic influence, howsea and air, and clouds akin to both, were dealing with each othercomplainingly, and in compliance to some maker of unrest within them. Atouch upon my shoulder broke this trance; I turned and saw a boy besideme in a coastguard's uniform. Francesco was on patrol that night; but myEnglish accent soon assured him that I was no contrabbandiere, and hetoo leaned against the stanchion and told me his short story. He was inhis nineteenth year, and came from Florence, where his people live inthe Borgo Ognissanti. He had all the brightness of the Tuscan folk, asort of innocent malice mixed with _espièglerie_. It was diverting tosee the airs he gave himself on the strength of his new militarydignity, his gun, and uniform, and night duty on the shore. I could nothelp humming to myself _Non più andrai_; for Francesco was a sort ofTuscan Cherubino. We talked about picture galleries and libraries inFlorence, and I had to hear his favourite passages from the Italianpoets. And then there came the plots of Jules Verne's stories andmarvellous narrations about _l'uomo cavallo_, _l'uomo volante_, _l'uomopesce_. The last of these personages turned out to be Paolo Boÿnton (sopronounced), who had swam the Arno in his diving dress, passing theseveral bridges, and when he came to the great weir "allora tutti starecon bocca aperta. " Meanwhile the storm grew serious, and our conversationchanged. Francesco told me about the terrible sun-stricken sand shores ofthe Riviera, burning in summer noon, over which the coastguard has totramp, their perils from falling stones in storm, and the trains thatcome rushing from those narrow tunnels on the midnight line of march. Itis a hard life; and the thirst for adventure which drove this boy--il piùmatto di tutta la famiglia--to adopt it, seems well-nigh quenched. Andstill, with a return to Giulio Verne, he talked enthusiastically ofdeserting, of getting on board a merchant ship, and working his way tosouthern islands where wonders are. 

A furious blast swept the whole sky for a moment almost clear. Themoonlight fell, with racing cloud-shadows, upon sea and hills, thelights of Lerici, the great _fanali_ at the entrance of the gulf, andFrancesco's upturned handsome face. Then all again was whirled in mistand foam; one breaker smote the sea-wall in a surge of froth, anotherplunged upon its heels; with inconceivable swiftness came rain;lightning deluged the expanse of surf, and showed the windy trees bentlandward by the squall. It was long past midnight now, and the storm wason us for the space of three days. 

V. --PORTO VENERE. 

For the next three days the wind went worrying on, and a line of surfleapt on the sea-wall always to the same height. The hills all aroundwere inky black and weary. 

At night the wild libeccio still rose, with floods of rain and lightningpoured upon the waste. I thought of the Florentine patrol. Is he out init, and where?

At last there came a lull. When we rose on the fourth morning, the skywas sulky, spent and sleepy after storm--the air as soft and tepid asboiled milk or steaming flannel. We drove along the shore to PortoVenere, passing the arsenals and dockyards, which have changed the faceof Spezzia since Shelley knew it. This side of the gulf is not so richin vegetation as the other, probably because it lies open to the windsfrom the Carrara mountains. The chestnuts come down to the shore in manyplaces, bringing with them the wild mountain-side. To make up for thislack of luxuriance, the coast is furrowed with a succession of tinyharbours, where the fishing-boats rest at anchor. There are manyvillages upon the spurs of hills, and on the headlands naval stations, hospitals, lazzaretti, and prisons. A prickly bindweed (the _Smilaxsarsaparilla_) forms a feature in the near landscape, with its creamyodoriferous blossoms, coral berries, and glossy thorned leaves. 

A turn of the road brought Porto Venere in sight, and on its grey wallsflashed a gleam of watery sunlight. The village consists of one longnarrow street, the houses on the left side hanging sheer above the sea. Their doors at the back open on to cliffs with drop about fifty feetupon the water. A line of ancient walls, with medieval battlements andshells of chambers suspended midway between earth and sky, runs up therock behind the town; and this wall is pierced with a deep gateway abovewhich the inn is piled. We had our lunch in a room opening upon thetown-gate, adorned with a deep-cut Pisan arch enclosing images andfrescoes--a curious episode in a place devoted to the jollity ofsmugglers and seafaring folk. The whole house was such as Tintorettoloved to paint--huge wooden rafters; open chimneys with pent-housecanopies of stone, where the cauldrons hung above logs of chestnut; rudelow tables spread with coarse linen embroidered at the edges, and ladenwith plates of fishes, fruit, quaint glass, big-bellied jugs ofearthenware, and flasks of yellow wine. The people of the place werelounging round in lazy attitudes. There were odd nooks and cornerseverywhere; unexpected staircases with windows slanting through thethickness of the town-wall; pictures of saints; high-zoned servingwomen, on whose broad shoulders lay big coral beads; smoke-blackenedroofs, and balconies that opened on the sea. The house was inexhaustiblein motives for pictures. 

We walked up the street, attended by a rabble rout of boys--_diavoliscatenati_--clean, grinning, white-teethed, who kept incessantlyshouting, "Soldo, soldo!" I do not know why these sea-urchins are so farmore irrepressible than their land brethren. But it is always thus inItaly. They take an imperturbable delight in noise and mere annoyance. Ishall never forget the sea-roar of Porto Venere, with that shrillobbligato, "Soldo, soldo, soldo!" rattling like a dropping fire fromlungs of brass. 

At the end of Porto Venere is a withered and abandoned city, climbingthe cliffs of S. Pietro; and on the headland stands the ruined church, built by Pisans with alternate rows of white and black marble, upon thesite of an old temple of Venus. This is a modest and pure piece ofGothic architecture, fair in desolation, refined and dignified, and notunworthy in its grace of the dead Cyprian goddess. Through its brokenlancets the sea-wind whistles and the vast reaches of the Tyrrhene gulfare seen. Samphire sprouts between the blocks of marble, and insheltered nooks the caper hangs her beautiful purpureal snowy bloom. 

The headland is a bold block of white limestone stained with red. It hasthe pitch of Exmoor stooping to the sea near Lynton. To north, as onelooks along the coast, the line is broken by Porto Fino's amethystinepromontory; and in the vaporous distance we could trace the Rivieramountains, shadowy and blue. The sea came roaring, rolling in with tawnybreakers; but, far out, it sparkled in pure azure, and the cloud-shadowsover it were violet. Where Corsica should have been seen, soared banksof fleecy, broad-domed alabaster clouds. 

This point, once dedicated to Venus, now to Peter--both, be itremembered, fishers of men--is one of the most singular in Europe. Theisland of Palmaria, rich in veined marbles, shelters the port; so thatoutside the sea rages, while underneath the town, reached by a narrowstrait, there is a windless calm. It was not without reason that ourLady of Beauty took this fair gulf to herself; and now that she has longbeen dispossessed, her memory lingers yet in names. For Porto Venereremembers her, and Lerici is only Eryx. There is a grotto here, where aninscription tells us that Byron once "tempted the Ligurian waves. " It isjust such a natural sea-cave as might have inspired Euripides when hedescribed the refuge of Orestes in "Iphigenia. "

VI. --LERICI. 

Libeccio at last had swept the sky clear. The gulf was ridged withfoam-fleeced breakers, and the water churned into green, tawny wastes. But overhead there flew the softest clouds, all silvery, dispersed inflocks. It is the day for pilgrimage to what was Shelley's home. 

After following the shore a little way, the road to Lerici breaks intothe low hills which part La Spezzia from Sarzana. The soil is red, andovergrown with arbutus and pinaster, like the country around Cannes. Through the scattered trees it winds gently upwards, with frequent viewsacross the gulf, and then descends into a land rich with olives--agenuine Riviera landscape, where the mountain-slopes are hoary, andspikelets of innumerable light-flashing leaves twinkle against a bluesea, misty-deep. The walls here are not unfrequently adorned withbas-reliefs of Carrara marble--saints and madonnas very delicatelywrought, as though they were love-labours of sculptors who had passed asummer on this shore. San Terenzio is soon discovered low upon the sandsto the right, nestling under little cliffs; and then the high-builtcastle of Lerici comes in sight, looking across the bay to PortoVenere--one Aphrodite calling to the other, with the foam between. Thevillage is piled around its cove with tall and picturesquely-colouredhouses; the molo and the fishing-boats lie just beneath the castle. There is one point of the descending carriage road where all thisgracefulness is seen, framed by the boughs of olive branches, swaying, wind-ruffled, laughing the many-twinkling smiles of ocean back fromtheir grey leaves. Here _Erycina ridens_ is at home. And, as we stayedto dwell upon the beauty of the scene, came women from the baybelow--barefooted, straight as willow wands, with burnished copper bowlsupon their heads. These women have the port of goddesses, deep-bosomed, with the length of thigh and springing ankles that betoken strength noless than elasticity and grace. The hair of some of them was golden, rippling in little curls around brown brows and glowing eyes. Pale lilacblent with orange on their dress, and coral beads hung from their ears. 

At Lerici we took a boat and pushed into the rolling breakers. Christiannow felt the movement of the sea for the first time. This was rather arude trial, for the grey-maned monsters played, as it seemed, at willwith our cockle-shell, tumbling in dolphin curves to reach the shore. Our boatmen knew all about Shelley and the Casa Magni. It is not atLerici, but close to San Terenzio, upon the south side of the village. Looking across the bay from the molo, one could clearly see its squarewhite mass, tiled roof, and terrace built on rude arcades with a broadorange awning. Trelawny's description hardly prepares one for soconsiderable a place. I think the English exiles of that period musthave been exacting if the Casa Magni seemed to them no better than abathing-house. 

We left our boat at the jetty, and walked through some gardens to thevilla. There we were kindly entertained by the present occupiers, who, when I asked them whether such visits as ours were not a greatannoyance, gently but feelingly replied: "It is not so bad now as itused to be. " The English gentleman who rents the Casa Magni has knownit uninterruptedly since Shelley's death, and has used it for_villeggiatura_ during the last thirty years. We found him in thecentral sitting-room, which readers of Trelawny's _Recollections_ haveso often pictured to themselves. The large oval table, the settees roundthe walls, and some of the pictures are still unchanged. As we sattalking, I laughed to think of that luncheon party, when Shelley losthis clothes, and came naked, dripping with sea-water, into the room, protected by the skirts of the sympathising waiting-maid. And then Iwondered where they found him on the night when he stood screaming inhis sleep, after the vision of his veiled self, with its question, "_Siete soddisfatto?_"

There were great ilexes behind the house in Shelley's time, which havebeen cut down, and near these he is said to have sat and written the_Triumph of Life_. Some new houses, too, have been built between thevilla and the town; otherwise the place is unaltered. Only an awning hasbeen added to protect the terrace from the sun. I walked out on thisterrace, where Shelley used to listen to Jane's singing. The sea wasfretting at its base, just as Mrs. Shelley says it did when the Don Juandisappeared. 

From San Terenzio we walked back to Lerici through olive woods, attendedby a memory which toned the almost overpowering beauty of the place tosadness. 

VII. --VIAREGGIO. 

The same memory drew us, a few days later, to the spot where Shelley'sbody was burned. Viareggio is fast becoming a fashionablewatering-place for the people of Florence and Lucca, who seek fresherair and simpler living than Livorno offers. It has the usual new innsand improvised lodging-houses of such places, built on the outskirts ofa little fishing village, with a boundless stretch of noble sands. Thereis a wooden pier on which we walked, watching the long roll of waves, foam-flaked, and quivering with moonlight. The Apennines faded into thegrey sky beyond, and the sea-wind was good to breathe. There is afeeling of "immensity, liberty, action" here, which is not common inItaly. It reminds us of England; and to-night the Mediterranean had therough force of a tidal sea. 

Morning revealed beauty enough in Viareggio to surprise even one whoexpects from Italy all forms of loveliness. The sand-dunes stretch formiles between the sea and a low wood of stone pines, with the Carrarahills descending from their glittering pinnacles by long lines to theheadlands of the Spezzian Gulf. The immeasurable distance was allpainted in sky-blue and amethyst; then came the golden green of thedwarf firs; and then dry yellow in the grasses of the dunes; and thenthe many-tinted sea, with surf tossed up against the furthest cliffs. Itis a wonderful and tragic view, to which no painter but the Roman Costahas done justice; and he, it may be said, has made this landscape of theCarrarese his own. The space between sand and pine-wood was covered withfaint, yellow, evening primroses. They flickered like little harmlessflames in sun and shadow, and the spires of the Carrara range were giantflames transformed to marble. The memory of that day described byTrelawny in a passage of immortal English prose, when he and Byron andLeigh Hunt stood beside the funeral pyre, and libations were poured, andthe _Cor Cordium_ was found inviolate among the ashes, turned all mythoughts to flame beneath the gentle autumn sky. 

Still haunted by these memories, we took the carriage road to Pisa, overwhich Shelley's friends had hurried to and fro through those last days. It passes an immense forest of stone-pines--aisles and avenues;undergrowth of ilex, laurustinus, gorse, and myrtle; the crowdedcyclamens, the solemn silence of the trees; the winds hushed in theirvelvet roof and stationary domes of verdure. 

MONTE OLIVETO. 

I. 

In former days the traveller had choice of two old hostelries in thechief street of Siena. Here, if he was fortunate, he might secure aprophet's chamber, with a view across tiled house-roofs to the distantTuscan champaign--glimpses of russet field and olive-garden framed byjutting city walls, which in some measure compensated for muchdiscomfort. He now betakes himself to the more modern Albergo di Siena, overlooking the public promenade La Lizza. Horse-chestnuts and acaciasmake a pleasant foreground to a prospect of considerable extent. Thefront of the house is turned toward Belcaro and the mountains betweenGrosseto and Volterra. Sideways its windows command the brown bulk ofSan Domenico, and the Duomo, set like a marble coronet upon the foreheadof the town. When we arrived there one October afternoon the sun wassetting amid flying clouds and watery yellow spaces of pure sky, with awind blowing soft and humid from the sea. Long after he had sunk belowthe hills, a fading chord of golden and rose-coloured tints burned onthe city. The cathedral bell-tower was glistening with recent rain, andwe could see right through its lancet windows to the clear blue heavensbeyond. Then, as the day descended into evening, the autumn treesassumed that wonderful effect of luminousness self-evolved, and the redbrick walls that crimson after-glow, which Tuscan twilight takes fromsingular transparency of atmosphere. 

It is hardly possible to define the specific character of each Italiancity, assigning its proper share to natural circumstances, to the temperof the population, and to the monuments of art in which these elementsof nature and of human qualities are blended. The fusion is too delicateand subtle for complete analysis; and the total effect in eachparticular case may best be compared to that impressed on us by a strongpersonality, making itself felt in the minutest details. Climate, situation, ethnological conditions, the political vicissitudes of pastages, the bias of the people to certain industries and occupations, theemergence of distinguished men at critical epochs, have all contributedtheir quota to the composition of an individuality which abides longafter the locality has lost its ancient vigour. 

Since the year 1557, when Gian Giacomo de' Medici laid the country ofSiena waste, levelled her luxurious suburbs, and delivered herfamine-stricken citizens to the tyranny of the Grand Duke Cosimo, thistown has gone on dreaming in suspended decadence. Yet the epithet whichwas given to her in her days of glory, the title of "Fair Soft Siena, "still describes the city. She claims it by right of the gentle manners, joyous but sedate, of her inhabitants, by the grace of their pure Tuscanspeech, and by the unique delicacy of her architecture. Those palaces ofbrick, with finely-moulded lancet windows, and the lovely use ofsculptured marbles in pilastered colonnades, are fit abodes for thenobles who reared them five centuries ago, of whose refined and costlyliving we read in the pages of Dante or of Folgore da San Gemignano. Andthough the necessities of modern life, the decay of wealth, thedwindling of old aristocracy, and the absorption of what was once anindependent state in the Italian nation, have obliterated that largesignorial splendour of the Middle Ages, we feel that the modern Sieneseare not unworthy of their courteous ancestry. 

Superficially, much of the present charm of Siena consists in the softopening valleys, the glimpses of long blue hills and fertilecountry-side, framed by irregular brown houses stretching along theslopes on which the town is built, and losing themselves abruptly inolive fields and orchards. This element of beauty, which brings the cityinto immediate relation with the country, is indeed not peculiar toSiena. We find it in Perugia, in Assisi, in Montepulciano, in nearly allthe hill towns of Umbria and Tuscany. But their landscape is oftentragic and austere, while this is always suave. City and country blendhere in delightful amity. Neither yields that sense of aloofness whichstirs melancholy. 

The most charming district in the immediate neighbourhood of Siena lieswestward, near Belcaro, a villa high up on a hill. It is a region ofdeep lanes and golden-green oak-woods, with cypresses and stone-pines, and little streams in all directions flowing over the brown sandstone. The country is like some parts of rural England--Devonshire or Sussex. Not only is the sandstone here, as there, broken into deep gullies; butthe vegetation is much the same. Tufted spleen-wort, primroses, andbroom tangle the hedges under boughs of hornbeam and sweet-chestnut. This is the landscape which the two sixteenth century novelists ofSiena, Fortini and Sermini, so lovingly depicted in their tales. Ofliterature absorbing in itself the specific character of a country, andconveying it to the reader less by description than by sustained qualityof style, I know none to surpass Fortini's sketches. The prospect fromBelcaro is one of the finest to be seen in Tuscany. The villa stands ata considerable elevation, and commands an immense extent of hill anddale. Nowhere, except Maremma-wards, a level plain. The Tuscanmountains, from Monte Amiata westward to Volterra, round Valdelsa, downto Montepulciano and Radicofani, with their innumerable windings andintricacies of descending valleys, are dappled with light and shade fromflying storm-clouds, sunshine here and there cloud-shadows. Girdling thevilla stands a grove of ilex-trees, cut so as to embrace its high-builtwalls with dark continuous green. In the courtyard are lemon-trees andpomegranates laden with fruit. From a terrace on the roof the whole wideview is seen; and here upon a parapet, from which we leaned one autumnafternoon, my friend discovered this _graffito_: "_E vidi e piansi ilfato amaro!_"--"I gazed, and gazing, wept the bitterness of fate. "

II. 

The prevailing note of Siena and the Sienese seems, as I have said, tobe a soft and tranquil grace; yet this people had one of the stormiestand maddest of Italian histories. They were passionate in love and hate, vehement in their popular amusements, almost frantic in their politicalconduct of affairs. The luxury, for which Dante blamed them, the levityDe Comines noticed in their government found counter-poise in more thanusual piety and fervour. S. Bernardino, the great preacher andpeace-maker of the Middle Ages; S. Catherine, the worthiest of all womento be canonised; the blessed Colombini, who founded the Order of theGesuati or Brothers of the Poor in Christ; the blessed Bernardo, whofounded that of Monte Oliveto; were all Sienese. Few cities have givenfour such saints to modern Christendom. The biography of one of thesemay serve as prelude to an account of the Sienese monastery of OlivetoMaggiore. 

The family of Tolomei was among the noblest of the Sienese aristocracy. On May 10, 1272, Mino Tolomei and his wife Fulvia, of the Tancredi, hada son whom they christened Giovanni, but who, when he entered thereligious life, assumed the name of Bernard, in memory of the greatAbbot of Clairvaux. Of this child, Fulvia is said to have dreamed, longbefore his birth, that he assumed the form of a white swan, and sangmelodiously, and settled in the boughs of an olive-tree, whenceafterwards he winged his way to heaven amid a flock of swans as dazzlingwhite as he. The boy was educated in the Dominican Cloister at Siena, under the care of his uncle Christoforo Tolomei. There, and afterwardsin the fraternity of S. Ansano, he felt that impulse towards a life ofpiety, which after a short but brilliant episode of secular ambition, was destined to return with overwhelming force upon his nature. He was ayouth of promise, and at the age of sixteen he obtained the doctorate inphilosophy and both laws, civil and canonical. The Tolomei upon thisoccasion adorned their palaces and threw them open to the people ofSiena. The Republic hailed with acclamation the early honours of anoble, born to be one of their chief leaders. Soon after this event Minoobtained for his son from the Emperor the title of Cæsarian Knight; andwhen the diploma arrived, new festivities proclaimed the fortunate youthto his fellow-citizens. Bernardo cased his limbs in steel, and rode inprocession with ladies and young nobles through the streets. Theceremonies of a knight's reception in Siena at that period weremagnificent. From contemporary chronicles and from the sonnets writtenby Folgore da San Gemignano for a similar occasion, we gather that thewhole resources of a wealthy family and all their friends were strainedto the utmost to do honour to the order of chivalry. Open house was heldfor several days. Rich presents of jewels, armour, dresses, chargerswere freely distributed. Tournaments alternated with dances. But theclimax of the pageant was the novice's investiture with sword and spursand belt in the cathedral. This, as it appears from a record of the year1326, actually took place in the great marble pulpit carved by thePisani; and the most illustrious knights of his acquaintance weresummoned by the squire to act as sponsors for his fealty. 

It is said that young Bernardo Tolomei's head was turned to vanity bythese honours showered upon him in his earliest manhood. Yet, after ashort period of aberration, he rejoined his confraternity and mortifiedhis flesh by discipline and strict attendance on the poor. The time hadcome, however, when he should choose a career suitable to his high rank. He devoted himself to jurisprudence, and began to lecture publicly onlaw. Already at the age of twenty-five his fellow-citizens admitted himto the highest political offices, and in the legend of his life it iswritten, not without exaggeration doubtless, that he ruled the State. There is, however, no reason to suppose that he did not play animportant part in its government. Though a just and virtuous statesman, Bernardo now forgot the special service of God, and gave himself withheart and soul to mundane interests. At the age of forty, supported bythe wealth, alliances, and reputation of his semi-princely house, he hadbecome one of the most considerable party-leaders in that age offaction. If we may trust his monastic biographer, he was aiming atnothing less than the tyranny of Siena. But in that year, when he wasforty, a change, which can only be described as conversion, came overhim. He had advertised a public disputation, in which he proposed beforeall comers to solve the most arduous problems of scholastic science. Theconcourse was great, the assembly brilliant; but the hero of the day, who had designed it for his glory, was stricken with sudden blindness. In one moment he comprehended the internal void he had created for hissoul, and the blindness of the body was illumination to the spirit. Thepride, power, and splendour of this world seemed to him a smoke thatpasses. God, penitence, eternity appeared in all the awful clarity of anauthentic vision. He fell upon his knees and prayed to Mary that hemight receive his sight again. This boon was granted; but the revelationwhich had come to him in blindness was not withdrawn. Meanwhile the hallof disputation was crowded with an expectant audience. Bernardo rosefrom his knees, made his entry, and ascended the chair; but instead ofthe scholastic subtleties he had designed to treat, he pronounced theold text, "Vanity of vanities, all is vanity. "

Afterwards, attended by two noble comrades, Patrizio Patrizzi andAmbrogio Piccolomini, he went forth into the wilderness. For the humansoul, at strife with strange experience, betakes itself instinctively tosolitude. Not only prophets of Israel, saints of the Thebaid, andfounders of religions in the mystic East have done so; even the GreekMenander recognised, although he sneered at, the phenomenon. "Thedesert, they say, is the place for discoveries. " For the mediæval mindit had peculiar attractions. The wilderness these comrades chose wasAccona, a doleful place, hemmed in with earthen precipices, some fifteenmiles to the south of Siena. Of his vast possessions Bernardo retainedbut this--

 The lonesome lodge, That stood so low in a lonely glen. 

The rest of his substance he abandoned to the poor. This was in 1313, the very year of the Emperor Henry VII. 's death at Buonconvento, whichis a little walled town between Siena and the desert of Accona. WhetherBernardo's retirement was in any way due to the extinction of immediatehope for the Ghibelline party by this event, we do not gather from hislegend. That, as is natural, refers his action wholly to the operationof divine grace. Yet we may remember how a more illustrious refugee, thesinger of the Divine Comedy, betook himself upon the same occasion tothe lonely convent of Fonte Avellana on the Alps of Catria, andmeditated there the cantos of his Purgatory. While Bernardo Tolomei wasfounding the Order of Monte Oliveto, Dante penned his letter to thecardinals of Italy: _Quomodo sola sedet civitas plena populo: facta estquasi vidua domino gentium. _

Bernardo and his friends hollowed with their own hands grottos in therock, and strewed their stone beds with withered chestnut-leaves. For S. Scolastica, the sister of S. Benedict, they built a little chapel. Theirfood was wild fruit, and their drink the water of the brook. Through theday they delved, for it was in their mind to turn the wilderness into aland of plenty. By night they meditated on eternal truth. The contrastbetween their rude life and the delicate nurture of Sienese nobles, inan age when Siena had become a by-word for luxury, must have been cruel. But it fascinated the mediæval imagination, and the three anchoriteswere speedily joined by recruits of a like temper. As yet the new-bornorder had no rules; for Bernardo, when he renounced the world, embracedhumility. The brethren were bound together only by the ties of charity. They lived in common; and under their sustained efforts Accona soonbecame a garden. 

The society could not, however, hold together without furtherorganisation. It began to be ill spoken of, inasmuch as vulgar minds canrecognise no good except in what is formed upon a pattern they arefamiliar with. Then Bernardo had a vision. In his sleep he saw a ladderof light ascending to the heavens. Above sat Jesus with Our Lady inwhite raiment, and the celestial hierarchies around them were attired inwhite. Up the ladder, led by angels, climbed men in vesture of dazzlingwhite; and among these Bernardo recognised his own companions. Soonafter this dream, he called Ambrogio Piccolomini, and bade him getready for a journey to the Pope at Avignon. 

John XXII. Received the pilgrims graciously, and gave them letters tothe Bishop of Arezzo, commanding him to furnish the new brotherhood withone of the rules authorised by Holy Church for governance of a monasticorder. Guido Tarlati, of the great Pietra-mala house, was Bishop anddespot of Arezzo at this epoch. A man less in harmony withcoenobitical enthusiasm than this warrior prelate, could scarcely havebeen found. Yet attendance to such matters formed part of his business, and the legend even credits him with an inspired dream; for Our Ladyappeared to him, and said: "I love the valley of Accona and its pioussolitaries. Give them the rule of Benedict. But thou shalt strip them oftheir mourning weeds, and clothe them in white raiment, the symbol of myvirgin purity. Their hermitage shall change its name, and henceforthshall be called Mount Olivet, in memory of the ascension of my divineSon, the which took place upon the Mount of Olives. I take this familybeneath my own protection; and therefore it is my will it should becalled henceforth the congregation of S. Mary of Mount Olivet. " Afterthis, the Blessed Virgin took forethought for the heraldic designs ofher monks, dictating to Guido Tarlati the blazon they still bear; it isof three hills or, whereof the third and highest is surmounted with across gules, and from the meeting-point of the three hillocks uponeither hand a branch of olive vert. This was in 1319. In 1324, JohnXXII. Confirmed the order, and in 1344 it was further approved byClement VI. Affiliated societies sprang up in several Tuscan cities; andin 1347, Bernardo Tolomei, at that time General of the Order, held achapter of its several houses. The next year was the year of the greatplague or Black Death. Bernardo bade his brethren leave their seclusion, and go forth on works of mercy among the sick. Some went to Florence, some to Siena, others to the smaller hill-set towns of Tuscany. All werebidden to assemble on the Feast of the Assumption at Siena. Here thefounder addressed his spiritual children for the last time. Soonafterwards he died himself, at the age of seventy-seven, and the placeof his grave is not known. He was beatified by the Church for his greatvirtues. 

III. 

At noon we started, four of us, in an open waggonette with a pair ofhorses, for Monte Oliveto, the luggage heaped mountain-high and tied ina top-heavy mass above us. After leaving the gateway, with its massivefortifications and frescoed arches, the road passes into a dull earthycountry, very much like some parts--and not the best parts--of England. The beauty of the Sienese contado is clearly on the sandstone, not uponthe clay. Hedges, haystacks, isolated farms--all were English in theirdetails. Only the vines, and mulberries, and wattled waggons drawn byoxen, most Roman in aspect, reminded us we were in Tuscany. In such_carpenta_ may the vestal virgins have ascended the Capitol. It is theprimitive war-chariot also, capable of holding four with ease; andRomulus may have mounted with the images of Roman gods in even such avehicle to Latiarian Jove upon the Alban hill. Nothing changes in Italy. The wooden ploughs are those which Virgil knew. The sight of one ofthem would save an intelligent lad much trouble in mastering a certainpassage of the Georgics. 

Siena is visible behind us nearly the whole way to Buonconvento, alittle town where the Emperor Henry VII. Died, as it was supposed, ofpoison, in 1313. It is still circled with the wall and gates built bythe Sienese in 1366, and is a fair specimen of an intact mediævalstronghold. Here we leave the main road, and break into a country-trackacross a bed of sandstone, with the delicate volcanic lines of MonteAmiata in front, and the aërial pile of Montalcino to our right. Thepyracanthus bushes in the hedge yield their clusters of bright yellowberries, mingled with more glowing hues of red from haws and glossyhips. On the pale grey earthen slopes men and women are plying the longSabellian hoes of their forefathers, and ploughmen are driving furrowsdown steep hills. The labour of the husbandmen in Tuscany is verygraceful, partly, I think, because it is so primitive, but also becausethe people have an eminently noble carriage, and are fashioned on thelines of antique statues. I noticed two young contadini in one field, whom Frederick Walker might have painted with the dignity of Pheidianform. They were guiding their ploughs along a hedge of olive-trees, slanting upwards, the white-horned oxen moving slowly through the marl, and the lads bending to press the plough-shares home. It was a delicatepiece of colour--the grey mist of olive branches, the warm smokingearth, the creamy flanks of the oxen, the brown limbs and dark eyes ofthe men, who paused awhile to gaze at us, with shadows cast upon thefurrows from their tall straight figures. Then they turned to theirwork again, and rhythmic movement was added to the picture. I wonderwhen an Italian artist will condescend to pluck these flowers of beauty, so abundantly offered by the simplest things in his own native land. Each city has an Accademia delle Belle Arti, and there is no lack ofstudents. But the painters, having learned their trade, make copies tentimes distant from the truth of famous masterpieces for the Americanmarket. Few seem to look beyond their picture galleries. Thus thedemocratic art, the art of Millet, the art of life and nature and thepeople, waits. 

As we mount, the soil grows of a richer brown; and there are woods ofoak where herds of swine are feeding on the acorns. Monte Oliveto comesin sight--a mass of red brick, backed up with cypresses, amongdishevelled earthy precipices, _balze_ as they are called--upon the hillbelow the village of Chiusure. This Chiusure was once a promising town;but the life was crushed out of it in the throes of mediæval civil wars, and since the thirteenth century it has been dwindling to a hamlet. Thestruggle for existence, from which the larger communes of this district, Siena and Montepulciano, emerged at the expense of their neighbours, must have been tragical. The _balze_ now grow sterner, drier, moredreadful. We see how deluges outpoured from thunderstorms bring downtheir viscous streams of loam, destroying in an hour the terraces ittook a year to build, and spreading wasteful mud upon the scantycornfields. The people call this soil _creta_; but it seems to be lesslike a chalk than a marl, or _marna_. It is always washing away intoravines and gullies, exposing the roots of trees, and rendering thetillage of the land a thankless labour. One marvels how any vegetationhas the faith to settle on its dreary waste, or how men have thepatience, generation after generation, to renew the industry, stillbeginning, never ending, which reclaims such wildernesses. ComparingMonte Oliveto with similar districts of cretaceous soil--with thecountry, for example, between Pienza and San Quirico--we perceive howmuch is owed to the monks whom Bernardo Tolomei planted here. So far asit is clothed at all with crop and wood, this is their service. 

At last we climb the crowning hill, emerge from a copse of oak, glidealong a terraced pathway through the broom, and find ourselves in frontof the convent gateway. A substantial tower of red brick, machicolatedat the top and pierced with small square windows, guards this portal, reminding us that at some time or other the monks found it needful toarm their solitude against a force descending from Chiusure. There is anavenue of slender cypresses; and over the gate, protected by a juttingroof, shines a fresco of Madonna and Child. Passing rapidly downwards, we are in the courtyard of the monastery, among its stables, barns, andout-houses, with the forlorn bulk of the huge red building spreadingwide, and towering up above us. As good luck ruled our arrival, we cameface to face with the Abbate de Negro, who administers the domain ofMonte Oliveto for the Government of Italy, and exercises a kindlyhospitality to chance-comers. He was standing near the church, which, with its tall square campanile, breaks the long stern outline of theconvent. The whole edifice, it may be said, is composed of a red brickinclining to purple in tone, which contrasts not unpleasantly with thelustrous green of the cypresses, and the glaucous sheen of olives. Advantage has been taken of a steep crest; and the monastery, enlargedfrom time to time through the last five centuries, has here and therebeen reared upon gigantic buttresses, which jut upon the _balze_ at asometimes giddy height. 

The Abbate received us with true courtesy, and gave us spacious rooms, three cells apiece, facing Siena and the western mountains. There isaccommodation, he told us, for three hundred monks; but only three areleft in it. As this order was confined to members of the nobility, eachof the religious had his own apartment--not a cubicle such as theuninstructed dream of when they read of monks, but separate chambers forsleep and study and recreation. 

In the middle of the vast sad landscape, the place is still, with asilence that can be almost heard. The deserted state of thoseinnumerable cells, those echoing corridors and shadowy cloisters, exercises overpowering tyranny over the imagination. Siena is so faraway, and Montalcino is so faintly outlined on its airy parapet, thatthese cities only deepen our sense of desolation. It is a relief to markat no great distance on the hill-side a contadino guiding his oxen, andfrom a lonely farm yon column of ascending smoke. At least the worldgoes on, and life is somewhere resonant with song. But here there restsa pall of silence among the oak-groves and the cypresses and _balze_. AsI leaned and mused, while Christian (my good friend and fellow-travellerfrom the Grisons) made our beds, a melancholy sunset flamed up from arampart of cloud, built like a city of the air above the mountains ofVolterra--fire issuing from its battlements, and smiting the frettedroof of heaven above. It was a conflagration of celestial rose upon thesaddest purples and cavernous recesses of intensest azure. 

We had an excellent supper in the visitor's refectory--soup, good breadand country wine, ham, a roast chicken with potatoes, a nice whitecheese made of sheep's milk, and grapes for dessert. The kind Abbate satby, and watched his four guests eat, tapping his tortoise-shellsnuff-box, and telling us many interesting things about the past andpresent state of the convent. Our company was completed with Lupo, thepet cat, and Pirro, a woolly Corsican dog, very good friends, and bothenormously voracious. Lupo in particular engraved himself upon thememory of Christian, into whose large legs he thrust his claws, when thecheese-parings and scraps were not supplied him with sufficientpromptitude. I never saw a hungrier and bolder cat. It made one fancythat even the mice had been exiled from this solitude. And truly therule of the monastic order, no less than the habit of Italian gentlemen, is frugal in the matter of the table, beyond the conception of northernfolk. 

Monte Oliveto, the Superior told us, owned thirty-two _poderi_, or largefarms, of which five have recently been sold. They are worked on the_mezzeria_ system; whereby peasants and proprietors divide the produceof the soil; and which he thinks inferior for developing its resourcesto that of _affito_, or lease-holding. 

The contadini live in scattered houses; and he says the estate would begreatly improved by doubling the number of these dwellings, and lettingthe sub-divided farms to more energetic people. The village of Chiusureis inhabited by labourers. The contadini are poor: a dower, forinstance, of fifty _lire_ is thought something: whereas near Genoa, uponthe leasehold system, a farmer may sometimes provide a dower of twentythousand _lire_. The country produces grain of different sorts, excellent oil, and timber. It also yields a tolerable red wine. TheGovernment makes from eight to nine per cent upon the value of the land, employing him and his two religious brethren as agents. 

In such conversations the evening passed. We rested well in large hardbeds with dry rough sheets. But there was a fretful wind abroad, whichwent wailing round the convent walls and rattling the doors in itsdeserted corridors. One of our party had been placed by himself at theend of a long suite of apartments, with balconies commanding the widesweep of hills that Monte Amiata crowns. He confessed in the morning tohaving passed a restless night, tormented by the ghostly noises of thewind, a wanderer, "like the world's rejected guest, " through thoseuntenanted chambers. The olives tossed their filmy boughs in twilightunderneath his windows, sighing and shuddering, with a sheen in them aseery as that of willows by some haunted mere. 

IV. 

The great attraction to students of Italian art in the convent of MonteOliveto is a large square cloister, covered with wall-paintings by LucaSignorelli and Giovannantonio Bazzi, surnamed Il Sodoma. These representvarious episodes in the life of S. Benedict; while one picture, in somerespects the best of the whole series, is devoted to the founder of theOlivetan Order, Bernardo Tolomei, dispensing the rule of his institutionto a consistory of white-robed monks. Signorelli, that great master ofCortona, may be studied to better advantage elsewhere, especially atOrvieto and in his native city. His work in this cloister, consisting ofeight frescoes, has been much spoiled by time and restoration. Yet itcan be referred to a good period of his artistic activity (the year1497) and displays much which is specially characteristic of his manner. In Totila's barbaric train, he painted a crowd of fierce emphaticfigures, combining all ages and the most varied attitudes, andreproducing with singular vividness the Italian soldiers of adventure ofhis day. We see before us the long-haired followers of Braccio and theBaglioni; their handsome savage faces; their brawny limbs clad in theparti-coloured hose and jackets of that period; feathered caps stucksideways on their heads; a splendid swagger in their straddling legs. Female beauty lay outside the sphere of Signorelli's sympathy; and inthe Monte Oliveto cloister he was not called upon to paint it. But noneof the Italian masters felt more keenly, or more powerfully representedin their work, the muscular vigour of young manhood. Two of theremaining frescoes, different from these in motive, might be selected asno less characteristic of Signorelli's manner. One represents threesturdy monks, clad in brown, working with all their strength to stir aboulder, which has been bewitched, and needs a miracle to move it fromits place. The square and powerfully outlined drawing of these figuresis beyond all praise for its effect of massive solidity. The othershows us the interior of a fifteenth century tavern, where two monks areregaling themselves upon the sly. A country girl, with shapely arms andshoulders, her upper skirts tucked round the ample waist to which broadsweeping lines of back and breasts descend, is serving wine. Theexuberance of animal life, the freedom of attitude expressed in this, the mainly interesting figure of the composition, show that Signorellimight have been a great master of realistic painting. Nor are theaccessories less effective. A wide-roofed kitchen chimney, a page-boyleaving the room by a flight of steps, which leads to the house door, and the table at which the truant monks are seated, complete a pictureof homely Italian life. It may still be matched out of many an inn inthis hill district. 

Called to graver work at Orvieto, where he painted his gigantic seriesof frescoes illustrating the coming of Antichrist, the Destruction ofthe World, the Resurrection, the Last Judgment, and the final state ofsouls in Paradise and Hell, Signorelli left his work at Monte Olivetounaccomplished. Seven years later it was taken up by a painter of verydifferent genius. Sodoma was a native of Vercelli, and had received hisfirst training in the Lombard schools, which owed so much to Lionardo daVinci's influence. He was about thirty years of age when chance broughthim to Siena. Here he made acquaintance with Pandolfo Petrucci, who hadrecently established himself in a species of tyranny over the Republic. The work he did for this patron and other nobles of Siena, brought himinto notice. Vasari observes that his hot Lombard colouring, a somethingflorid and attractive in his style, which contrasted with the severityof the Tuscan school, rendered him no less agreeable as an artist thanhis free manners made him acceptable as a house-friend. Fra Domenico daLeccio, also a Lombard, was at that time General of the monks of MonteOliveto. On a visit to this compatriot in 1505, Sodoma received acommission to complete the cloister; and during the next two years heworked there, producing in all twenty-five frescoes. For his pains heseemed to have received but little pay--Vasari says, only the expensesof some colour-grinders who assisted him; but from the books of theconvent it appears that 241 ducats, or something over 60_l. _ of ourmoney, were disbursed to him. 

Sodoma was so singular a fellow, even in that age of piquantpersonalities, that it may be worth while to translate a fragment ofVasari's gossip about him. We must, however, bear in mind that, for someunknown reason, the Aretine historian bore a rancorous grudge againstthis Lombard, whose splendid gifts and great achievements he did all hecould by writing to depreciate. "He was fond, " says Vasari, "of keepingin his house all sorts of strange animals: badgers, squirrels, monkeys, cat-a-mountains, dwarf-donkeys, horses, racers, little Elba ponies, jackdaws, bantams, doves of India, and other creatures of this kind, asmany as he could lay his hands on. Over and above these beasts, he had araven, which had learned so well from him to talk, that it could imitateits master's voice, especially in answering the door when some oneknocked, and this it did so cleverly that people took it forGiovannantonio himself, as all the folk of Siena know quite well. Inlike manner, his other pets were so much at home with him that theynever left his house, but played the strangest tricks and maddest pranksimaginable, so that his house was like nothing more than a Noah's Ark. "He was a bold rider, it seems; for with one of his racers, ridden byhimself, he bore away the prize in that wild horse-race they run uponthe Piazza at Siena. For the rest, "he attired himself in pompousclothes, wearing doublets of brocade, cloaks trimmed with gold lace, gorgeous caps, neck-chains, and other vanities of a like description, fit for buffoons and mountebanks. " In one of the frescoes of MonteOliveto, Sodoma painted his own portrait, with some of his curious petsaround him. He there appears as a young man with large and decidedlyhandsome features, a great shock of dark curled hair escaping from ayellow cap, and flowing down over a rich mantle which drapes hisshoulders. If we may trust Vasari, he showed his curious humours freelyto the monks. "Nobody could describe the amusement he furnished to thosegood fathers, who christened him Mattaccio (the big madman), or theinsane tricks he played there. "

In spite of Vasari's malevolence, the portrait he has given us of Bazzihas so far nothing unpleasant about it. The man seems to have been amadcap artist, combining with his love for his profession a taste forfine clothes, and what was then perhaps rarer in people of his sort, agreat partiality for living creatures of all kinds. The darker shades ofVasari's picture have been purposely omitted from these pages. We onlyknow for certain, about Bazzi's private life, that he was married in1510 to a certain Beatrice, who bore him two children, and who wasstill living with him in 1541. The further suggestion that he paintedat Monte Oliveto subjects unworthy of a religious house, is whollydisproved by the frescoes which still exist in a state of very tolerablepreservation. They represent various episodes in the legend of S. Benedict; all marked by that spirit of simple, almost childish pietywhich is a special characteristic of Italian religious history. Theseries forms, in fact, a painted _novella_ of monastic life; its pettyjealousies, its petty trials, its tribulations and temptations, and itsindescribably petty miracles. Bazzi was well fitted for the execution ofthis task. He had a swift and facile brush, considerable versatility inthe treatment of monotonous subjects, and a never-failing sense ofhumour. His white-cowled monks, some of them with the rosy freshness ofboys, some with the handsome brown faces of middle life, others astuteand crafty, others again wrinkled with old age, have clearly been copiedfrom real models. He puts them into action without the slightest effort, and surrounds them with landscapes, architecture, and furniture, appropriate to each successive situation. The whole is done with so muchgrace, such simplicity of composition, and transparency of style, corresponding to the _naïf_ and superficial legend, that we feel aperfect harmony between the artist's mind and the motives he was made tohandle. In this respect Bazzi's portion of the legend of S. Benedict ismore successful than Signorelli's. It was fortunate, perhaps, that theconditions of his task confined him to uncomplicated groupings, and ascale of colour in which white predominates. For Bazzi, as is shown bysubsequent work in the Farnesina Villa at Rome, and in the church of S. Domenico at Siena, was no master of composition; and the tone, even ofhis masterpieces, inclines to heat. Unlike Signorelli, Bazzi felt a deepartistic sympathy with female beauty; and the most attractive fresco inthe whole series is that in which the evil monk Florentius brings a bevyof fair damsels to the convent. There is one group, in particular, ofsix women, so delicately varied in carriage of the head and suggestedmovement of the body, as to be comparable only to a strain of concertedmusic. This is perhaps the painter's masterpiece in the rendering ofpure beauty, if we except his S. Sebastian of the Uffizzi. 

We tire of studying pictures, hardly less than of reading about them! Iwas glad enough, after three hours spent among the frescoes of thiscloister, to wander forth into the copses which surround the convent. Sunlight was streaming treacherously from flying clouds; and though itwas high noon, the oak-leaves were still a-tremble with dew. Pinkcyclamens and yellow amaryllis starred the moist brown earth; and underthe cypress-trees, where alleys had been cut in former time for piousfeet, the short firm turf was soft and mossy. Before bidding thehospitable Padre farewell, and starting in our waggonette for Asciano, it was pleasant to meditate awhile in these green solitudes. Generationsof white-stoled monks who had sat or knelt upon the now desertedterraces, or had slowly paced the winding paths to Calvaries aloft andpoints of vantage high above the wood, rose up before me. My mind, stillfull of Bazzi's frescoes, peopled the wilderness with grave monasticforms, and gracious, young-eyed faces of boyish novices. 

MONTEPULCIANO. 

I. 

For the sake of intending travellers to this, the lordliest of Tuscanhill-towns, it will be well to state at once and without circumlocutionwhat does not appear upon the time-tables of the line from Empoli toRome. Montepulciano has a station; but this railway station is at thedistance of at least an hour and a half's drive from the mountain uponwhich the city stands. 

The lumbering train which brought us one October evening from Ascianocrawled into this station after dark, at the very moment when a storm, which had been gathering from the south-west, burst in deluges of rainand lightning. There was, however, a covered carriage going to the town. Into this we packed ourselves, together with a polite Italian gentlemanwho, in answer to our questions, consulted his watch, and smilinglyreplied that a little half-hour would bring us easily to Montepulciano. He was a native of the place. He knew perfectly well that he would beshut up with us in that carriage for two mortal hours of darkness anddown-pour. And yet, such is the irresistible impulse in Italians to saysomething immediately agreeable, he fed us with false hopes and had nofear of consequences. What did it matter to him if we were pulling outour watches and chattering in well-contented undertone about _vinonobile_, _biftek_, and possibly a _pollo arrosto_, or a dish of _tordi_?At the end of the half-hour, as he was well aware, self-congratulationsand visions of a hearty supper would turn to discontented wailings, andthe querulous complaining of defrauded appetites. But the end of half anhour was still half an hour off; and we meanwhile were comfortable. 

The night was pitchy dark, and blazing flashes of lightning showed awhite ascending road at intervals. Rain rushed in torrents, splashingagainst the carriage wheels, which moved uneasily, as though they couldbut scarcely stem the river that swept down upon them. Far away above usto the left, was one light on a hill, which never seemed to get anynearer. We could see nothing but a chasm of blackness below us on oneside, edged with ghostly olive-trees, and a high bank on the other. Sometimes a star swam out of the drifting clouds; but then the rainhissed down again, and the flashes came in floods of livid light, illuminating the eternal olives and the cypresses which looked like hugeblack spectres. It seemed almost impossible for the horses to keep theirfeet, as the mountain road grew ever steeper and the torrent swelledaround them. Still they struggled on. The promised half hour had beendoubled, trebled, quadrupled, when at last we saw the great brown sombrewalls of a city tower above us. Then we entered one of those narrowlofty Tuscan gates, and rolled upon the pavement of a street. 

The inn at Montepulciano is called Marzocco, after the Florentine lionwhich stands upon its column in a little square before the house. Thepeople there are hospitable, and more than once on subsequent occasionshave they extended to us kindly welcome. But on this, our firstappearance, they had scanty room at their disposal. Seeing us arrive solate, and march into their dining-room, laden with sealskins, waterproofs, and ulsters, one of the party hugging a complete Euripidesin Didot's huge edition, they were confounded. At last they conductedthe whole company of four into a narrow back bed-room, where theypointed to one fair-sized and one very little bed. This was the onlyroom at liberty, they said; and could we not arrange to sleep here?_S'accomodi, Signore! S'accomodi, Signora!_ These encouraging words, uttered in various tones of cheerful and insinuating politeness to eachmember of the party in succession, failed to make us comprehend how agentleman and his wife, with a lean but rather lengthy English friend, and a bulky native of the Grisons, could "accommodate themselves"collectively and undividedly with what was barely sufficient for theirjust moiety, however much it might afford a night's rest to their worsehalf. Christian was sent out into the storm to look for supplementaryrooms in Montepulciano, which he failed to get. Meanwhile we orderedsupper, and had the satisfaction of seeing set upon the board a huge redflask of _vino nobile_. In copious draughts of this the King of Tuscanwines, we drowned our cares; and when the cloth was drawn, our friendand Christian passed their night upon the supper table. The good folk ofthe inn had recovered from their surprise, and from the inner recessesof their house had brought forth mattresses and blankets. So the betterand larger half of the company enjoyed sound sleep. 

It rained itself out at night, and the morning was clear, with thetransparent atmosphere of storm-clouds hurrying in broken squadrons fromthe bad sea quarter. Yet this is just the weather in which Tuscanlandscape looks its loveliest. Those immense expanses of grey undulatinguplands need the luminousness of watery sunshine, the colour added bycloud-shadows, and the pearly softness of rising vapours, to rob them ofa certain awful grimness. The main street of Montepulciano goes straightuphill for a considerable distance between brown palaces; then mounts bya staircase-zigzag under huge impending masses of masonry; until it endsin a piazza. On the ascent, at intervals, the eye is fascinated byprospects to the north and east over Val di Chiana, Cortona, Thrasymene, Chiusi; to south and west over Monte Cetona, Radicofani, Monte Amiata, the Val d'Ombrone, and the Sienese Contado. Grey walls overgrown withivy, arcades of time-toned brick, and the forbidding bulk of houses hewnfrom solid travertine, frame these glimpses of aërial space. The piazzais the top of all things. Here are the Duomo; the Palazzo del Comune, closely resembling that of Florence, with the Marzocco on its front; thefountain, between two quaintly sculptured columns; and the vast palaceDel Monte, of heavy Renaissance architecture, said to be the work ofAntonio di San Gallo. 

We climbed the tower of the Palazzo del Comune, and stood at thealtitude of 2000 feet above the sea. The view is finer in its kind thanI have elsewhere seen, even in Tuscany, that land of panoramicprospects over memorable tracts of world-historic country. Suchlandscape cannot be described in words. But the worst is that, evenwhile we gaze, we know that nothing but the faintest memory of ourenjoyment will be carried home with us. The atmospheric conditions wereperfect that morning. The sun was still young; the sky sparkled afterthe night's thunderstorm; the whole immensity of earth around lay lucid, smiling, newly washed in baths of moisture. Masses of storm-cloud keptrolling from the west, where we seemed to feel the sea behind thoseintervening hills. But they did not form in heavy blocks or hang uponthe mountain summits. They hurried and dispersed and changed and flungtheir shadows on the world below. 

II. 

The charm of this view is composed of so many different elements, sosubtly blent, appealing to so many separate sensibilities; the sense ofgrandeur, the sense of space, the sense of natural beauty, and the senseof human pathos; that deep internal faculty we call historic sense; thatit cannot be defined. First comes the immense surrounding space--a spacemeasured in each arc of the circumference by sections of at least fiftymiles, limited by points of exquisitely picturesque beauty, includingdistant cloud-like mountain ranges and crystals of sky-blue Apennines, circumscribing landscapes of refined loveliness in detail, alwaysvaried, always marked by objects of peculiar interest where the eye ormemory may linger. Next in importance to this immensity of space, sopowerfully affecting the imagination by its mere extent, and by thebreadth of atmosphere attuning all varieties of form and colour to oneharmony beneath illimitable heaven, may be reckoned the episodes ofrivers, lakes, hills, cities, with old historic names. For there spreadsthe lordly length of Thrasymene, islanded and citadelled, in hazymorning mist, still dreaming of the shock of Roman hosts withCarthaginian legions. There is the lake of Chiusi, set like a jewelunderneath the copse-clad hills which hide the dust of a dead Tuscannation. The streams of Arno start far far away, where Arezzo liesenfolded in bare uplands. And there at our feet rolls Tiber's largestaffluent, the Chiana. And there is the canal which joins their fountainsin the marsh that Lionardo would have drained. Monte Cetona is yonderheight which rears its bristling ridge defiantly from neighbouringChiusi. And there springs Radicofani, the eagle's eyrie of a brigandbrood. Next, Monte Amiata stretches the long lines of her antiquevolcano; the swelling mountain flanks, descending gently from hercloud-capped top, are russet with autumnal oak and chestnut woods. Onthem our eyes rest lovingly; imagination wanders for a moment throughthose mossy glades, where cyclamens are growing now, and primroses inspring will peep amid anemones from rustling foliage strewn by winter'swinds. The heights of Casentino, the Perugian highlands, Volterra, farwithdrawn amid a wilderness of rolling hills, and solemn snow-touchedranges of the Spolentino, Sibyl-haunted fastnesses of Norcia, form themost distant horizon-lines of this unending panorama. And then there arethe cities, placed each upon a point of vantage: Siena; olive-mantledChiusi; Cortona, white upon her spreading throne; poetic Montalcino, lifted aloft against the vaporous sky; San Quirico, nestling in pastoraltranquillity; Pienza, where Æneas Sylvius built palaces and called hisbirthplace after his own Papal name. Still closer to the town itself ofMontepulciano, stretching along the irregular ridge which gave itbuilding ground, and trending out on spurs above deep orchards, come thelovely details of oak-copses, blending with grey tilth and fields richwith olive and vine. The gaze, exhausted with immensity, pierces thosedeeply cloven valleys, sheltered from wind and open to thesun--undulating folds of brown earth, where Bacchus, when he visitedTuscany, found the grape-juice that pleased him best, and crowned thewine of Montepulciano king. Here from our eyrie we can trace white oxenon the furrows, guided by brown-limbed, white-shirted contadini. 

The morning glory of this view from Montepulciano, though irrecoverableby words, abides in the memory, and draws one back by its uniqueattractiveness. On a subsequent visit to the town in spring time, mywife and I took a twilight walk, just after our arrival, through itsgloomy fortress streets, up to the piazza, where the impendent houseslowered like bastions, and all the masses of their mighty architecturestood revealed in shadow and dim lamplight. Far and wide, the countryround us gleamed with bonfires; for it was the eve of the Ascension, when every contadino lights a beacon of chestnut logs and straw andpiled-up leaves. Each castello on the plain, each village on the hills, each lonely farmhouse at the skirt of forest or the edge of lake, smouldered like a red Cyclopean eye beneath the vault of stars. Theflames waxed and waned, leapt into tongues, or disappeared. As theypassed from gloom to brilliancy and died away again, they seemed almostto move. The twilight scene was like that of a vast city, filling theplain and climbing the heights in terraces. Is this custom, I thought, arelic of old Pales-worship?

III. 

The early history of Montepulciano is buried in impenetrable mists offable. No one can assign a date to the foundation of these high-hillcities. The eminence on which it stands belongs to the volcanic systemof Monte Amiata, and must at some time have formed a portion of thecrater which threw that mighty mass aloft. But æons have passed sincethe _gran sasso di Maremma_ was a fire-vomiting monster, glaring likeEtna in eruption on the Tyrrhene sea; and through those centuries howmany races may have camped upon the summit we call Montepulciano!Tradition assigns the first quasi-historical settlement to Lars Porsena, who is said to have made it his summer residence, when the lower andmore marshy air of Clusium became oppressive. Certainly it must havebeen a considerable town in the Etruscan period. Embedded in the wallsof palaces may still be seen numerous fragments of sculpturedbas-reliefs, the works of that mysterious people. A propos ofMontepulciano's importance in the early years of Roman history, Ilighted on a quaint story related by its very jejune annalist, SpinelloBenci. It will be remembered that Livy attributes the invasion of theGauls, who, after besieging Clusium, advanced on Rome, to thepersuasions of a certain Aruns. He was an exile from Clusium; andwishing to revenge himself upon his country-people, he allured theSenonian Gauls into his service by the promise of excellent wine, samples of which he had taken with him into Lombardy. Spinello Benciaccepts the legend literally, and continues: "These wines were sopleasing to the palate of the barbarians, that they were induced to quitthe rich and teeming valley of the Po, to cross the Apennines, and movein battle array against Chiusi. And it is clear that the wine whichAruns selected for the purpose was the same as that which is produced tothis day at Montepulciano. For nowhere else in the Etruscan district canwines of equally generous quality and fiery spirit be found, so adaptedfor export and capable of such long preservation. "

We may smile at the historian's _naïveté_. Yet the fact remains thatgood wine of Montepulciano can still allure barbarians of this epoch tothe spot where it is grown. Of all Italian vintages, with the exceptionof some rare qualities of Sicily and the Valtellina, it is, in my humbleopinion, the best. And when the time comes for Italy to develop theresources of her vineyards upon scientific principles, Montepulcianowill drive Brolio from the field and take the same place by the side ofChianti which Volnay occupies by common Macon. It will then be quotedupon wine-lists throughout Europe, and find its place upon the tables ofrich epicures in Hyperborean regions, and add its generous warmth toTransatlantic banquets. Even as it is now made, with very little carebestowed on cultivation and none to speak of on selection of the grape, the wine is rich and noble, slightly rough to a sophisticated palate, but clean in quality and powerful and racy. It deserves the enthusiasmattributed by Redi to Bacchus:[A]--

 Fill, fill, let us all have our will! But with _what_, with _what_, boys, shall we fill? Sweet Ariadne--no, not _that_ one--_ah_ no; Fill me the manna of Montepulciano: Fill me a magnum and reach it me. --Gods! How it glides to my heart by the sweetest of roads! Oh, how it kisses me, tickles me, bites me! Oh, how my eyes loosen sweetly in tears! I'm ravished! I'm rapt! Heaven finds me admissible! Lost in an ecstasy! blinded! invisible!-- Hearken all earth! We, Bacchus, in the might of our great mirth, To all who reverence us, are right thinkers; Hear, all ye drinkers! Give ear and give faith to the edict divine; Montepulciano's the King of all wine. 

It is necessary, however, that our modern barbarian should travel toMontepulciano itself, and there obtain a flask of _manna_ or _vinonobile_ from some trusty cellar-master. He will not find it bottled inthe inns or restaurants upon his road. 

IV. 

The landscape and the wine of Montepulciano are both well worth thetrouble of a visit to this somewhat inaccessible city. Yet more remainsto be said about the attractions of the town itself. In the Duomo, whichwas spoiled by unintelligent rebuilding at a dismal epoch of barren art, are fragments of one of the rarest monuments of Tuscan sculpture. Thisis the tomb of Bartolommeo Aragazzi. He was a native of Montepulciano, and secretary to Pope Martin V. , that _Papa Martino non vale unquattrino_, on whom, during his long residence in Florence, thestreet-boys made their rhymes. Twelve years before his death hecommissioned Donatello and Michelozzo Michelozzi, who about that periodwere working together upon the monuments of Pope John XXIII. AndCardinal Brancacci, to erect his own tomb at the enormous cost oftwenty-four thousand scudi. That thirst for immortality of fame, whichinspired the humanists of the Renaissance, prompted Aragazzi to thisprincely expenditure. Yet, having somehow won the hatred of hisfellow-students, he was immediately censured for excessive vanity. Lionardo Bruni makes his monument the theme of a ferocious onslaught. Writing to Poggio Bracciolini, Bruni tells a story how, while travellingthrough the country of Arezzo, he met a train of oxen dragging heavywaggons piled with marble columns, statues, and all the necessarydetails of a sumptuous sepulchre. He stopped, and asked what it allmeant. Then one of the contractors for this transport, wiping the sweatfrom his forehead, in utter weariness of the vexatious labour, at thelast end of his temper, answered: "May the gods destroy all poets, past, present, and future. " I inquired what he had to do with poets, and howthey had annoyed him. "Just this, " he replied, "that this poet, latelydeceased, a fool and windy-pated fellow, has ordered a monument forhimself; and with a view to erecting it, these marbles are being draggedto Montepulciano; but I doubt whether we shall contrive to get them upthere. The roads are too bad. " "But, " cried I, "do you believe _that_man was a poet--that dunce who had no science, nay, nor knowledgeeither? who only rose above the heads of men by vanity and doltishness?""I don't know, " he answered, "nor did I ever hear tell, while he wasalive, about his being called a poet; but his fellow-townsmen now decidehe was one; nay, if he had but left a few more moneybags, they'd swearhe was a god. Anyhow, but for his having been a poet, I would not havecursed poets in general. " Whereupon, the malevolent Bruni withdrew, andcomposed a scorpion-tailed oration, addressed to his friend Poggio, onthe suggested theme of "diuturnity in monuments, " and false ambition. Our old friends of humanistic learning--Cyrus, Alexander, Cæsar--meet usin these frothy paragraphs. Cambyses, Xerxes, Artaxerxes, Darius, arethrown in to make the gruel of rhetoric "thick and slab. " The wholeepistle ends in a long-drawn peroration of invective against "thatexcrement in human shape, " who had had the ill-luck, by pretence toscholarship, by big gains from the Papal treasury, by something in hismanners alien from the easy-going customs of the Roman Court, to rousethe rancour of his fellow-humanists. 

I have dwelt upon this episode, partly because it illustrates thepeculiar thirst for glory in the students of that time, but moreespecially because it casts a thin clear thread of actual light upon themasterpiece which, having been transported with this difficulty fromDonatello's workshop, is now to be seen by all lovers of fine art, inpart at least, at Montepulciano. In part at least: the phrase ispathetic. Poor Aragazzi, who thirsted so for "diuturnity in monuments, "who had been so cruelly assaulted in the grave by humanistic jealousy, expressing its malevolence with humanistic crudity of satire, wasdestined after all to be defrauded of his well-paid tomb. The monument, a master work of Donatello and his collaborator, was duly erected. Theoxen and the contractors, it appears, had floundered through the mud ofValdichiana, and struggled up the mountain-slopes of Montepulciano. Butwhen the church, which this triumph of art adorned, came to be repaired, the miracle of beauty was dismembered. The sculpture for which Aragazzispent his thousands of crowns, which Donatello touched with hisimmortalising chisel, over which the contractors vented their curses andBruni eased his bile; these marbles are now visible as mere _disjectamembra_ in a church which, lacking them, has little to detain atraveller's haste. 

On the left hand of the central door, as you enter, Aragazzi lies, insenatorial robes, asleep; his head turned slightly to the right upon thepillow, his hands folded over his breast. Very noble are the draperies, and dignified the deep tranquillity of slumber. Here, we say, is a goodman fallen upon sleep, awaiting resurrection. The one commanding themeof Christian sculpture, in an age of Pagan feeling, has been adequatelyrendered. Bartolommeo Aragazzi, like Ilaria del Carretto at Lucca, likethe canopied doges in S. Zanipolo at Venice, like the Acciauoli in theFlorentine Certosa, like the Cardinal di Portogallo in Samminiato, iscarved for us as he had been in life, but with that life suspended, itsfever all smoothed out, its agitations over, its pettinesses dignifiedby death. This marmoreal repose of the once active man symbolises forour imagination the state into which he passed four centuries ago, butin which, according to the creed, he still abides, reserved for judgmentand reincarnation. The flesh, clad with which he walked our earth, maymoulder in the vaults beneath. But it will one day rise again; and arthas here presented it imperishable to our gaze. This is how theChristian sculptors, inspired by the majestic calm of classic art, dedicated a Christian to the genius of repose. Among the nations ofantiquity this repose of death was eternal; and being unable to conceiveof a man's body otherwise than for ever obliterated by the flames offuneral, they were perforce led back to actual life when they wouldcarve his portrait on a tomb. But for Christianity the rest of the gravehas ceased to be eternal. Centuries may pass, but in the end it must bebroken. Therefore art is justified in showing us the man himself in animagined state of sleep. Yet this imagined state of sleep is soincalculably long, and by the will of God withdrawn from human prophecy, that the ages sweeping over the dead man before the trumpets ofarchangels wake him, shall sooner wear away memorial stone than stir hisslumber. It is a slumber, too, unterrified, unentertained by dreams. Suspended animation finds no fuller symbolism than the sculptor herepresents to us in abstract form. 

The boys of Montepulciano have scratched Messer Aragazzi's sleepingfigure with _graffiti_ at their own free will. Yet they have had nopower to erase the poetry of Donatello's mighty style. That, in spite ofBruni's envy, in spite of injurious time, in spite of the still worseinsult of the modernised cathedral and the desecrated monument, embalmshim in our memory and secures for him the diuturnity for which he paidhis twenty thousand crowns. Money, methinks, beholding him, was rarelybetter expended on a similar ambition. And ambition of this sort, relying on the genius of such a master to give it wings for perpetuityof time, is, _pace_ Lionardo Bruni, not ignoble. 

Opposite the figure of Messer Aragazzi are two square bas-reliefs fromthe same monument, fixed against piers of the nave. One representsMadonna enthroned among worshippers; members, it may be supposed, ofAragazzi's household. Three angelic children, supporting the childChrist upon her lap, complete that pyramidal form of composition whichFra Bartolommeo was afterwards to use with such effect in painting. Theother bas-relief shows a group of grave men and youths, clasping handswith loveliest interlacement; the placid sentiment of human fellowshiptranslated into harmonies of sculptured form. Children below run up totouch their knees, and reach out boyish arms to welcome them. Two youngmen, with half-draped busts and waving hair blown off their foreheads, anticipate the type of adolescence which Andrea del Sarto perfected inhis S. John. We might imagine that this masterly panel was intended torepresent the arrival of Messer Aragazzi in his home. It is a scene fromthe domestic life of the dead man, duly subordinated to the recumbentfigure, which, when the monument was perfect, would have dominated thewhole composition. 

Nothing in the range of Donatello's work surpasses these two bas-reliefsfor harmonies of line and grouping, for choice of form, for beauty ofexpression, and for smoothness of surface-working. The marble is ofgreat delicacy, and is wrought to a wax-like surface. At the high altarare three more fragments from the mutilated tomb. One is a long lowfrieze of children bearing garlands, which probably formed the base ofAragazzi's monument, and now serves for a predella. The remaining piecesare detached statues of Fortitude and Faith. The former reminds us ofDonatello's S. George; the latter is twisted into a strained attitude, full of character, but lacking grace. What the effect of theseemblematic figures would have been when harmonised by the architecturalproportions of the sepulchre, the repose of Aragazzi on his sarcophagus, the suavity of the two square panels and the rhythmic beauty of thefrieze, it is not easy to conjecture. But rudely severed from theirsurroundings, and exposed in isolation, one at each side of the altar, they leave an impression of awkward discomfort on the memory. A certainhardness, peculiar to the Florentine manner, is felt in them. But thisquality may have been intended by the sculptors for the sake of contrastwith what is eminently graceful, peaceful, and melodious in the otherfragments of the ruined masterpiece. 

V. 

At a certain point in the main street, rather more than half way fromthe Albergo del Marzocco to the piazza, a tablet has been let into thewall upon the left-hand side. This records the fact that here in 1454was born Angelo Ambrogini, the special glory of Montepulciano, thegreatest classical scholar and the greatest Italian poet of thefifteenth century. He is better known in the history of literature asPoliziano, or Politianus, a name he took from his native city, when hecame, a marvellous boy, at the age of ten, to Florence, and joined thehousehold of Lorenzo de' Medici. He had already claims upon Lorenzo'shospitality. For his father, Benedetto, by adopting the cause of Pierode' Medici in Montepulciano, had exposed himself to bitter feuds andhatred of his fellow-citizens. To this animosity of party warfare hefell a victim a few years previously. We only know that he was murdered, and that he left a helpless widow with five children, of whom Angelo wasthe eldest. The Ambrogini or Cini were a family of some importance inMontepulciano; and their dwelling-house is a palace of considerablesize. From its eastern windows the eye can sweep that vast expanse ofcountry, embracing the lakes of Thrasymene and Chiusi, which has beenalready described. What would have happened, we wonder, if MesserBenedetto, the learned jurist, had not espoused the Medicean cause andembroiled himself with murderous antagonists? Would the little Angelohave grown up in this quiet town, and practised law, and lived and dieda citizen of Montepulciano? In that case the lecture-rooms of Florencewould never have echoed to the sonorous hexameters of the "Rusticus" and"Ambra. " Italian literature would have lacked the "Stanze" and "Orfeo. "European scholarship would have been defrauded of the impulse given toit by the "Miscellanea. " The study of Roman law would have missed thoselabours on the Pandects, with which the name of Politian is honourablyassociated. From the Florentine society of the fifteenth century wouldhave disappeared the commanding central figure of humanism, which nowcontrasts dramatically with the stern monastic Prior of S. Mark. Benedetto's tragic death gave Poliziano to Italy and to posterity. 

VI. 

Those who have a day to spare at Montepulciano can scarcely spend itbetter than in an excursion to Pienza and San Quirico. Leaving the cityby the road which takes a westerly direction, the first object ofinterest is the Church of San Biagio, placed on a fertile plateauimmediately beneath the ancient acropolis. It was erected by Antonio diSan Gallo in 1518, and is one of the most perfect specimens existing ofthe sober classical style. The Church consists of a Greek square, continued at the east end into a semicircular tribune, surmounted by acentral cupola, and flanked by a detached bell-tower, ending in apyramidal spire. The whole is built of solid yellow travertine, amaterial which, by its warmth of colour, is pleasing to the eye, andmitigates the mathematical severity of the design. Upon entering, wefeel at once what Alberti called the music of this style; its large andsimple harmonies, depending for effect upon sincerity of plan andjustice of balance. The square masses of the main building, theprojecting cornices and rounded tribune, meet together and soar up intothe cupola; while the grand but austere proportions of the arches andthe piers compose a symphony of perfectly concordant lines. The music isgrave and solemn, architecturally expressed in terms of measured spaceand outlined symmetry. The whole effect is that of one thing pleasant tolook upon, agreeably appealing to our sense of unity, charming us bygrace and repose; not stimulative nor suggestive, not multiform normysterious. We are reminded of the temples imagined by FrancescoColonna, and figured in his _Hypnerotomachia Poliphili_. One of theseshrines has, we feel, come into actual existence here; and the religiousceremonies for which it is adapted are not those of the Christianworship. Some more primitive, less spiritual rites, involving less oftragic awe and deep-wrought symbolism, should be here performed. It isbetter suited for Polifilo's lustration by Venus Physizoe than for themass on Easter morning. And in this respect, the sentiment of thearchitecture is exactly faithful to that mood of religious feeling whichappeared in Italy under the influences of the classical revival--whenthe essential doctrines of Christianity were blurred with Pantheism;when Jehovah became _Jupiter Optimus Maximus_; and Jesus was the _Heros_of Calvary, and nuns were _Virgines Vestales_. In literature this moodoften strikes us as insincere and artificial. But it admitted ofrealisation and showed itself to be profoundly felt in architecture. 

After leaving Madonna di San Biagio, the road strikes at once into anopen country, expanding on the right towards the woody ridge of MonteFallonica, on the left toward Cetona and Radicofani, with Monte Amiatafull in front--its double crest and long volcanic slope recalling Etna;the belt of embrowned forest on its flank, made luminous by sunlight. Far away stretches the Sienese Maremma; Siena dimly visible upon hergentle hill; and still beyond, the pyramid of Volterra, huge andcloud-like, piled against the sky. The road, as is almost invariable inthis district, keeps to the highest line of ridges, winding much, andfollowing the dimplings of the earthy hills. Here and there a solitarycastello, rusty with old age, and turned into a farm, juts intopicturesqueness from some point of vantage on a mound surrounded withgreen tillage. But soon the dull and intolerable _creta_, ash-greyearth, without a vestige of vegetation, furrowed by rain, and desolatelybreaking into gullies, swallows up variety and charm. It is difficult tobelieve that this _creta_ of Southern Tuscany, which has all theappearance of barrenness, and is a positive deformity in the landscape, can be really fruitful. Yet we are frequently being told that it onlyneeds assiduous labour to render it enormously productive. 

When we reached Pienza we were already in the middle of a countrywithout cultivation, abandoned to the marl. It is a little place, perched upon the ledge of a long sliding hill, which commands the valeof Orcia; Monte Amiata soaring in aërial majesty beyond. Its old namewas Cosignano. But it had the honour of giving birth to Æneas SylviusPiccolomini, who, when he was elected to the Papacy and had assumed thetitle of Pius II. , determined to transform and dignify his nativevillage, and to call it after his own name. From that time forwardCosignano has been known as Pienza. 

Pius II. Succeeded effectually in leaving his mark upon the town. Andthis forms its main interest at the present time. We see in Pienza howthe most active-minded and intelligent man of his epoch, therepresentative genius of Italy in the middle of the fifteenth century, commanding vast wealth and the Pontifical prestige, worked out his whimof city-building. The experiment had to be made upon a small scale; forPienza was then and was destined to remain a village. Yet here, uponthis miniature piazza--in modern as in ancient Italy the meeting-pointof civic life, the forum--we find a cathedral, a palace of the bishop, a palace of the feudal lord, and a palace of the commune, arranged upona well-considered plan, and executed after one design in a consistentstyle. The religious, municipal, signorial, and ecclesiastical functionsof the little town are centralised around the open market-place, onwhich the common people transacted business and discussed affairs. Piusentrusted the realization of his scheme to a Florentine architect;whether Bernardo Rossellino, or a certain Bernardo di Lorenzo, is stilluncertain. The same artist, working in the flat manner of Florentinedomestic architecture, with rusticated basements, rounded windows andbold projecting cornices--the manner which is so nobly illustrated bythe Rucellai and Strozzi palaces at Florence--executed also for Pius themonumental Palazzo Piccolomini at Siena. It is a great misfortune forthe group of buildings he designed at Pienza, that they are huddledtogether in close quarters on a square too small for their effect. Awant of space is peculiarly injurious to the architecture of this date, 1462, which, itself geometrical and spatial, demands a certain harmonyand liberty in its surroundings, a proportion between the room occupiedby each building and the masses of the edifice. The style is severe andprosaic. Those charming episodes and accidents of fancy, in which theGothic style and the style of the earlier Lombard Renaissance abounded, are wholly wanting to the rigid, mathematical, hard-headed genius of theFlorentine quattrocento. Pienza, therefore, disappoints us. Its heavypalace frontispieces shut the spirit up in a tight box. We seem unableto breathe, and lack that element of life and picturesqueness which thesplendid retinues of nobles in the age of Pinturicchio might have addedto the now forlorn Piazza. 

Yet the material is a fine warm travertine, mellowing to dark red, brightening to golden, with some details, especially the tower of thePalazzo Communale, in red brick. This building, by the way, is imitatedin miniature from that of Florence. The cathedral is a small church ofthree aisles, equally high, ending in what the French would call a_chevet_. Pius had observed this plan of construction somewhere inAustria, and commanded his architect, Bernardo, to observe it in hisplan. He was attracted by the facilities for window-lighting which itoffered; and what is very singular, he provided by the Bull of hisfoundation for keeping the walls of the interior free from frescoes andother coloured decorations. The result is that, though the interioreffect is pleasing, the church presents a frigid aspect to eyesfamiliarised with warmth of tone in other buildings of that period. Thedetails of the columns and friezes are classical; and the façade, strictly corresponding to the structure, and very honest in itsdecorative elements, is also of the earlier Renaissance style. But thevaulting and some of the windows are pointed. 

The Palazzo Piccolomini, standing at the right hand of the Duomo, is avast square edifice. The walls are flat and even, pierced at regularintervals with windows, except upon the south-west side, where therectangular design is broken by a noble double Loggiata, gallery risingabove gallery--serene curves of arches, grandly proportioned columns, massive balustrades, a spacious corridor, a roomy vaulting--opening outupon the palace garden, and offering fair prospect over the woodedheights of Castiglione and Rocca d'Orcia, up to Radicofani and shadowyAmiata. It was in these double tiers of galleries, in the garden beneathand in the open inner square of the palazzo, that the great life ofItalian aristocracy displayed itself. Four centuries ago these spaces, now so desolate in their immensity, echoed to the tread of serving-men, the songs of pages; horse-hooves struck upon the pavement of the court;spurs jingled on the staircases; the brocaded trains of ladies sweepingfrom their chambers rustled on the marbles of the loggia; knights lettheir hawks fly from the garden-parapets; cardinals and abbreviatorsgathered round the doors from which the Pope would issue, when he rosefrom his siesta to take the cool of evening in those airy colonnades. How impossible it is to realise that scene amid this solitude! Thepalazzo still belongs to the Piccolomini family. But it has fallen intosomething worse than ruin--the squalor of half-starved existence, shornof all that justified its grand proportions. Partition-walls have beenrun up across its halls to meet the requirements of our contractedmodern customs. Nothing remains of the original decorations except onecarved chimney-piece, an emblazoned shield, and a frescoed portrait ofthe founder. All movable treasures have been made away with. And yet thecarved heraldics of the exterior, the coat of Piccolomini, "argent, on across azure five crescents or, " the Papal ensigns, keys, and tiara, andthe monogram of Pius, prove that this country dwelling of a Pope mustonce have been rich in details befitting its magnificence. With theexception of the very small portion reserved for the Signori, when theyvisit Pienza, the palace has become a granary for country produce in astarveling land. There was one redeeming point about it to my mind. Thatwas the handsome young man, with earnest Tuscan eyes and a wonderfullysweet voice, the servant of the Piccolomini family, who lives here withhis crippled father, and who showed us over the apartments. 

We left Pienza and drove on to S. Quirico, through the same wrinkledwilderness of marl; wasteful, uncultivated, bare to every wind thatblows. A cruel blast was sweeping from the sea, and Monte Amiatadarkened with rain clouds. Still the pictures, which formed themselvesat intervals, as we wound along these barren ridges, were very fair tolook upon, especially one, not far from S. Quirico. It had forforeground a stretch of tilth--olive-trees, honeysuckle hedges, andcypresses. Beyond soared Amiata in all its breadth and blueair-blackness, bearing on its mighty flanks the broken cliffs and tuftedwoods of Castiglione and the Rocca d'Orcia; eagles' nests emerging froma fertile valley-champaign, into which the eye was led for rest. It sochanced that a band of sunlight, escaping from filmy clouds, touchedthis picture with silvery greys and soft greens--a suffusion of vaporousradiance, which made it for one moment a Claude landscape. 

S. Quirico was keeping _festa_. The streets were crowded with healthyhandsome men and women from the contado. This village lies on the edgeof a great oasis in the Sienese desert--an oasis, formed by the watersof the Orcia and Asso sweeping down to join Ombrone, and stretching onto Montalcino. We put up at the sign of the "Two Hares, " where a notablehousewife gave us a dinner of all we could desire; _frittata dicervelle_, good fish, roast lamb stuffed with rosemary, salad andcheese, with excellent wine and black coffee, at the rate of three_lire_ a head. 

The attraction of S. Quirico is its gem-like little collegiata, aLombard church of the ninth century, with carved portals of thethirteenth. It is built of golden travertine; some details in brownsandstone. The western and southern portals have pillars resting on thebacks of lions. On the western side these pillars are four slendercolumns, linked by snake-like ligatures. On the southern side theyconsist of two carved figures--possibly S. John and the ArchangelMichael. There is great freedom and beauty in these statues, as also inthe lions which support them, recalling the early French and Germanmanner. In addition, one finds the usual Lombard grotesques--twosea-monsters, biting each other; harpy-birds; a dragon with a twistedtail; little men grinning and squatting in adaptation to coigns andangles of the windows. The toothed and chevron patterns of the north arequaintly blent with rude acanthus scrolls and classical egg-mouldings. Over the western porch is a Gothic rose window. Altogether this churchmust be reckoned one of the most curious specimens of that hybridarchitecture, fusing and appropriating different manners, whichperplexes the student in Central Italy. It seems strangely out of placein Tuscany. Yet, if what one reads of Toscanella, a village betweenViterbo and Orbetello, be true, there exist examples of a similarfantastic Lombard style even lower down. 

The interior was most disastrously gutted and "restored" in 1731: itsopen wooden roof masked by a false stucco vaulting. A few relics, sparedby the eighteenth century Vandals, show that the church was once richin antique curiosities. A marble knight in armour lies on his back, halfhidden by the pulpit stairs. And in the choir are half a dozen rarelybeautiful panels of tarsia, executed in a bold style and on a largescale. One design--a man throwing his face back, and singing, while heplays a mandoline; with long thick hair and fanciful berretta; behindhim a fine line of cypresses and other trees--struck me as singularlylovely. In another I noticed a branch of peach, broad leaves and ripefruit, not only drawn with remarkable grace and power, but so modelledas to stand out with the roundness of reality. 

The whole drive of three hours back to Montepulciano was one longbanquet of inimitable distant views. Next morning, having to takefarewell of the place, we climbed to the Castello, or _arx_ of the oldcity! It is a ruined spot, outside the present walls, upon the southernslope, where there is now a farm, and a fair space of shortsheep-cropped turf, very green and grassy, and gemmed with little pinkgeraniums as in England in such places. The walls of the old castle, overgrown with ivy, are broken down to their foundations. This maypossibly have been done when Montepulciano was dismantled by the Sienesein 1232. At that date the Commune succumbed to its more powerfulneighbours. The half of its inhabitants were murdered, and itsfortifications were destroyed. Such episodes are common enough in thehistory of that internecine struggle for existence between the Italianmunicipalities, which preceded the more famous strife of Guelfs andGhibellines. Stretched upon the smooth turf of the Castello, we badeadieu to the divine landscape bathed in light and mountain air--toThrasymene and Chiusi and Cetona; to Amiata, Pienza, and S. Quirico; toMontalcino and the mountains of Volterra; to Siena and Cortona; and, closer to Monte Fallonica, Madonna di Biagio, the house-roofs and thePalazzo tower of Montepulciano. 

FOOTNOTES:

[A] From Leigh Hunt's Translation. 

SPRING WANDERINGS. 

ANA-CAPRI. 

The storm-clouds at this season, though it is the bloom of May, aredaily piled in sulky or menacing masses over Vesuvius and the Abruzzi, frothing out their curls of moulded mist across the bay, and climbingthe heavens with toppling castle towers and domes of alabaster. 

We made the most of a tranquil afternoon, where there was an armisticeof storm, to climb the bluff of Mount Solaro. A ruined fort caps thatlimestone bulwark; and there we lay together, drinking the influences ofsea, sun, and wind. Immeasurably deep beneath us plunged the precipices, deep, deep descending to a bay where fisher boats were rocking, diminished to a scale that made the fishermen in them invisible. Lowdown above the waters wheeled white gulls, and higher up the hawks andospreys of the cliff sailed out of sunlight into shadow. Immitigablestrength is in the moulding of this limestone, and sharp, cleardefiniteness marks yon clothing of scant brushwood where the fearlessgoats are browsing. The sublime of sculpturesque in crag structure ishere, refined and modulated by the sweetness of sea distances. For theair came pure and yielding to us over the unfooted sea; and at thebasement of those fortress-cliffs the sea was dreaming in its caves;and far away, to east and south and west, soft light was blent with mistupon the surface of the shimmering waters. 

The distinction between prospects viewed from a mountain overlooking agreat plain, or viewed from heights that, like this, dominate the sea, principally lies in this: that while the former only offer cloud shadowscast upon the fields below our feet, in the latter these shadows arediversified with cloud reflections. This gives superiority in qualitiesof colour, variety of tone, and luminous effect to the sea, compensatingin some measure for the lack of those associations which render theoutlook over a wide extent of populated land so thrilling. The emergenceof towered cities into sunlight at the skirts of moving shadows, theliquid lapse of rivers half disclosed by windings among woods, theupturned mirrors of unruffled lakes, are wanting to the sea. For suchepisodes the white sails of vessels, with all their wistfulness of goingto and fro on the mysterious deep, are but a poor exchange. Yet thesea-lover may justify his preference by appealing to the beauty ofempurpled shadows, toned by amethyst or opal or shining with violetlight, reflected from the clouds that cross and find in those darkshields a mirror. There are suggestions, too, of immensity, of liberty, of action, presented by the boundless horizons and the changefulchangeless tracts of ocean which no plain possesses. 

It was nigh upon sunset when we descended to Ana-Capri. That evening theclouds assembled suddenly. The armistice of storm was broken. They wereterribly blue, and the sea grew dark as steel beneath them, till themoment when the sun's lip reached the last edge of the waters. Then acourier of rosy flame sent forth from him passed swift across the gulf, touching, where it trod, the waves with accidental fire. The messengerreached Naples; and in a moment, as by some diabolical illumination, thesinful city kindled into light like glowing charcoal. From Posilippo onthe left, along the palaces of the Chiaja, up to S. Elmo on the hill, past Santa Lucia, down on the Marinella, beyond Portici, beyond Torredel Greco, where Vesuvius towered up aloof, an angry mount ofamethystine gloom, the conflagration spread and reached Pompeii, anddwelt on Torre dell'Annunziata. Stationary, lurid, it smouldered whilethe day died slowly. The long, densely populated sea-line from Pozzuolito Castellammare burned and smoked with intensest incandescence, sendinga glare of fiery mist against the threatening blue behind, and fringingwith pomegranate-coloured blots the water where no light now lingered. It is difficult to bend words to the use required. The scene in spite ofnatural suavity and grace, had become like Dante's first glimpse of theCity of Dis--like Sodom and Gomorrah when fire from heaven descended ontheir towers before they crumbled into dust. 

FROM CAPRI TO ISCHIA. 

After this, for several days, Libeccio blew harder. No boats could leaveor come to Capri. From the piazza parapet we saw the wind scooping thesurface of the waves, and flinging spray-fleeces in sheets upon thechurning water. As they broke on Cape Campanella, the rollers climbed infoam--how many feet?--and blotted out the olive trees above theheadland. The sky was always dark with hanging clouds and masses oflow-lying vapour, very moist, but scarcely raining--lightning withoutthunder in the night. 

Such weather is unexpected in the middle month of May, especially whenthe olives are blackened by December storms, and the orange-treesdespoiled of foliage, and the tendrils of the vines yellow with cold. The walnut-trees have shown no sign of making leaves. Only the figs seemto have suffered little. 

It had been settled that we should start upon the first seafaring dawnfor Ischia or Sorrento, according as the wind might set; and I was gladwhen, early one morning, the captain of the _Serena_ announced amoderate sirocco. When we reached the little quay we found the surf ofthe libeccio still rolling heavily into the gulf. A gusty south-eastercrossed it, tearing spray-crests from the swell as it went plungingonward. The sea was rough enough; but we made fast sailing, our captainsteering with a skill which it was beautiful to watch, his five oarsmenpicturesquely grouped beneath the straining sail. The sea slapped andbroke from time to time on our windward quarter, drenching the boat withbrine; and now and then her gunwale scooped into the shoulder of a waveas she shot sidling up it. Meanwhile enormous masses of leaden-colouredclouds formed above our heads and on the sea-line; but these were alwaysshifting in the strife of winds, and the sun shone through thempetulantly. As we climbed the rollers, or sank into their trough, theoutline of the bay appeared in glimpses, shyly revealed, suddenlywithdrawn from sight; the immobility and majesty of mountains contrastedwith the weltering waste of water round us--now blue and garish wherethe sunlight fell, now shrouded in squally rain-storms, and then againsullen beneath a vaporous canopy. Each of these vignettes wasphotographed for one brief second on the brain, and swallowed by thehurling drift of billows. The painter's art could but ill have renderedthat changeful colour in the sea, passing from tawny cloud-reflectionsand surfaces of glowing violet to bright blue or impenetrable purpleflecked with boiling foam, according as a light-illuminated or ashadowed facet of the moving mass was turned to sight. 

Half-way across the gulf the sirocco lulled; the sail was lowered, andwe had to make the rest of the passage by rowing. Under the lee ofIschia we got into comparatively quiet water; though here the beautifulItalian sea was yellowish green with churned-up sand, like an unripeorange. We passed the castle on its rocky island, with the domed churchwhich has been so often painted in _gouache_ pictures through the lasttwo centuries, and soon after noon we came to Casamicciola. 

LA PICCOLA SENTINELLA. 

Casamicciola is a village on the north side of the island, in itscentre, where the visitors to the mineral baths of Ischia chieflycongregate. One of its old-established inns is called La PiccolaSentinella. The first sight on entrance is an open gallery, with a pinkwall on which bloom magnificent cactuses, sprays of thick-clusteringscarlet and magenta flowers. This is a rambling house, built insuccessive stages against a hill, with terraces and verandahs openingon unexpected gardens to the back and front. Beneath its long irregularfaçade there spreads a wilderness of orange-trees and honeysuckles androses, verbenas, geraniums and mignonette, snapdragons, gazenias andstocks, exceeding bright and fragrant, with the green slopes of MonteEpomeo for a background and Vesuvius for far distance. There arewonderful bits of detail in this garden. One dark, thick-foliaged olive, I remember, leaning from the tufa over a lizard-haunted wall, featheredwaist-high in huge acanthus-leaves. The whole rich orchard ground ofCasamicciola is dominated by Monte Epomeo, the extinct volcano which maybe called the _raison d'être_ of Ischia; for this island is nothing buta mountain lifted by the energy of fire from the sea-basement. Itsfantastic peaks and ridges, sulphur-coloured, dusty grey, and tawny, with brushwood in young leaf upon the cloven flanks, form a singularpendant to the austere but more artistically modelled limestone crags ofCapri. Not two islands that I know, within so short a space of sea, offer two pictures so different in style and quality of loveliness. Theinhabitants are equally distinct in type. Here, in spite of what DeMusset wrote somewhat affectedly about the peasant girls--

 Ischia! c'est là qu'on a des yeux, C'est là qu'un corsage amoureux Serre la hanche. Sur un bas rouge bien tiré Brille, sous le jupon doré, La mule blanche--

in spite of these lines I did not find the Ischia women eminent, asthose of Capri are, for beauty. But the young men have fine, loose, faun-like figures, and faces that would be strikingly handsome but fortoo long and prominent noses. They are a singular race, graceful inmovement. 

Evening is divine in Ischia. From the topmost garden terrace of the innone looks across the sea toward Terracina, Gaeta, and those descendingmountain buttresses, the Phlegræan plains and the distant snows of theAbruzzi. Rain-washed and luminous, the sunset sky held Hesper tremblingin a solid green of beryl. Fireflies flashed among the orange blossoms. Far away in the obscurity of eastern twilight glared the smoulderingcone of Vesuvius--a crimson blot upon the darkness--a Cyclop's eye, bloodshot and menacing. 

The company in the Piccola Sentinella, young and old, were decrepit, with an odd, rheumatic, shrivelled look upon them. The dining-roomreminded me, as certain rooms are apt to do, of a ship's saloon. I feltas though I had got into the cabin of the _Flying Dutchman_, and thatall these people had been sitting there at meat a hundred years, throughstorm and shine, for ever driving onward over immense waves in anenchanted calm. 

ISCHIA AND FORIO. 

One morning we drove along the shore, up hill, and down, by the Portod'Ischia to the town and castle. This country curiously combines thequalities of Corfu and Catania. The near distance, so richly cultivated, with the large volcanic slopes of Monte Epomeo rising from the sea, islike Catania. Then, across the gulf, are the bold outlines and snowy peaksof the Abruzzi, recalling Albanian ranges. Here, as in Sicily, the oldlava is overgrown with prickly pear and red valerian. Mesembrianthemums--Imust be pardoned this word; for I cannot omit those fleshy-leaved creepers, with their wealth of gaudy blossoms, shaped like sea anemones, colouredlike strawberry and pine-apple cream-ices--mesembrianthemums, then, tumblein torrents from the walls, and large-cupped white convolvuluses curlabout the hedges. The Castle Rock, with Capri's refined sky-colouredoutline relieving its hard profile on the horizon, is one of thoseexceedingly picturesque objects just too theatrical to be artistic. Itseems ready-made for a back scene in _Masaniello_, and cries out tothe chromo-lithographer, "Come and make the most of me!" Yet this morningall things, in sea, earth, and sky, were so delicately tinted and bathedin pearly light that it was difficult to be critical. 

In the afternoon we took the other side of the island, driving throughLacca to Forio. One gets right round the bulk of Epomeo, and looks upinto a weird region called Le Falange, where white lava streams havepoured in two broad irregular torrents among broken precipices. Florioitself is placed at the end of a flat headland, boldly thrust into thesea; and its furthest promontory bears a pilgrimage church, intenselywhite and glaring. 

There is something arbitrary in the memories we make of places casuallyvisited, dependent as they are upon our mood at the moment, or on anaccidental interweaving of impressions which the _genius loci_ blendsfor us. Of Forio two memories abide with me. The one is of a youngwoman, with very fair hair, in a light blue dress, standing beside anolder woman in a garden. There was a flourishing pomegranate-tree abovethem. The whiteness and the dreamy smile of the young woman seemedstrangely out of tune with her strong-toned southern surroundings. Icould have fancied her a daughter of some moist north-western isle ofScandinavian seas. My other memory is of a lad, brown, handsome, powerfully-featured, thoughtful, lying curled up in the sun upon a sortof ladder in his house-court, profoundly meditating. He had a book inhis hand, and his finger still marked the place where he had read. Helooked as though a Columbus or a Campanella might emerge from hisearnest, fervent, steadfast adolescence. Driving rapidly along, andleaving Forio in all probability for ever, I kept wondering whetherthese two lives, discerned as though in vision, would meet--whether shewas destined to be his evil genius, whether posterity would hear of himand journey to his birthplace in this world-neglected Forio. Suchreveries are futile. Yet who entirely resists them?

MONTE EPOMEO. 

About three on the morning which divides the month of May into two equalparts I woke and saw the waning moon right opposite my window, stayed inher descent upon the slope of Epomeo. Soon afterwards Christian calledme, and we settled to ascend the mountain. Three horses and a stoutblack donkey, with their inevitable grooms, were ordered; and we tookfor guide a lovely faun-like boy, goat-faced, goat-footed, with gentlemanners and pliant limbs swaying beneath the breath of impulse. He wascalled Giuseppe. 

The way leads past the mineral baths and then strikes uphill, at firstthrough lanes cut deep in the black lava. The trees met almost overhead. It is like Devonshire, except that one half hopes to see tropicalfoxgloves with violet bells and downy leaves sprouting among the lushgrasses and sweet-scented ferns upon those gloomy, damp, warm walls. After this we skirted a thicket of arbutus, and came upon the longvolcanic ridge, with divinest outlook over Procida and Miseno towardVesuvius. Then once more we had to dive into brown sandstone gullies, extremely steep, where the horses almost burst their girths inscrambling, and the grooms screamed, exasperating their confusion withencouragement and curses. Straight or bending like a willow wand, Giuseppe kept in front. I could have imagined he had stepped to lifefrom one of Lionardo's fancy-sprighted studies. 

After this fashion we gained the spine of mountain which composesIschia--the smooth ascending ridge that grows up from those easternwaves to what was once the apex of fire-vomiting Inarime, and breaks inprecipices westward, a ruin of gulfed lava, tortured by the violence ofpent Typhoeus. Under a vast umbrella pine we dismounted, rested, andsaw Capri. Now the road skirts slanting-wise along the further flank ofEpomeo, rising by muddy earth-heaps and sandstone hollows to the quaintpinnacles which build the summit. There is no inconsiderable peril inriding over this broken ground; for the soil crumbles away, and theravines open downward, treacherously masked with brushwood. 

On Epomeo's topmost cone a chapel dedicated to S. Niccolo da Bari, theItalian patron of seamen, has been hollowed from the rock. Attached toit is the dwelling of two hermits, subterranean, with long darkcorridors and windows opening on the western seas. Church and hermitagealike are scooped, with slight expenditure of mason's skill, from solidmountain. The windows are but loopholes, leaning from which the town ofForio is seen, 2500 feet below; and the jagged precipices of themenacing Falange toss their contorted horror forth to sea and sky. Through gallery and grotto we wound in twilight under a monk's guidance, and came at length upon the face of the crags above Casamicciola. A fewsteps upward, cut like a ladder in the stone, brought us to the topmostpeak--a slender spire of soft, yellowish tufa. It reminded me (withdifferences) of the way one climbs the spire at Strasburg, and standsupon that temple's final crocket, with nothing but a lightning conductorto steady swimming senses. Different indeed are the views unrolledbeneath the peak of Epomeo and the pinnacle of Strasburg! Vesuvius, withthe broken lines of Procida, Miseno, and Lago Fusaro for foreground; thesculpturesque beauty of Capri, buttressed in everlasting calm upon thewaves; the Phlegræan plains and champaign of Volturno, stretchingbetween smooth seas and shadowy hills; the mighty sweep of Naples' bay;all merged in blue; aërial, translucent, exquisitely frail. In thisethereal fabric of azure the most real of realities, the most solid ofsubstances, seem films upon a crystal sphere. 

The hermit produced some flasks of amber-coloured wine from his storesin the grotto. These we drank, lying full-length upon the tufa in themorning sunlight. The panorama of sea, sky, and long-drawn lines ofcoast, breathless, without a ripple or a taint of cloud, spread far andwide around us. Our horses and donkey cropped what little grass, blentwith bitter herbage, grew on that barren summit. Their grooms helped usout with the hermit's wine, and turned to sleep face downward. The wholescene was very quiet, islanded in immeasurable air. Then we asked theboy, Giuseppe, whether he could guide us on foot down the cliffs ofMonte Epomeo to Casamicciola. This he was willing and able to do; for hetold me that he had spent many months each year upon the hill-side, tending goats. When rough weather came, he wrapped himself in a blanketfrom the snow that falls and melts upon the ledges. In summer time hebasked the whole day long, and slept the calm ambrosial nights away. Something of this free life was in the burning eyes, long clusteringdark hair, and smooth brown bosom of the faun-like creature. Hisgraceful body had the brusque, unerring movement of the goats heshepherded. Human thought and emotion seemed a-slumber in this youth whohad grown one with nature. As I watched his careless incarnateloveliness I remembered lines from an old Italian poem of romance, describing a dweller of the forest, who

 Haunteth the woodland aye 'neath verdurous shade, Eateth wild fruit, drinketh of running stream; And such-like is his nature, as 'tis said, That ever weepeth he when clear skies gleam, Seeing of storms and rain he then hath dread, And feareth lest the sun's heat fail for him; But when on high hurl winds and clouds together, Full glad is he and waiteth for fair weather. 

Giuseppe led us down those curious volcanic _balze_, where the soil issoft as marl, with tints splashed on it of pale green and rose andorange, and a faint scent in it of sulphur. They break away into wildchasms, where rivulets begin; and here the narrow watercourses made forus plain going. The turf beneath our feet was starred with cyclamens andwavering anemones. At last we reached the chestnut woods, and so bywinding paths descended on the village. Giuseppe told me, as we walked, that in a short time he would be obliged to join the army. Hecontemplated this duty with a dim and undefined dislike. Nor could I, too, help dreading and misliking it for him. The untamed, gentlecreature, who knew so little but his goats as yet, whose nights had beenpassed from childhood _à la belle étoile_, whose limbs had never beencumbered with broadcloth or belt--for him to be shut up in the barrackof some Lombard city, packed in white conscript's sacking, drilled, taught to read and write, and weighted with the knapsack and the musket!There was something lamentable in the prospect. But such is the burdenof man's life, of modern life especially. United Italy demands of herchildren that by this discipline they should be brought into thatharmony which builds a nation out of diverse elements. 

FROM ISCHIA TO NAPLES. 

Ischia showed a new aspect on the morning of our departure. A sea-mistpassed along the skirts of the island, and rolled in heavy masses roundthe peaks of Monte Epomeo, slowly condensing into summer clouds, andsoftening each outline with a pearly haze, through which shone emeraldglimpses of young vines and fig-trees. 

We left in a boat with four oarsmen for Pozzuoli. For about an hour thebreeze carried us well, while Ischia behind grew ever lovelier, soft asvelvet, shaped like a gem. The mist had become a great white luminouscloud--not dense and alabastrine, like the clouds of thunder; but filmy, tender, comparable to the atmosphere of Dante's moon. Porpoises andsea-gulls played and fished about our bows, dividing the dark brine inspray. The mountain distances were drowned in bluish vapour--Vesuviusquite invisible. About noon the air grew clearer, and Capri reared herfortalice of sculptured rock, aërially azure, into liquid ether. I knownot what effect of atmosphere or light it is that lifts an island fromthe sea by interposing that thin edge of lustrous white between it andthe water. But this phenomenon to-day was perfectly exhibited. Like amirage on the wilderness, like Fata Morgana's palace ascending from thedeep, the pure and noble vision stayed suspense 'twixt heaven and ocean. At the same time the breeze failed, and we rowed slowly between Procidaand Capo Miseno--a space in old-world history athrong with Cæsar'snavies. When we turned the point, and came in sight of Baiæ, the windfreshened and took us flying into Pozzuoli. The whole of this coast hasbeen spoiled by the recent upheaval of Monte Nuovo with its lava floodsand cindery deluges. Nothing remains to justify its fame among theancient Romans and the Neapolitans of Boccaccio's and Pontano's age. Itis quite wrecked, beyond the power even of hendecasyllables to bringagain its breath of beauty:

 Mecum si sapies, Gravina, mecum Baias, et placidos coles recessus, Quos ipsæ et veneres colunt, et illa Quæ mentes hominum regit voluptas. Hic vina et choreæ jocique regnant, Regnant et charites facetiæque. Has sedes amor, has colit cupido. Hic passim juvenes puellulæque Ludunt, et tepidis aquis lavantur, Coenantque et dapibus leporibusque Miscent delitias venustiores: Miscent gaudia et osculationes, Atque una sociis toris foventur, Has te ad delitias vocant camoenæ; Invitat mare, myrteumque littus; Invitaut volucres canoræ, et ipse Gaurus pampineas parat corollas. [B]

At Pozzuoli we dined in the Albergo del Ponte di Caligola (Heaven savethe mark!), and drank Falernian wine of modern and indifferent vintage. Then Christian hired two open carriages for Naples. He and I sat in thesecond. In the first we placed the two ladies of our party. They had alarge, fat driver. Just after we had all passed the gate a big fellowrushed up, dragged the corpulent coachman from his box, pulled out aknife, and made a savage thrust at the man's stomach. At the same momenta _guardia-porta_, with drawn cutlass, interposed and struck between thecombatants. They were separated. Their respective friends assembled intwo jabbering crowds, and the whole party, uttering vociferousobjurgations, marched off, as I imagined, to the watch-house. A veryshabby lazzarone, without more ado, sprang on the empty box, and we madehaste for Naples. Being only anxious to get there, and not at allcurious about the squabble which had deprived us of our fat driver, Irelapsed into indifference when I found that neither of the men to whoselot we had fallen was desirous of explaining the affair. It wassufficient cause for self-congratulation that no blood had been shed, and that the Procuratore del Rè would not require our evidence. 

The Grotta di Posilippo was a sight of wonder, with the afternoon sunslanting on its festoons of creeping plants above the westernentrance--the gas lamps, dust, huge carts, oxen, and _contadini_ in itssubterranean darkness--and then the sudden revelation of the bay andcity as we jingled out into the summery air again by Virgil's tomb. 

NIGHT AT POMPEII. 

On to Pompeii in the clear sunset, falling very lightly upon mountains, islands, little ports, and indentations of the bay. 

From the railway station we walked above half a mile to the Albergo delSole under a lucid heaven of aqua-marine colour, with Venus large in itupon the border line between the tints of green and blue. 

The Albergo del Sole is worth commemorating. We stepped, without theintervention of courtyard or entrance hall, straight from the little inngarden into an open, vaulted room. This was divided into twocompartments by a stout column supporting round arches. Wooden gatesfurnished a kind of fence between the atrium and what an old Pompeianwould have styled the triclinium. For in the further part a table waslaid for supper and lighted with suspended lamps. And here a party ofartists and students drank and talked and smoked. A great live peacock, half asleep and winking his eyes, sat perched upon a heavy wardrobewatching them. The outer chamber, where we waited in arm-chairs of amplegirth, had its _loggia_ windows and doors open to the air. There weresinging-birds in cages; and plants of rosemary, iris, and arundo sprangcarelessly from holes in the floor. A huge vase filled to overflowingwith oranges and lemons, the very symbol of generous prodigality, stoodin the midst, and several dogs were lounging round. The outer twilight, blending with the dim sheen of the lamps, softened this pretty scene topicturesqueness. Altogether it was a strange and unexpected place. Muchexperienced as the nineteenth-century nomad may be in inns, he willrarely receive a more powerful and refreshing impression, entering oneat evenfall, than here. 

There was no room for us in the inn. We were sent, attended by a boywith a lantern, through fields of dew-drenched barley and foldedpoppies, to a farmhouse overshadowed by four spreading pines. Exceedingly soft and grey, with rose-tinted weft of steam upon itssummit, stood Vesuvius above us in the twilight. Something in the recentimpression of the dimly-lighted supper-room, and in the idyllicsimplicity of this lantern-litten journey through the barley, suggested, by one of those inexplicable stirrings of association which affect tiredsenses, a dim, dreamy thought of Palestine and Bible stories. Thefeeling of the _cenacolo_ blent here with feelings of Ruth's cornfields, and the white square houses with their flat roofs enforced the illusion. Here we slept in the middle of a _contadino_ colony. Some of the folkhad made way for us; and by the wheezing, coughing, and snoring ofseveral sorts and ages in the chamber next me, I imagine they must haveendured considerable crowding. My bed was large enough to have containeda family. Over its head there was a little shrine, hollowed in thethickness of the wall, with several sacred emblems and a shallow vaseof holy water. On dressers at each end of the room stood glass shrines, occupied by finely-dressed Madonna dolls and pots of artificial flowers. Above the doors S. Michael and S. Francis, roughly embossed in lowrelief and boldly painted, gave dignity and grandeur to the walls. Theseshowed some sense for art in the first builders of the house. But thetaste of the inhabitants could not be praised. There were countlessgaudy prints of saints, and exactly five pictures of the Bambino, verybig, and sprawling in a field alone. A crucifix, some old bottles, agun, old clothes suspended from pegs, pieces of peasant pottery andchina, completed the furniture of the apartment. 

But what a view it showed when Christian next morning opened the door!From my bed I looked across the red-tiled terrace to the stone pineswith their velvet roofage and the blue-peaked hills of Stabiæ. 

SAN GERMANO. 

No one need doubt about his quarters in this country town. The Albergodi Pompeii is a truly sumptuous place. Sofas, tables, and chairs in oursitting-room are made of buffalo horns, very cleverly pieced together, but torturing the senses with suggestions of impalement. Sitting orstanding, one felt insecure. When would the points run into us? whenshould we begin to break these incrustations off? and would the wholefabric crumble at a touch into chaotic heaps of horns?

It is market day, and the costumes in the streets are brilliant. Thewomen wear a white petticoat, a blue skirt made straight and tightlybound above it, a white richly-worked bodice, and the whitesquare-folded napkin of the Abruzzi on their heads. Their jacket is ofred or green--pure colour. A rug of striped red, blue, yellow, and blackprotects the whole dress from the rain. There is a very noble quality ofgreen--sappy and gemmy--like some of Titian's or Giorgione's--in thestuffs they use. Their build and carriage are worthy of goddesses. 

Rain falls heavily, persistently. We must ride on donkeys, inwaterproofs, to Monte Cassino. Mountain and valley, oak wood and ilexgrove, lentisk thicket and winding river-bed, are drowned alike insoft-descending, soaking rain. Far and near the landscape swims in rain, and the hill-sides send down torrents through their watercourses. 

The monastery is a square, dignified building, of vast extent andprincely solidity. It has a fine inner court, with sumptuous staircasesof slabbed stone leading to the church. This public portion of theedifice is both impressive and magnificent, without sacrifice ofreligious severity to parade. We acknowledge a successful compromisebetween the austerity of the order and the grandeur befitting the fame, wealth, prestige, and power of its parent foundation. The church itselfis a tolerable structure of the Renaissance--costly marble incrustationsand mosaics, meaningless Neapolitan frescoes. One singular episode inthe mediocrity of art adorning it, is the tomb of Pietro dei Medici. Expelled from Florence in 1494, he never returned, but was drowned inthe Garigliano. Clement VII. Ordered, and Duke Cosimo I. Erected, thismarble monument--the handicraft, in part at least, of Francesco di SanGallo--to their relative. It is singularly stiff, ugly, out of place--atonce obtrusive and insignificant. 

A gentle old German monk conducted Christian and me over theconvent--boy's school, refectory printing press, lithographic workshop, library, archives. We then returned to the church, from which we passedto visit the most venerable and sacred portion of the monastery. Thecell of S. Benedict is being restored and painted in fresco by theAustrian Benedictines; a pious but somewhat frigid process ofre-edification. This so-called cell is a many-chambered and very ancientbuilding, with a tower which is now embedded in the massivesuperstructure of the modern monastery. The German artists adorning itcontrive to blend the styles of Giotto, Fra Angelico, Egypt, andByzance, not without force and a kind of intense frozen pietism. S. Mauro's vision of his master's translation to heaven--the ladder oflight issuing between two cypresses, and the angels watching on thetower walls--might even be styled poetical. But the decorative angels onthe roof and other places, being adapted from Egyptian art, have astrange, incongruous appearance. 

Monasteries are almost invariably disappointing to one who goes insearch of what gives virtue and solidity to human life; and even MonteCassino was no exception. This ought not to be otherwise, seeing what apeculiar sympathy with the monastic institution is required to makethese cloisters comprehensible. The atmosphere of operose indolence, prolonged through centuries and centuries, stifles; nor can antiquityand influence impose upon a mind which resents monkery itself as anessential evil. That Monte Cassino supplied the Church with severalpotentates is incontestable. That mediæval learning and morality wouldhave suffered more without this brotherhood cannot be doubted. Yet it isdifficult to name men of very eminent genius whom the Cassinesi claim astheir alumni; nor, with Boccaccio's testimony to their carelessness, andwith the evidence of their library before our eyes, can we rate theirservices to civilised erudition very highly. I longed to possess thespirit, for one moment, of Montalembert. I longed for what is calledhistorical imagination, for the indiscriminate voracity of those men towhom world-famous sites are in themselves soul-stirring. 

FOOTNOTES:

[B] These verses are extracted from the second book of Pontano's_Hendecasyllabi_ (Aldus, 1513, p. 208). They so vividly paint theamusements of a watering-place in the fifteenth century that I havetranslated them:

With me, let but the mind be wise, Gravina, With me haste to thetranquil haunts of Baiæ, Haunts that pleasure hath made her home, andshe who Sways all hearts, the voluptuous Aphrodite. Here wine rules, andthe dance, and games and laughter; Graces reign in a round of mirthfulmadness; Love hath built, and desire, a palace here too, Where gladyouths and enamoured girls on all sides Play and bathe in the waves insunny weather, Dine and sup, and the merry mirth of banquets Blend withdearer delights and love's embraces, Blend with pleasures of youth andhoneyed kisses, Till, sport-tired, in the couch inarmed they slumber. Thee our Muses invite to these enjoyments; Thee those billows allure, the myrtled seashore, Birds allure with a song, and mighty Gaurus Twineshis redolent wreath of vines and ivy. 

MAY IN UMBRIA. 

FROM ROME TO TERNI. 

We left Rome in clear sunset light. The Alban Hills defined themselveslike a cameo of amethyst upon a pale blue distance; and over the SabineMountains soared immeasurable moulded domes of alabaster thunder-clouds, casting deep shadows, purple and violet, across the slopes of Tivoli. Towestward the whole sky was lucid, like some half-transparent topaz, flooded with slowly yellowing sunbeams. The Campagna has often beencalled a garden of wild-flowers. Just now poppy and aster, gladiolus andthistle, embroider it with patterns infinite and intricate beyond thepower of art. They have already mown the hay in part; and the billowytracts of greyish green, where no flowers are now in bloom, supply arestful groundwork to those brilliant patches of diapered _fioriture_. These are like praying-carpets spread for devotees upon the pavement ofa mosque whose roof is heaven. In the level light the scythes of themowers flash as we move past. From their bronzed foreheads the men tossmasses of dark curls. Their muscular flanks and shoulders sway sidewaysfrom firm yet pliant reins. On one hill, fronting the sunset, therestands a herd of some thirty huge grey oxen, feeding and raising theirheads to look at us, with just a flush of crimson on their horns anddewlaps. This is the scale of Mason's and of Costa's colouring. This isthe breadth and magnitude of Rome. 

Thus, through dells of ilex and oak, yielding now a glimpse of Tiber andS. Peter's, now opening on a purple section of the distant Sabine Hills, we came to Monte Rotondo. The sun sank; and from the flames where he hadperished, Hesper and the thin moon, very white and keen, grew slowlyinto sight. Now we follow the Tiber, a swollen, hurrying, turbid river, in which the mellowing Western sky reflects itself. This changefulmirror of swift waters spreads a dazzling foreground to valley, hill andlustrous heaven. There is orange on the far horizon, and a green oceanabove, in which sea-monsters fashioned from the clouds are floating. Yonder swims an elf with luminous hair astride upon a sea-horse, andfollowed by a dolphin plunging through the fiery waves. The orangedeepens into dying red. The green divides into daffodil and beryl. Theblue above grows fainter, and the moon and stars shine stronger. 

Through these celestial changes we glide into a landscape fit forFrancia and the early Umbrian painters. Low hills to right and left;suavely modelled heights in the far distance; a very quiet width ofplain, with slender trees ascending into the pellucid air; and down inthe mystery of the middle distance a glimpse of heaven-reflecting water. The magic of the moon and stars lends enchantment to this scene. Nopainting could convey their influences. Sometimes both luminariestremble, all dispersed and broken, on the swirling river. Sometimes theysleep above the calm cool reaches of a rush-grown mere. And here andthere a ruined turret, with a broken window and a tuft of shrubs uponthe rifted battlement, gives value to the fading pallor of the West. Thelast phase in the sunset is a change to blue-grey monochrome, faintlysilvered with starlight; hills, Tiber, fields and woods all floating inaërial twilight. There is no definition of outline now. The daffodil ofthe horizon has faded into scarcely perceptible pale greenish yellow. 

We have passed Stimigliano. Through the mystery of darkness we hurrypast the bridges of Augustus and the lights of Narni. 

THE CASCADES OF TERNI. 

The Velino is a river of considerable volume which rises in the highestregion of the Abruzzi, threads the upland valley of Rieti, andprecipitates itself by an artificial channel over cliffs about sevenhundred feet in height into the Nera. The water is densely charged withparticles of lime. This calcareous matter not only tends continually tochoke its bed, but clothes the precipices over which the torrentthunders with fantastic drapery of stalactite; and, carried on the windin foam, incrusts the forests that surround the falls with fine whitedust. These famous cascades are undoubtedly the most sublime andbeautiful which Europe boasts; and their situation is worthy of so greata natural wonder. We reach them through a noble mid-Italian landscape, where the mountain forms are austere and boldly modelled, but thevegetation, both wild and cultivated, has something of the South-Italianrichness. The hill-sides are a labyrinth of box and arbutus, withcoronilla in golden bloom. The turf is starred with cyclamens andorchises. Climbing the staircase paths beside the falls in morningsunlight, or stationed on the points of vantage that command theirsuccessive cataracts, we enjoyed a spectacle which might be compared inits effect upon the mind to the impression left by a symphony or atumultuous lyric. The turbulence and splendour, the swiftness andresonance, the veiling of the scene in smoke of shattered water-masses, the withdrawal of these veils according as the volume of the riverslightly shifted in its fall, the rainbows shimmering on the silverspray, the shivering of poplars hung above impendent precipices, thestationary grandeur of the mountains keeping watch around, the hurry andthe incoherence of the cataracts, the immobility of force and changefulchangelessness in nature, were all for me the elements of one stupendouspoem. It was like an ode of Shelley translated into symbolism, morevivid through inarticulate appeal to primitive emotion than any wordscould be. 

MONTEFALCO. 

The rich land of the Clitumnus is divided into meadows by transparentwatercourses, gliding with a glassy current over swaying reeds. Throughthis we pass, and leave Bevagna to the right, and ascend one of thoselong gradual roads which climb the hills where all the cities of theUmbrians perch. The view expands, revealing Spello, Assisi, Perugia onits mountain buttress, and the far reaches northward of the Tibervalley. Then Trevi and Spoleto came into sight, and the severehill-country above Gubbio in part disclosed itself. Over Spoleto thefierce witch-haunted heights of Norcia rose forbidding. This is the kindof panorama that dilates the soul. It is so large, so dignified, sobeautiful in tranquil form. The opulent abundance of the plain contrastswith the severity of mountain ranges desolately grand; and the name ofeach of all those cities thrills the heart with memories. 

The main object of a visit to Montefalco is to inspect its manyexcellent frescoes; painted histories of S. Francis and S. Jerome, byBenozzo Gozzoli; saints, angels, and Scripture episodes by the gentleTiberio d'Assisi. Full justice had been done to these, when a littleboy, seeing us lingering outside the church of S. Chiara, asked whetherwe should not like to view the body of the saint. This privilege couldbe purchased at the price of a small fee. It was only necessary to callthe guardian of her shrine at the high altar. Indolent, and in compliantmood, with languid curiosity and half-an-hour to spare, we assented. Ahandsome young man appeared, who conducted us with decent gravity into alittle darkened chamber behind the altar. There he lighted wax tapers, opened sliding doors in what looked like a long coffin, and drewcurtains. Before us in the dim light there lay a woman covered with ablack nun's dress. Only her hands, and the exquisitely beautiful palecontour of her face (forehead, nose, mouth, and chin, modelled in purestoutline, as though the injury of death had never touched her) werevisible. Her closed eyes seemed to sleep. She had the perfect peace ofLuini's S. Catherine borne by the angels to her grave on Sinai. I haverarely seen anything which surprised and touched me more. The religiousearnestness of the young custode, the hushed adoration of thecountry-folk who had silently assembled round us, intensified thesympathy-inspiring beauty of the slumbering girl. Could Julia, daughterof Claudius, have been fairer than this maiden, when the Lombard workmenfound her in her Latin tomb, and brought her to be worshipped on theCapitol? S. Chiara's shrine was hung round with her relics; and amongthese the heart extracted from her body was suspended. Upon it, apparently wrought into the very substance of the mummied flesh, wereimpressed a figure of the crucified Christ, the scourge, and the fivestigmata. The guardian's faith in this miraculous witness to hersainthood, the gentle piety of the men and women who knelt before it, checked all expressions of incredulity. We abandoned ourselves to thegenius of the place; forgot even to ask what Santa Chiara was sleepinghere; and withdrew, toned to a not unpleasing melancholy. Theworld-famous Saint Clair, the spiritual sister of S. Francis, lies inAssisi. I have often asked myself, Who, then, was this nun? What historyhad she? And I think now of this girl as of a damsel of romance, aSleeping Beauty in the wood of time, secluded from intrusive elements offact, and folded in the love and faith of her own simple worshippers. Among the hollows of Arcadia, how many rustic shrines in ancient daysheld saints of Hellas, apocryphal, perhaps, like this, but hallowed bytradition and enduring homage![C]

FOLIGNO. 

In the landscape of Raphael's votive picture, known as the Madonna diFoligno, there is a town with a few towers, placed upon a broad plain atthe edge of some blue hills. Allowing for that license as to detailswhich imaginative masters permitted themselves in matters of subordinateimportance, Raphael's sketch is still true to Foligno. The place has notmaterially changed since the beginning of the sixteenth century. Indeedrelatively to the state of Italy at large, it is still the same as inthe days of ancient Rome. Foligno forms a station of commanding interestbetween Rome and the Adriatic upon the great Flaminian Way. At Folignothe passes of the Apennines debouch into the Umbrian plain, which slopesgradually toward the valley of the Tiber, and from it the valley of theNera is reached by an easy ascent beneath the walls of Spoleto. An armyadvancing from the north by the Metaurus and the Furlo Pass must finditself at Foligno; and the level champaign round the city is welladapted to the maintenance and exercises of a garrison. In the days ofthe Republic and the Empire, the value of this position was wellunderstood; but Foligno's importance, as the key to the Flaminian Way, was eclipsed by two flourishing cities in its immediate vicinity, Hispellum and Mevania, the modern Spello and Bevagna. We might hazard aconjecture that the Lombards, when they ruled the Duchy of Spoleto, following their usual policy of opposing new military centres to theancient Roman municipia, encouraged Fulginium at the expense of her twoneighbours. But of this there is no certainty to build upon. All thatcan be affirmed with accuracy is that in the Middle Ages, while Spelloand Bevagna declined into the inferiority of dependent burghs, Folignogrew in power and became the chief commune of this part of Umbria. Itwas famous during the last centuries of struggle between the Italianburghers and their native despots, for peculiar ferocity in civilstrife. Some of the bloodiest pages in mediæval Italian history arethose which relate the vicissitudes of the Trinci family, the exhaustionof Foligno by internal discord, and its final submission to the Papalpower. Since railways have been carried from Rome through Narni andSpoleto to Ancona and Perugia, Foligno has gained considerably incommercial and military status. It is the point of intersection forthree lines; the Italian government has made it a great cavalry dépôt, and there are signs of reviving traffic in its decayed streets. Whetherthe presence of a large garrison has already modified the population, orwhether we may ascribe something to the absence of Roman municipalinstitutions in the far past, and to the savagery of the mediævalperiod, it is difficult to say. Yet the impression left by Foligno uponthe mind is different from that of Assisi, Spello, and Montefalco, whichare distinguished for a certain grace and gentleness in theirinhabitants. 

My window in the city wall looks southward across the plain to Spoleto, with Montefalco perched aloft upon the right, and Trevi on itsmountain-bracket to the left. From the topmost peaks of the SabineApennines, gradual tender sloping lines descend to find their quiet inthe valley of Clitumnus. The space between me and that distance isinfinitely rich with every sort of greenery, dotted here and there withtowers and relics of baronial houses. The little town is in commotion;for the working-men of Foligno and its neighbourhood have resolved tospend their earnings on a splendid festa--horse-races, and two nights offireworks. The acacias and pawlonias on the ramparts are in full bloomof creamy white and lilac. In the glare of Bengal lights these trees, with all their pendulous blossoms, surpassed the most fantastic ofartificial decorations. The rockets sent aloft into the sky amid thatsolemn Umbrian landscape were nowise out of harmony with nature. I neversympathised with critics who resent the intrusion of fireworks uponscenes of natural beauty. The Giessbach, lighted up at so much per headon stated evenings, with a band playing and a crowd of cockneys staring, presents perhaps an incongruous spectacle. But where, as here atFoligno, a whole city has made itself a festival, where there aremultitudes of citizens and soldiers and country-people slowly moving andgravely admiring, with the decency and order characteristic of anItalian crowd, I have nothing but a sense of satisfaction. 

It is sometimes the traveller's good fortune in some remote place tomeet with an inhabitant who incarnates and interprets for him the_genius loci_ as he has conceived it. Though his own subjectivity willassuredly play a considerable part in such an encounter, transferring tohis chance acquaintance qualities he may not possess, and connectingthis personality in some purely imaginative manner with thoughts derivedfrom study, or impressions made by nature; yet the stranger willhenceforth become the meeting-point of many memories, the central figurein a composition which derives from him its vividness. Unconsciously andinnocently he has lent himself to the creation of a picture, and roundhim, as around the hero of a myth, have gathered thoughts and sentimentsof which he had himself no knowledge. On one of these nights I had beenthreading the aisles of acacia-trees, now glaring red, now azure, as theBengal lights kept changing. My mind instinctively went back to scenesof treachery and bloodshed in the olden time, when Corrado Trinciparaded the mangled remnants of three hundred of his victims, heaped onmuleback, through Foligno, for a warning to the citizens. As theprocession moved along the ramparts, I found myself in contact with ayoung man, who readily fell into conversation. He was very tall, withenormous breadth of shoulders, and long sinewy arms, like Michelangelo'sfavourite models. His head was small, curled over with crisp black hair. Low forehead, and thick level eyebrows absolutely meeting over intenselybright fierce eyes. The nose descending straight from the brows, as in astatue of Hadrian's age. The mouth full-lipped, petulant, and passionateabove a firm round chin. He was dressed in the shirt, white trousers, and loose white jacket of a contadino; but he did not move with apeasant's slouch, rather with the elasticity and alertness of an untamedpanther. He told me that he was just about to join a cavalry regiment;and I could well imagine, when military dignity was added to that gait, how grandly he would go. This young man, of whom I heard nothing moreafter our half-hour's conversation among the crackling fireworks androaring cannon, left upon my mind an indescribable impression ofdangerousness--of "something fierce and terrible, eligible to burstforth. " Of men like this, then, were formed the Companies of Adventurewho flooded Italy with villany, ambition, and lawlessness in thefifteenth century. Gattamelata, who began life as a baker's boy at Narniand ended it with a bronze statue by Donatello on the public square inPadua, was of this breed. Like this were the Trinci and their bands ofmurderers. Like this were the bravi who hunted Lorenzaccio to death atVenice. Like this was Pietro Paolo Baglioni, whose fault, in the eyes ofMachiavelli, was that he could not succeed in being "perfettamentetristo. " Beautiful, but inhuman; passionate, but cold; powerful, butrendered impotent for firm and lofty deeds by immorality and treason;how many centuries of men like this once wasted Italy and plunged herinto servitude! Yet what material is here, under sterner discipline, andwith a nobler national ideal, for the formation of heroic armies. Ofsuch stuff, doubtless, were the Roman legionaries. When will theItalians learn to use these men as Fabius or as Cæsar, not as theVitelli and the Trinci used them? In such meditations, deeply stirred bythe meeting of my own reflections with one who seemed to represent forme in life and blood the spirit of the place which had provoked them, Isaid farewell to Cavallucci, and returned to my bed-room on thecity-wall. The last rockets had whizzed and the last cannons hadthundered ere I fell asleep. 

SPELLO. 

Spello contains some not inconsiderable antiquities--the remains of aRoman theatre, a Roman gate with the heads of two men and a womanleaning over it, and some fragments of Roman sculpture scattered throughits buildings. The churches, especially those of S. M. Maggiore and S. Francesco, are worth a visit for the sake of Pinturicchio. Nowhere, except in the Piccolomini Library at Siena, can that master's work infresco be better studied than here. The satisfaction with which heexecuted the wall paintings in S. Maria Maggiore is testified by his ownportrait introduced upon a panel in the decoration of the Virgin'schamber. The scrupulously rendered details of books, chairs, windowseats, &c. , which he here has copied, remind one of Carpaccio's study ofS. Benedict at Venice. It is all sweet, tender, delicate, and carefullyfinished; but without depth, not even the depth of Perugino's feeling. In S. Francesco, Pinturicchio, with the same meticulous refinement, painted a letter addressed to him by Gentile Baglioni. It lies on astool before Madonna and her court of saints. Nicety of execution, technical mastery of fresco as a medium for Dutch detail-painting, prettiness of composition, and cheerfulness of colouring, are noticeablethroughout his work here rather than either thought or sentiment. S. Maria Maggiore can boast a fresco of Madonna between a young episcopalsaint and Catherine of Alexandria from the hand of Perugino. The richyellow harmony of its tones, and the graceful dignity of its emotion, conveyed no less by a certain Raphaelesque pose and outline than bysuavity of facial expression, enable us to measure the distance betweenthis painter and his quasi-pupil Pinturicchio. 

We did not, however, drive to Spello to inspect either Roman antiquitiesor frescoes, but to see an inscription on the city walls about Orlando. It is a rude Latin elegiac couplet, saying that, "from the sign below, men may conjecture the mighty members of Roland, nephew of Charles; hisdeeds are written in history. " Three agreeable old gentlemen of Spello, who attended us with much politeness, and were greatly interested in myresearches, pointed out a mark waist-high upon the wall, where Orlando'sknee is reported to have reached. But I could not learn anything about aphallic monolith, which is said by Guérin or Panizzi to have beenidentified with the Roland myth at Spello. Such a column either neverexisted here, or had been removed before the memory of the presentgeneration. 

EASTER MORNING AT ASSISI. 

We are in the lower church of S. Francesco. High mass is being sung, with orchestra and organ and a choir of many voices. Candles are lightedon the altar, over-canopied with Giotto's allegories. From the lowsouthern windows slants the sun, in narrow bands, upon the many-colouredgloom and embrowned glory of these painted aisles. Women in brightkerchiefs kneel upon the stones, and shaggy men from the mountains standor lean against the wooden benches. There is no moving from point topoint. Where we have taken our station, at the north-western angle ofthe transept, there we stay till mass be over. The whole low-vaultedbuilding glows duskily; the frescoed roof, the stained windows, thefigure-crowded pavements blending their rich but subdued colours, likehues upon some marvellous moth's wings, or like a deep-toned rainbowmist discerned in twilight dreams, or like such tapestry as Easternqueens, in ancient days, wrought for the pavilion of an empress. Forthfrom this maze of mingling tints, indefinite in shade and sunbeams, leanearnest, saintly faces--ineffably pure--adoring, pitying, pleading;raising their eyes in ecstasy to heaven, or turning them in ruth towardearth. Men and women of whom the world was not worthy--at the hands ofthose old painters they have received the divine grace, the dove-likesimplicity, whereof Italians in the fourteenth century possessed theirrecoverable secret. Each face is a poem; the counterpart in paintingto a chapter from the Fioretti di San Francesco. Over the wholescene--in the architecture, in the frescoes, in the coloured windows, inthe gloom, on the people, in the incense, from the chiming bells, through the music--broods one spirit: the spirit of him who was "theco-espoused, co-transforate with Christ;" the ardent, the radiant, thebeautiful in soul; the suffering, the strong, the simple, the victoriousover self and sin; the celestial who trampled upon earth and rose onwings of ecstasy to heaven; the Christ-inebriated saint of visionssupersensual and life beyond the grave. Far down below the feet of thosewho worship God through him, S. Francis sleeps; but his soul, theincorruptible part of him, the message he gave the world, is in thespaces round us. This is his temple. He fills it like an unseen god. Notas Phoebus or Athene, from their marble pedestals; but as an abidingspirit, felt everywhere, nowhere seized, absorbing in itself allmysteries, all myths, all burning exaltations, all abasements, all love, self-sacrifice, pain, yearning, which the thought of Christ, sweepingthe centuries, hath wrought for men. Let, therefore, choir andcongregation raise their voices on the tide of prayers and praises; forthis is Easter morning--Christ is risen! Our sister, Death of the Body, for whom S. Francis thanked God in his hymn, is reconciled to us thisday, and takes us by the hand, and leads us to the gate whence floods ofheavenly glory issue from the faces of a multitude of saints. Pray, yepoor people; chant and pray. If all be but a dream, to wake from thiswere loss for you indeed!

PERUSIA AUGUSTA. 

The piazza in front of the Prefettura is my favourite resort on thesenights of full moon. The evening twilight is made up partly of sunsetfading over Thrasymene and Tuscany; partly of moonrise from themountains of Gubbio and the passes toward Ancona. The hills are cappedwith snow, although the season is so forward. Below our parapets thebulk of S. Domenico, with its gaunt, perforated tower, and the finergroup of S. Pietro, flaunting the arrowy "Pennacchio di Perugia, " jutout upon the spine of hill which dominates the valley of the Tiber. Asthe night gloom deepens, and the moon ascends the sky, these buildingsseem to form the sombre foreground to some French etching. Beyond themspreads the misty moon-irradiated plain of Umbria. Over all rise shadowyApennines, with dim suggestions of Assisi, Spello, Foligno, Montefalco, and Spoleto on their basements. Little thin whiffs of breezes, veryslight and searching, flit across, and shiver as they pass from Apennineto plain. The slowly moving population--women in veils, menwinter-mantled--pass to and fro between the buildings and the greyimmensity of sky. Bells ring. The bugles of the soldiers blow retreat inconvents turned to barracks. Young men roam the streets beneath, singingMay songs. Far, far away upon the plain, red through the vitreousmoonlight ringed with thundery gauze, fires of unnamed castellismoulder. As we lean from ledges eighty feet in height, gas vies withmoon in chequering illuminations on the ancient walls; Etruscanmouldings, Roman letters, high-piled hovels, suburban world-olddwellings plastered like martins' nests against the masonry. 

Sunlight adds more of detail to this scene. To the right of Subasio, where the passes go from Foligno towards Urbino and Ancona, heavy massesof thunder-cloud hang every day; but the plain and hill-buttresses areclear transparent blueness. First comes Assisi, with S. M. Degli Angelibelow; then Spello; then Foligno; then Trevi; and, far away, Spoleto;with, reared against those misty battlements, the village height ofMontefalco--the "ringhiera dell'Umbria, " as they call it in thiscountry. By daylight, the snow on yonder peaks is clearly visible, wherethe Monti della Sibilla tower up above the sources of the Nera andVelino from frigid wastes of Norcia. The lower ranges seem as thoughpainted, in films of airiest and palest azure, upon china; and thencomes the broad, green champaign, flecked with villages and farms. Justat the basement of Perugia winds Tiber, through sallows and greypoplar-trees, spanned by ancient arches of red brick, and guarded hereand there by castellated towers. The mills beneath their dams and weirsare just as Raphael drew them; and the feeling of air and space remindsone, on each coign of vantage, of some Umbrian picture. Every hedgerowis hoary with May-bloom and honeysuckle. The oaks hang out theirgolden-dusted tassels. Wayside shrines are decked with laburnum boughsand iris blossoms plucked from the copse-woods, and where spires ofpurple and pink orchis variegate the thin, fine grass. The land wavesfar and wide with young corn, emerald green beneath the olive-trees, which take upon their underfoliage tints reflected from this verdure orred tones from the naked earth. A fine race of _contadini_, with large, heroically-graceful forms, and beautiful dark eyes and noble faces, moveabout this garden, intent on ancient, easy tillage of the kind Saturniansoil. 

LA MAGIONE. 

On the road from Perugia to Cortona, the first stage ends at La Magione, a high hill-village commanding the passage from the Umbrian champaign tothe lake of Thrasymene. It has a grim square fortalice above it, now inruins, and a stately castle to the south-east, built about the time ofBraccio. Here took place that famous diet of Cesare Borgia's enemies, when the son of Alexander VI. Was threatening Bologna with his arms, andbidding fair to make himself supreme tyrant of Italy in 1502. It was thepolicy of Cesare to fortify himself by reducing the fiefs of the Churchto submission, and by rooting out the dynasties which had acquired asort of tyranny in Papal cities. The Varani of Camerino and the Manfrediof Faenza had been already extirpated. There was only too good reason tobelieve that the turn of the Vitelli at Città di Castello, of theBaglioni at Perugia, and of the Bentivogli at Bologna would come next. Pandolfo Petrucci at Siena, surrounded on all sides by Cesare'sconquests, and specially menaced by the fortification of Piombino, felthimself in danger. The great house of the Orsini, who swayed a largepart of the Patrimony of S. Peter's, and were closely allied to theVitelli, had even graver cause for anxiety. But such was the system ofItalian warfare, that nearly all these noble families lived by theprofession of arms, and most of them were in the pay of Cesare. When, therefore, the conspirators met at La Magione, they were plottingagainst a man whose money they had taken, and whom they had hithertoaided in his career of fraud and spoliation. 

The diet consisted of the Cardinal Orsini, an avowed antagonist ofAlexander VI. ; his brother Paolo, the chieftain of the clan; VitellozzoVitelli, lord of Città di Castello; Gian-Paolo Baglioni, made undisputedmaster of Perugia by the recent failure of his cousin Grifonetto'streason; Oliverotto, who had just acquired the March of Fermo by themurder of his uncle Giovanni da Fogliani; Ermes Bentivoglio, the heir ofBologna; and Antonio da Venafro, the secretary of Pandolfo Petrucci. These men vowed hostility on the basis of common injuries and commonfear against the Borgia. But they were for the most part stainedthemselves with crime, and dared not trust each other, and could notgain the confidence of any respectable power in Italy except the exiledDuke of Urbino. Procrastination was the first weapon used by the wilyCesare, who trusted that time would sow among his rebel captainssuspicion and dissension. He next made overtures to the leadersseparately, and so far succeeded in his perfidious policy as to drawVitellezzo Vitelli, Oliverotto da Fermo, Paolo Orsini, and FrancescoOrsini, Duke of Gravina, into his nets at Sinigaglia. Under pretext offair conference and equitable settlement of disputed claims, hepossessed himself of their persons, and had them strangled--two uponDecember 31, and two upon January 18, 1503. Of all Cesare's actions, this was the most splendid for its successful combination of sagacityand policy in the hour of peril, of persuasive diplomacy, and ofruthless decision when the time to strike his blow arrived. 

CORTONA. 

After leaving La Magione, the road descends upon the Lake of Thrasymenethrough oak-woods full of nightingales. The Lake lay basking, leaden-coloured, smooth and waveless, under a misty, rain-charged, sun-irradiated sky. At Passignano, close beside its shore, we stoppedfor mid-day. This is a little fishing village of very poor people, wholive entirely by labour on the waters. They showed us huge eels coiledin tanks, and some fine specimens of the silver carp--Reina del Lago. Itwas off one of the eels that we made our lunch; and taken, as he was, alive from his cool lodging, he furnished a series of dishes fit for aking. 

Climbing the hill of Cortona seemed a quite interminable business. Itpoured a deluge. Our horses were tired, and one lean donkey, who, aftermuch trouble, was produced from a farmhouse and yoked in front of them, rendered but little assistance. 

Next day we duly saw the Muse and Lamp in the Museo, the Fra Angelicos, and all the Signorellis. One cannot help thinking that too much fuss ismade nowadays about works of art--running after them for their ownsakes, exaggerating their importance, and detaching them as objects ofstudy, instead of taking them with sympathy and carelessness as pleasantor instructive adjuncts to our actual life. Artists, historians of art, and critics are forced to isolate pictures; and it is of profit to theirsouls to do so. But simple folk, who have no æsthetic vocation, whether reative or critical, suffer more than is good for them by compliancewith mere fashion. Sooner or later we shall return to the spirit of theages which produced these pictures, and which regarded them with less ofan industrious bewilderment than they evoke at present. 

I am far indeed from wishing to decry art, the study of art, or thebenefits to be derived from its intelligent enjoyment. I only mean tosuggest that we go the wrong way to work at present in this matter. Picture and sculpture galleries accustom us to the separation of artfrom life. Our methods of studying art, making a beginning of art-studywhile travelling, tend to perpetuate this separation. It is only onreflection, after long experience, that we come to perceive that themost fruitful moments in our art education have been casual andunsought, in quaint nooks and unexpected places, where nature, art, andlife are happily blent. 

The Palace of the Commune at Cortona is interesting because of theshields of Florentine governors, sculptured on blocks of grey stone, andinserted in its outer walls--Peruzzi, Albizzi, Strozzi, Salviati, amongthe more ancient--de' Medici at a later epoch. The revolutions in theRepublic of Florence may be read by a herald from these coats of armsand the dates beneath them. 

The landscape of this Tuscan highland satisfies me more and more withsense of breadth and beauty. From S. Margherita above the town theprospect is immense and wonderful and wild--up into those brown, forbidding mountains; down to the vast plain; and over to the cities ofChiusi, Montepulciano, and Foiano. The jewel of the view is Trasimeno, asilvery shield encased with serried hills, and set upon one corner ofthe scene, like a precious thing apart and meant for separatecontemplation. There is something in the singularity and circumscribedcompleteness of the mountain-girded lake, diminished by distance, whichwould have attracted Lionardo da Vinci's pencil, had he seen it. 

Cortona seems desperately poor, and the beggars are intolerable. Onelittle blind boy, led by his brother, both frightfully ugly and raggedurchins, pursued us all over the city, incessantly whining "Signore!Padrone!" It was only on the threshold of the inn that I ventured togive them a few coppers, for I knew well that any public beneficencewould raise the whole swarm of the begging population round us. Sittinglater in the day upon the piazza of S. Domenico, I saw the same blindboy taken by his brother to play. The game consisted in the littlecreature throwing his arms about the trunk of a big tree, and runninground and round it, clasping it. This seemed to make him quiteinexpressibly happy. His face lit up and beamed with that innerbeatitude blind people show--a kind of rapture shining over it, asthough nothing could be more altogether delightful. This little boy hadthe small pox at eight months, and has never been able to see since. Helooks sturdy, and may live to be of any age--doomed always, is thatpossible, to beg?

CHIUSI. 

What more enjoyable dinner can be imagined than a flask of excellentMontepulciano, a well-cooked steak, and a little goat's cheese in theinn of the Leone d'Oro at Chiusi? The windows are open, and the sun issetting. Monte Cetona bounds the view to the right, and the wooded hillsof Città della Pieve to the left. The deep green dimpled valley goesstretching away toward Orvieto; and at its end a purple mountain mass, distinct and solitary, which may peradventure be Soracte! The nearcountry is broken into undulating hills, forested with fine olives andoaks; and the composition of the landscape, with its crowning villages, is worthy of a background to an Umbrian picture. The breadth and depthand quiet which those painters loved, the space of lucid sky, thesuggestion of winding waters in verdant fields, all are here. Theevening is beautiful--golden light streaming softly from behind us onthis prospect, and gradually mellowing to violet and blue with starsabove. 

At Chiusi we visited several Etruscan tombs, and saw their red and blackscrawled pictures. One of the sepulchres was a well-jointed vault ofstone with no wall-paintings. The rest had been scooped out of theliving tufa. This was the excuse for some pleasant hours spent inwalking and driving through the country. Chiusi means for me themingling of grey olives and green oaks in limpid sunlight; deep leafylanes; warm sandstone banks; copses with nightingales and cyclamens andcuckoos; glimpses of a silvery lake; blue shadowy distances; thebristling ridge of Monte Cetona; the conical towers, Becca di Questo andBecca di Quello, over against each other on the borders; ways windingamong hedgerows like some bit of England in June, but not so full offlowers. It means all this, I fear, for me far more than theories aboutLars Porsena and Etruscan ethnology. 

GUBBIO. 

Gubbio ranks among the most ancient of Italian hill-towns. With its backset firm against the spine of central Apennines, and piled, house overhouse, upon the rising slope, it commands a rich tract of uplandchampaign, bounded southward toward Perugia and Foligno by peaked androlling ridges. This amphitheatre, which forms its source of wealth andindependence, is admirably protected by a chain of natural defences; andGubbio wears a singularly old-world aspect of antiquity and isolation. Houses climb right to the crests of gaunt bare peaks; and the brownmediæval walls with square towers which protected them upon the mountainside, following the inequalities of the ground, are still a markedfeature in the landscape. It is a town of steep streets and staircases, with quaintly framed prospects, and solemn vistas opening at every turnacross the lowland. One of these views might be selected for especialnotice. In front, irregular buildings losing themselves in country asthey straggle by the roadside; then the open post-road with a cypress tothe right; afterwards, the rich green fields, and on a bit of risingground an ancient farmhouse with its brown dependencies; lastly, theblue hills above Fossato, and far away a wrack of tumbling clouds. Allthis enclosed by the heavy archway of the Porta Romana, where sunlightand shadow chequer the mellow tones of a dim fresco, indistinct withage, but beautiful. 

Gubbio has not greatly altered since the middle ages. But poor peopleare now living in the palaces of noblemen and merchants. These newinhabitants have walled up the fair arched windows and slender portalsof the ancient dwellers, spoiling the beauty of the streets withoutmaterially changing the architectural masses. In that witching hour whenthe Italian sunset has faded, and a solemn grey replaces the glowingtones of daffodil and rose, it is not difficult, here dreaming byoneself alone, to picture the old noble life--the ladies moving alongthose open loggias, the young men in plumed caps and curling hair withone foot on those doorsteps, the knights in armour and the sumpter mulesand red-robed Cardinals defiling through those gates into the courtswithin. The modern bricks and mortar with which that picturesque scenehas been overlaid, the ugly oblong windows and bright green shutterswhich now interrupt the flowing lines of arch and gallery; thesedisappear beneath the fine remembered touch of a sonnet sung byFolgore, when still the Parties had their day, and this deserted citywas the centre of great aims and throbbing aspirations. 

The names of the chief buildings in Gubbio are strongly suggestive ofthe middle ages. They abut upon a Piazza de' Signori. One of them, thePalazzo del Municipio, is a shapeless unfinished block of masonry. It ishere that the Eugubine tables, plates of brass with Umbrian and Romanincised characters, are shown. The Palazzo de' Consoli has higherarchitectural qualities, and is indeed unique among Italian palaces forthe combination of massiveness with lightness in a situation ofunprecedented boldness. Rising from enormous substructures morticed intothe solid hill-side, it rears its vast rectangular bulk to a giddyheight above the town; airy loggias imposed on great forbidding massesof brown stone, shooting aloft into a light aërial tower. The emptyhalls inside are of fair proportions and a noble size, and the viewsfrom the open colonnades in all directions fascinate. But the finalimpression made by the building is one of square, tranquil, massivestrength--perpetuity embodied in masonry--force suggesting facility bydaring and successful addition of elegance to hugeness. Vast as it is, this pile is not forbidding, as a similarly weighty structure in theNorth would be. The fine quality of the stone and the delicate thoughsimple mouldings of the windows give it an Italian grace. 

These public palaces belong to the age of the Communes, when Gubbio wasa free town, with a policy of its own, and an important part to play inthe internecine struggles of Pope and Empire, Guelf and Ghibelline. Theruined, deserted, degraded Palazzo Ducale reminds us of the advent ofthe despots. It has been stripped of all its tarsia-work and sculpture. Only here and there a Fe. D. , with the cupping-glass of Federigo diMontefeltro, remains to show that Gubbio once became the fairest fief ofthe Urbino duchy. S. Ubaldo, who gave his name to this duke's son, wasthe patron of Gubbio, and to him the cathedral is dedicated--one lowenormous vault, like a cellar or feudal banqueting hall, roofed with asuccession of solid Gothic arches. This strange old church, and theHouse of Canons, buttressed on the hill beside it, have suffered lessfrom modernisation than most buildings in Gubbio. The latter, inparticular, helps one to understand what this city of grave palazzi musthave been, and how the mere opening of old doors and windows wouldrestore it to its primitive appearance. The House of the Canons has, infact, not yet been given over to the use of middle-class andproletariate. 

At the end of a day in Gubbio, it is pleasant to take our ease in theprimitive hostelry, at the back of which foams a mountain-torrent, rushing downward from the Apennines. The Gubbio wine is very fragrant, and of a rich ruby colour. Those to whom the tints of wine and jewelsgive a pleasure not entirely childish, will take delight in its specificblending of tawny hues with rose. They serve the table still, at Gubbio, after the antique Italian fashion, covering it with a cream-colouredlinen cloth bordered with coarse lace--the creases of the press, thescent of old herbs from the wardrobe, are still upon it--and the boardis set with shallow dishes of warm, white earthenware, basket-worked inopen lattice at the edge, which contain little separate messes of meat, vegetables, cheese, and comfits. The wine stands in strange, slenderphials of smooth glass, with stoppers; and the amber-coloured bread liesin fair round loaves upon the cloth. Dining thus is like sitting down tothe supper at Emmaus, in some picture of Gian Bellini or of Masolino. The very bareness of the room--its open rafters, plastered walls, primitive settees, and red-brick floor, on which a dog sits waiting fora bone--enhances the impression of artistic delicacy in the table. 

FROM GUBBIO TO FANO. 

The road from Gubbio, immediately after leaving the city, enters anarrow Alpine ravine, where a thin stream dashes over dark, red rocks, and pendent saxifrages wave to the winds. The carriage in which wetravelled at the end of May, one morning, had two horses, which ourdriver soon supplemented with a couple of white oxen. Slowly andtoilsomely we ascended between the flanks of barren hills--gaunt massesof crimson and grey crag, clothed at their summits with short turf andscanty pasture. The pass leads first to the little town of Scheggia, andis called the Monte Calvo, or bald mountain. At Scheggia, it joins thegreat Flaminian Way, or North road of the Roman armies. At the top thereis a fine view over the conical hills that dominate Gubbio, and, faraway, to noble mountains above the Furlo and the Foligno line of railwayto Ancona. Range rises over range, crossing at unexpected angles, breaking into sudden precipices, and stretching out long, exquisitely-modelled outlines, as only Apennines can do, in silverysobriety of colours toned by clearest air. Every square piece of thisaustere, wild landscape forms a varied picture, whereof the compositionis due to subtle arrangements of lines always delicate; and these linesseem somehow to have been determined in their beauty by the vastantiquity of the mountain system, as though they all had taken time tochoose their place and wear down into harmony. The effect of temperedsadness was heightened for us by stormy lights and dun clouds, high inair, rolling vapours and flying shadows, over all the prospect, tintedin ethereal grisaille. 

After Scheggia, one enters a land of meadow and oak-trees. This is thesacred central tract of Jupiter Apenninus, whose fane--

 Delubra Jovis saxoque minantes Apenninigenis cultæ pastoribus aræ

--once rose behind us on the bald Iguvian summits. A second little passleads from this region to the Adriatic side of the Italian water-shed, and the road now follows the Barano downward toward the sea. The valleyis fairly green with woods, where misletoe may here and there be seen onboughs of oak, and rich with cornfields. Cagli is the chief town of thedistrict, and here they show one of the best pictures left to us byRaphael's father, Giovanni Santi. It is a Madonna, attended by S. Peter, S. Francis, S. Dominic, S. John, and two angels. One of the angels istraditionally supposed to have been painted from the boy Raphael, andthe face has something which reminds us of his portraits. The wholecomposition, excellent in modelling, harmonious in grouping, soberly butstrongly coloured, with a peculiar blending of dignity and sweetness, grace and vigour, makes one wonder why Santi thought it necessary tosend his son from his own workshop to study under Perugino. He washimself a master of his art, and this, perhaps the most agreeable of hispaintings, has a masculine sincerity which is absent from at least thelater works of Perugino. 

Some miles beyond Cagli, the real pass of the Furlo begins. It owes itsname to a narrow tunnel bored by Vespasian in the solid rock, wherelimestone crags descend on the Barano. The Romans called this galleryPetra Pertusa, or Intercisa, or more familiarly Forulus, whence comesthe modern name. Indeed, the stations on the old Flaminian Way are stillwell marked by Latin designations; for Cagli is the ancient Calles, andFossombrone is Forum Sempronii, and Fano the Fanum Fortunæ. Vespasiancommemorated this early achievement in engineering by an inscriptioncarved on the living stone, which still remains; and Claudian, when hesang the journey of his Emperor Honorius from Rimini to Rome, speaksthus of what was even then an object of astonishment to travellers:--

 Lætior hinc fano recipit fortuna vetusto, Despiciturque vagus prærupta valle Metaurus, Qua mons arte patens vivo se perforat arcu Admittitque viam sectæ per viscera rupis. 

The Forulus itself may now be matched, on any Alpine pass, by severaltunnels of far mightier dimensions; for it is narrow, and does notextend more than 126 feet in length. But it occupies a fine position atthe end of a really imposing ravine. The whole Furlo Pass might, withouttoo much exaggeration, be described as a kind of Cheddar on the scale ofthe Via Mala. The limestone rocks, which rise on either hand above thegorge to an enormous height, are noble in form and solemn, like asuccession of gigantic portals, with stupendous flanking obelisks andpyramids. Some of these crag-masses rival the fantastic cliffs of Capri, and all consist of that southern mountain limestone which changes frompale yellow to blue grey and dusky orange. A river roars precipitatelythrough the pass, and the road-sides wave with many sorts ofcampanulas--a profusion of azure and purple bells upon the hard whitestone. Of Roman remains there is still enough (in the way of Romanbridges and bits of broken masonry) to please an antiquary's eye. Butthe lover of nature will dwell chiefly on the picturesque qualities ofthis historic gorge, so alien to the general character of Italianscenery, and yet so remote from anything to which Swiss travellingaccustoms one. 

The Furlo breaks out into a richer land of mighty oaks and wavingcornfields, a fat pastoral country, not unlike Devonshire in detail, with green uplands, and wild-rose tangled hedgerows, and much runningwater, and abundance of summer flowers. At a point above Fossombrone, the Barano joins the Metauro, and here one has a glimpse of far-awayUrbino, high upon its mountain eyrie. It is so rare, in spite ofimmemorial belief, to find in Italy a wilderness of wild flowers, that Ifeel inclined to make a list of those I saw from our carriage windows aswe rolled down lazily along the road to Fossombrone. Broom, and cytisus, and hawthorn mingled with roses, gladiolus, and saintfoil. There wereorchises, and clematis, and privet, and wild-vine, vetches of all hues, red poppies, sky-blue cornflowers, and lilac pimpernel. In the rougherhedges, dogwood, honeysuckle, pyracanth, and acacia made a network ofwhite bloom and blushes. Milk-worts of all bright and tender tintscombined with borage, iris, hawkweeds, harebells, crimson clover, thyme, red snapdragon, golden asters, and dreamy love-in-a-mist, to weave amarvellous carpet such as the looms of Shiraz or of Cashmere neverspread. Rarely have I gazed on Flora in such riot, such luxuriance, suchself-abandonment to joy. The air was filled with fragrances. Songs ofcuckoos and nightingales echoed from the copses on the hill-sides. Thesun was out, and dancing over all the landscape. 

After all this, Fano was very restful in the quiet sunset. It has asandy stretch of shore, on which the long, green-yellow rollers of theAdriatic broke into creamy foam, beneath the waning saffron light overPesaro and the rosy rising of a full moon. This Adriatic sea carries anEnglish mind home to many a little watering-place upon our coast. Incolour and the shape of waves it resembles our Channel. 

The seashore is Fano's great attraction; but the town has many churches, and some creditable pictures, as well as Roman antiquities. GiovanniSanti may here be seen almost as well as at Cagli; and of Perugino thereis one truly magnificent altar-piece--lunette, great centre panel, andpredella--dusty in its present condition, but splendidly painted, andhappily not yet restored or cleaned. It is worth journeying to Fano tosee this. Still better would the journey be worth the traveller's whileif he could be sure to witness such a game of _Pallone_ as we chancedupon in the Via dell'Arco di Augusto--lads and grown-men, tightly girt, in shirt sleeves, driving the great ball aloft into the air withcunning bias and calculation of projecting house-eaves. I do notunderstand the game; but it was clearly played something after themanner of our football, that is to say, with sides, and front and backplayers so arranged as to cover the greatest number of angles ofincidence on either wall. 

Fano still remembers that it is the Fane of Fortune. On the fountain inthe market-place stands a bronze Fortuna, slim and airy, offering herveil to catch the wind. May she long shower health and prosperity uponthe modern watering-place of which she is the patron saint!

FOOTNOTES:

[C] There is in reality no doubt or problem about this Saint Clair. Shewas born in 1275, and joined the Augustinian Sisterhood, dying young, in1308, as Abbess of her convent. Continual and impassioned meditation onthe Passion of our Lord impressed her heart with the signs of Hissuffering which have been described above. I owe this note to thekindness of an anonymous correspondent, whom I here thank. 

THE PALACE OF URBINO. 

I. 

At Rimini, one spring, the impulse came upon my wife and me to make ourway across San Marino to Urbino. In the Piazza, called apocryphallyafter Julius Cæsar, I found a proper _vetturino_, with a good carriageand two indefatigable horses. He was a splendid fellow, and bore a greathistoric name, as I discovered when our bargain was completed. "What areyou called?" I asked him. "_Filippo Visconti, per servirla!_" was theprompt reply. Brimming over with the darkest memories of the ItalianRenaissance, I hesitated when I heard this answer. The associationsseemed too ominous. And yet the man himself was so attractive--tall, stalwart, and well-looking--no feature of his face or limb of hisathletic form recalling the gross tyrant who concealed worse thanCaligula's ugliness from sight in secret chambers--that I shook thispreconception from my mind. As it turned out, Filippo Visconti hadnothing in common with his infamous namesake but the name. On a long andtrying journey, he showed neither sullen nor yet ferocious tempers; nor, at the end of it, did he attempt by any masterstroke of craft to wheedlefrom me more than his fair pay; but took the meerschaum pipe I gave himfor a keepsake, with the frank good-will of an accomplished gentleman. The only exhibition of his hot Italian blood which I remember did hishumanity credit. While we were ascending a steep hillside, he jumpedfrom his box to thrash a ruffian by the roadside for brutal treatment toa little boy. He broke his whip, it is true, in this encounter; risked adangerous quarrel; and left his carriage, with myself and wife insideit, to the mercy of his horses in a somewhat perilous position. But whenhe came back, hot and glowing, from this deed of justice, I could onlyapplaud his zeal. 

An Italian of this type, handsome as an antique statue, with therefinement of a modern gentleman and that intelligence which is innatein a race of immemorial culture, is a fascinating being. He may beabsolutely ignorant in all book-learning. He may be as ignorant as aBersagliere from Montalcino with whom I once conversed at Rimini, whogravely said that he could walk in three months to North America, andthought of doing it when his term of service was accomplished. But hewill display, as this young soldier did, a grace and ease of addresswhich are rare in London drawing-rooms; and by his shrewd remarks uponthe cities he has visited, will show that he possesses a fine naturaltaste for things of beauty. The speech of such men, drawn from thecommon stock of the Italian people, is seasoned with proverbial sayings, the wisdom of centuries condensed in a few nervous words. When emotionfires their brain, they break into spontaneous eloquence, or suggest themotive of a poem by phrases pregnant with imagery. 

For the first stage of the journey out of Rimini, Filippo's two horsessufficed. The road led almost straight across the level between quicksethedges in white bloom. But when we reached the long steep hill whichascends to San Marino, the inevitable oxen were called out, and wetoiled upwards leisurely through cornfields bright with red anemones andsweet narcissus. At this point pomegranate hedges replaced theMay-thorns of the plain. In course of time our _bovi_ brought us to theBorgo, or lower town, whence there is a further ascent of seven hundredfeet to the topmost hawk's-nest or acropolis of the republic. These weclimbed on foot, watching the view expand around us and beneath. Cragsof limestone here break down abruptly to the rolling hills, which go tolose themselves in field and shore. Misty reaches of the Adriatic closethe world to eastward. Cesena, Rimini, Verucchio, and countless hill-setvillages, each isolated on its tract of verdure conquered from the sterngrey soil, define the points where Montefeltri wrestled with Malatestasin long bygone years. Around are marly mountain-flanks in wrinkles andgnarled convolutions like some giant's brain, furrowed by riverscrawling through dry wasteful beds of shingle. Interminable ranges ofgaunt Apennines stretch, tier by tier, beyond; and over all thislandscape, a grey-green mist of rising crops and new-fledged oak-treeslies like a veil upon the nakedness of Nature's ruins. 

Nothing in Europe conveys a more striking sense of geological antiquitythan such a prospect. The denudation and abrasion of innumerable ages, wrought by slow persistent action of weather and water on an upheavedmountain mass, are here made visible. Every wave in that vast sea ofhills, every furrow in their worn flanks, tells its tale of a continuouscorrosion still in progress. The dominant impression is one ofmelancholy. We forget how Romans, countermarching Carthaginians, trodthe land beneath us. The marvel of San Marino, retaining independencethrough the drums and tramplings of the last seven centuries, isswallowed in a deeper sense of wonder. We turn instinctively in thoughtto Leopardi's musings on man's destiny at war with unknown nature-forcesand malignant rulers of the universe. 

 Omai disprezza Te, la natura, il brutto Poter che, ascoso, a comun danno impera, E l'infinita vanità dell tutto. 

And then, straining our eyes southward, we sweep the dim blue distancefor Recanati, and remember that the poet of modern despair anddiscouragement was reared in even such a scene as this. 

The town of San Marino is grey, narrow-streeted, simple; with a great, new, decent, Greek-porticoed cathedral, dedicated to the eponymoussaint. A certain austerity defines it from more picturesque hill-citieswith a less uniform history. There is a marble statue of S. Marino inthe choir of his church; and in his cell is shown the stone bed andpillow on which he took austere repose. One narrow window near thesaint's abode commands a proud but melancholy landscape of distant hillsand seaboard. To this, the great absorbing charm of San Marino, our eyesinstinctively, recurrently, take flight. It is a landscape which byvariety and beauty thralls attention, but which by its interminablesameness might grow almost overpowering. There is no relief. Thegladness shed upon far humbler Northern lands in May is ever absenthere. The German word _Gemüthlichkeit_, the English phrase "a home ofancient peace, " are here alike by art and nature untranslated intovisibilities. And yet (as we who gaze upon it thus are fain to think) ifperadventure the intolerable _ennui_ of this panorama should drive acitizen of San Marino into outlands, the same view would haunt himwhithersoever he went--the swallows of his native eyrie would shrillthrough his sleep--he would yearn to breathe its fine keen air inwinter, and to watch its iris-hedges deck themselves with blue inspring;--like Virgil's hero, dying, he would think of San Marino:_Aspicit, et dulces moriens reminiscitur Argos_. Even a passing strangermay feel the mingled fascination and oppression of this prospect--themonotony which maddens, the charm which at a distance grows upon themind, environing it with memories. 

Descending to the Borgo, we found that Filippo Visconti had ordered aluncheon of excellent white bread, pigeons, and omelette, with the bestred muscat wine I ever drank, unless the sharp air of the hills deceivedmy appetite. An Italian history of San Marino, including its statutes, in three volumes, furnished intellectual food. But I confess to havinglearned from these pages little else than this: first, that the survivalof the Commonwealth through all phases of European politics had beensemi-miraculous; secondly, that the most eminent San Marinesi had beenlawyers. It is possible on a hasty deduction from these two propositions(to which, however, I am far from wishing to commit myself), that thelatter is a sufficient explanation of the former. 

From San Marino the road plunges at a break-neck pace. We are now in thetrue Feltrian highlands, whence the Counts of Montefeltro issued in thetwelfth century. Yonder eyrie is San Leo, which formed the key ofentrance to the duchy of Urbino in campaigns fought many hundred yearsago. Perched on the crest of a precipitous rock, this fortress looks asthough it might defy all enemies but famine. And yet San Leo was takenand re-taken by strategy and fraud, when Montefeltro, Borgia, Malatesta, Rovere, contended for dominion in these valleys. Yonder is Sta. Agata, the village to which Guidobaldo fled by night when Valentino drove himfrom his dukedom. A little farther towers Carpegna, where one branch ofthe Montefeltro house maintained a countship through seven centuries, and only sold their fief to Rome in 1815. Monte Coppiolo lies behind, Pietra Rubia in front: two other eagle's-nests of the same brood. What aroad it is! It beats the tracks on Exmoor. The uphill and downhill ofDevonshire scorns compromise or mitigation by _détour_ and zigzag. Buthere geography is on a scale so far more vast, and the roadway is so farworse metalled than with us in England--knotty masses of talc and nodesof sandstone cropping up at dangerous turnings--that only Dante's wordsdescribe the journey:--

 Vassi in Sanleo, e discendesi in Noli, Montasi su Bismantova in cacume Con esso i piè; ma qui convien ch'uom voli. 

Of a truth, our horses seemed rather to fly than scramble up and downthese rugged precipices; Visconti cheerily animating them with the bravespirit that was in him, and lending them his wary driver's help of handand voice at need. 

We were soon upon a cornice-road between the mountains and theAdriatic: following the curves of gulch and cleft ravine: winding roundruined castles set on points of vantage; the sea-line high above theirgrass-grown battlements, the shadow-dappled champaign girdling theirbastions mortised on the naked rock. Except for the blue lights acrossthe distance, and the ever-present sea, these earthy Apennines would betoo grim. Infinite air and this spare veil of spring-tide greenery onfield and forest soothe their sternness. Two rivers, swollen by laterains, had to be forded. Through one of these, the Foglia, bare-leggedpeasants led the way. The horses waded to their bellies in the tawnywater. Then more hills and vales; green nooks with rippling corn-crops;secular oaks attired in golden leafage. The clear afternoon air rangwith the voices of a thousand larks overhead. The whole world seemedquivering with light and delicate ethereal sound. And yet my mind turnedirresistibly to thoughts of war, violence, and pillage. How often hasthis intermediate land been fought over by Montefeltro and Brancaleoni, by Borgia and Malatesta, by Medici and Della Rovere! Its _contadini_ arerobust men, almost statuesque in build, and beautiful of feature. Nowonder that the Princes of Urbino, with such materials to draw from, sold their service and their troops to Florence, Rome, S. Mark, andMilan. The bearing of these peasants is still soldierly and proud. Yetthey are not sullen or forbidding like the Sicilians, whose habits oflife, for the rest, much resemble theirs. The villages, there as here, are few and far between, perched high on rocks, from which the folkdescend to till the ground and reap the harvest. But the southern_brusquerie_ and brutality are absent from this district. The men havesomething of the dignity and slow-eyed mildness of their own huge oxen. As evening fell, more solemn Apennines upreared themselves to southward. The Monte d'Asdrubale, Monte Nerone, and Monte Catria hove into sight. At last, when light was dim, a tower rose above the neighbouring ridge, a broken outline of some city barred the sky-line. Urbino stood beforeus. Our long day's march was at an end. 

The sunset was almost spent, and a four days' moon hung above thewestern Apennines, when we took our first view of the palace. It is afancy-thralling work of wonder seen in that dim twilight; like somecastle reared by Atlante's magic for imprisonment of Ruggiero, or palacesought in fairyland by Astolf winding his enchanted horn. Where shall wefind its like, combining, as it does, the buttressed battlemented bulkof mediæval strongholds with the airy balconies, suspended gardens, andfantastic turrets of Italian pleasure-houses? This unique blending ofthe feudal past with the Renaissance spirit of the time when it wasbuilt, connects it with the art of Ariosto--or more exactly withBoiardo's epic. Duke Federigo planned his palace at Urbino just at themoment when the Count of Scandiano had began to chaunt his lays ofRoland in the Castle of Ferrara. Chivalry, transmuted by the Italiangenius into something fanciful and quaint, survived as a frail work ofart. The men-at-arms of the Condottieri still glittered in gildedhauberks. Their helmets waved with plumes and bizarre crests. Theirsurcoats blazed with heraldries; their velvet caps with medals bearinglegendary emblems. The pomp and circumstance of feudal war had not yetyielded to the cannon of the Gascon or the Switzer's pike. The fatalage of foreign invasions had not begun for Italy. Within a few yearsCharles VIII. 's holiday excursion would reveal the internal rottennessand weakness of her rival states, and the peninsula for half a centuryto come would be drenched in the blood of Frenchmen, Germans, Spaniards, fighting for her cities as their prey. But now Lorenzo de' Medici wasstill alive. The famous policy which bears his name held Italy suspendedfor a golden time in false tranquillity and independence. The princeswho shared his culture and his love of art were gradually passing intomodern noblemen, abandoning the savage feuds and passions of more virilecenturies, yielding to luxury and scholarly enjoyments. The castles werebecoming courts, and despotisms won by force were settling intodynasties. 

It was just at this epoch that Duke Federigo built his castle at Urbino. One of the ablest and wealthiest Condottieri of his time, one of thebest instructed and humanest of Italian princes, he combined in himselfthe qualities which mark that period of transition. And these heimpressed upon his dwelling-house, which looks backward to the mediævalfortalice and forward to the modern palace. This makes it the justembodiment in architecture of Italian romance, the perfect analogue ofthe _Orlando Innamorato_. By comparing it with the castle of the Estesat Ferrara and the Palazzo del Te of the Gonzagas at Mantua, we place itin its right position between mediæval and Renaissance Italy, betweenthe age when principalities arose upon the ruins of commercialindependence and the age when they became dynastic under Spain. 

The exigencies of the ground at his disposal forced Federigo to give thebuilding an irregular outline. The fine façade, with its embayed _logge_and flanking turrets, is placed too close upon the city ramparts for itsdue effect. We are obliged to cross the deep ravine which separates itfrom a lower quarter of the town, and take our station near the Oratoryof S. Giovanni Battista, before we can appreciate the beauty of itsdesign, or the boldness of the group it forms with the cathedral domeand tower and the square masses of numerous out-buildings. Yet thispeculiar position of the palace, though baffling to a close observer ofits details, is one of singular advantage to the inhabitants. Set on theverge of Urbino's towering eminence, it fronts a wave-tossed sea ofvales and mountain summits toward the rising and the setting sun. Thereis nothing but illimitable air between the terraces and loggias of theDuchess's apartments and the spreading pyramid of Monte Catria. 

A nobler scene is nowhere swept from palace windows than this, whichCastiglione touched in a memorable passage at the end of his_Cortegiano_. To one who in our day visits Urbino, it is singular howthe slight indications of this sketch, as in some silhouette, bring backthe antique life, and link the present with the past--a hint, perhaps, for reticence in our descriptions. The gentlemen and ladies of the courthad spent a summer night in long debate on love, rising to the height ofmystical Platonic rapture on the lips of Bembo, when one of themexclaimed, "The day has broken!" "He pointed to the light which wasbeginning to enter by the fissures of the windows. Whereupon we flungthe casements wide upon that side of the palace which looks toward thehigh peak of Monte Catria, and saw that a fair dawn of rosy hue was bornalready in the eastern skies, and all the stars had vanished except thesweet regent of the heaven of Venus, who holds the borderlands of dayand night; and from her sphere it seemed as though a gentle wind werebreathing, filling the air with eager freshness, and waking among thenumerous woods upon the neighbouring hills the sweet-toned symphonies ofjoyous birds. "

II. 

The House of Montefeltro rose into importance early in the twelfthcentury. Frederick Barbarossa erected their fief into a county in 1160. Supported by imperial favour, they began to exercise an undefinedauthority over the district, which they afterwards converted into aduchy. But, though Ghibelline for several generations, the Montefeltriwere too near neighbours of the Papal power to free themselves fromecclesiastical vassalage. Therefore in 1216 they sought and obtained thetitle of Vicars of the Church. Urbino acknowledged them as semi-despotsin their double capacity of Imperial and Papal deputies. Cagli andGubbio followed in the fourteenth century. In the fifteenth, CastelDurante was acquired from the Brancaleoni by warfare, and Fossombronefrom the Malatestas by purchase. Numerous fiefs and villages fell intotheir hands upon the borders of Rimini in the course of a continuedstruggle with the House of Malatesta: and when Fano and Pesaro wereadded at the opening of the sixteenth century, the domain over whichthey ruled was a compact territory, some forty miles square, between theAdriatic and Apennines. From the close of the thirteenth century theybore the title of Counts of Urbino. The famous Conte Guido, whom Danteplaced among the fraudulent in hell, supported the honours of the houseand increased its power by his political action, at this epoch. But itwas not until the year 1443 that the Montefeltri acquired their ducaltitle. This was conferred by Eugenius IV. Upon Oddantonio, over whosealleged crimes and indubitable assassination a veil of mystery stillhangs. He was the son of Count Guidantonio, and at his death theMontefeltri of Urbino were extinct in the legitimate line. A natural sonof Guidantonio had been, however, recognised in his father's lifetime, and married to Gentile, heiress of Mercatello. This was Federigo, ayouth of great promise, who succeeded his half-brother in 1444 as Countof Urbino. It was not until 1474 that the ducal title was revived forhim. 

Duke Frederick was a prince remarkable among Italian despots for privatevirtues and sober use of his hereditary power. He spent his youth atMantua, in that famous school of Vittorino da Feltre, where the sons anddaughters of the first Italian nobility received a model education inhumanities, good manners, and gentle physical accomplishments. More thanany of his fellow-students Frederick profited by this rare scholar'sdiscipline. On leaving school he adopted the profession of arms, as itwas then practised, and joined the troop of the Condottiere NiccolòPiccinino. Young men of his own rank, especially the younger sons andbastards of ruling families, sought military service under captains ofadventure. If they succeeded they were sure to make money. The coffersof the Church and the republics lay open to their not too scrupuloushands; the wealth of Milan and Naples was squandered on them inretaining-fees and salaries for active service. There was always thefurther possibility of placing a coronet upon their brows before theydied, if haply they should wrest a town from their employers, or obtainthe cession of a province from a needy Pope. The neighbours of theMontefeltri in Umbria, Romagna, and the Marches of Ancona were all ofthem Condottieri. Malatestas of Rimini and Pesaro, Vitelli of Città diCastello, Varani of Camerino, Baglioni of Perugia, to mention only a fewof the most eminent nobles, enrolled themselves under the banners ofplebeian adventurers like Piccinino and Sforza Attendolo. Though theirfamily connections gave them a certain advantage, the system wasessentially democratic. Gattamelata and Carmagnola sprang from obscurityby personal address and courage to the command of armies. Colleonifought his way up from the grooms to princely station and the _bâton_ ofS. Mark. Francesco Sforza, whose father had begun life as a tiller ofthe soil, seized the ducal crown of Milan, and founded a house whichranked among the first in Europe. 

It is not needful to follow Duke Frederick in his military career. Wemay briefly remark that when he succeeded to Urbino by his brother'sdeath in 1444, he undertook generalship on a grand scale. His owndominions supplied him with some of the best troops in Italy. He wascareful to secure the good-will of his subjects by attending personallyto their interests, relieving them of imposts, and executing equaljustice. He gained the then unique reputation of an honest prince, paternally disposed toward his dependants. Men flocked to his standardswillingly, and he was able to bring an important contingent into anyarmy. These advantages secured for him alliances with Francesco Sforza, and brought him successively into connection with Milan, Venice, Florence, the Church of Naples. As a tactician in the field he held highrank among the generals of the age, and so considerable were hisengagements that he acquired great wealth in the exercise of hisprofession. We find him at one time receiving 8000 ducats a month aswar-pay from Naples, with a peace pension of 6000. While Captain-Generalof the League, he drew for his own use in war 45, 000 ducats of annualpay. Retaining-fees and pensions in the name of past services swelledhis income, the exact extent of which has not, so far as I am aware, been estimated, but which must have made him one of the richest ofItalian princes. All this wealth he spent upon his duchy, fortifying itscities, drawing youths of promise to his court, maintaining a greattrain of life, and keeping his vassals in good-humour by the lightnessof a rule which contrasted favourably with the exactions of needierdespots. 

While fighting for the masters who offered him _condotta_ in thecomplicated wars of Italy, Duke Frederick used his arms, when occasionserved, in his own quarrels. Many years of his life were spent in aprolonged struggle with his neighbour Sigismondo Pandolfo Malatesta, thebizarre and brilliant tyrant of Rimini, who committed the fatal error ofembroiling himself beyond all hope of pardon with the Church, and whodied discomfited in the duel with his warier antagonist. Urbino profitedby each mistake of Sigismondo, and the history of this long desultorystrife with Rimini is a history of gradual aggrandisement andconsolidation for the Montefeltrian duchy. 

In 1459, Duke Frederick married his second wife, Battista, daughter ofAlessandro Sforza, Lord of Pesaro. Their portraits, painted by Pierodella Francesca, are to be seen in the Uffizzi. Some years earlier, Frederick lost his right eye and had the bridge of his nose broken in ajousting match outside the town-gate of Urbino. After this accident, hepreferred to be represented in profile--the profile so well known tostudents of Italian art on medals and bas-reliefs. It was not withoutmedical aid and vows fulfilled by a mother's self-sacrifice to death, ifwe may trust the diarists of Urbino, that the ducal couple got an heir. In 1472, however a son was born to them, whom they christened GuidoPaolo Ubaldo. He proved a youth of excellent parts and noble nature--aptat study, perfect in all chivalrous accomplishments. But he inheritedsome fatal physical debility, and his life was marred with aconstitutional disease, which then received the name of gout, and whichdeprived him of the free use of his limbs. After his father's death in1482, Naples, Florence, and Milan continued Frederick's war engagementsto Guidobaldo. The prince was but a boy of ten. Therefore theseimportant _condotte_ must be regarded as compliments and pledges for thefuture. They prove to what a pitch Duke Frederick had raised the creditof his state and war establishment. Seven years later, Guidobaldomarried Elisabetta, daughter of Francesco Gonzaga, Marquis of Mantua. This union, though a happy one, was never blessed with children; and inthe certainty of barrenness, the young Duke thought it prudent to adopta nephew as heir to his dominions. He had several sisters, one of whom, Giovanna, had been married to a nephew of Sixtus IV. , Giovanni dellaRovere, Lord of Sinigaglia and Prefect of Rome. They had a son, Francesco Maria, who, after his adoption by Guidobaldo, spent hisboyhood at Urbino. 

The last years of the fifteenth century were marked by the sudden riseof Cesare Borgia to a power which threatened the liberties of Italy. Acting as General for the Church, he carried his arms against the pettytyrants of Romagna, whom he dispossessed and extirpated. His next movewas upon Camerino and Urbino. He first acquired Camerino, having lulledGuidobaldo into false security by treacherous professions of good-will. Suddenly the Duke received intelligence that the Borgia was marching onhim over Cagli. This was in the middle of June 1502. It is difficult tocomprehend the state of weakness in which Guidobaldo was surprised, orthe panic which then seized him. He made no efforts to rouse hissubjects to resistance, but fled by night with his nephew through roughmountain roads, leaving his capital and palace to the marauder. CesareBorgia took possession without striking a blow, and removed thetreasures of Urbino to the Vatican. His occupation of the duchy was notundisturbed, however; for the people rose in several places against him, proving that Guidobaldo had yielded too hastily to alarm. By this timethe fugitive was safe in Mantua, whence he returned, and for a shorttime succeeded in establishing himself again at Urbino. But he could nothold his own against the Borgias, and in December, by a treaty, heresigned his claims and retired to Venice, where he lived upon thebounty of S. Mark. It must be said, in justice to the Duke, that hisconstitutional debility rendered him unfit for active operations in thefield. Perhaps he could not have done better than thus to bend beneaththe storm. 

The sudden death of Alexander VI. And the election of a Della Rovere tothe Papacy in 1503 changed Guidobaldo's prospects. Julius II. Was thesworn foe of the Borgias and the close kinsman of Urbino's heir. It wastherefore easy for the Duke to walk into his empty palace on the hill, and to reinstate himself in the domains from which he had so recentlybeen ousted. The rest of his life was spent in the retirement of hiscourt, surrounded with the finest scholars and the noblest gentlemen ofItaly. The ill-health which debarred him from the active pleasures andemployments of his station, was borne with uniform sweetness of temperand philosophy. 

When he died, in 1508, his nephew, Francesco Maria della Rovere, succeeded to the duchy, and once more made the palace of Urbino theresort of men-at-arms and captains. He was a prince of very violenttemper: of its extravagance history has recorded three remarkableexamples. He murdered the Cardinal of Pavia with his own hand in thestreets of Ravenna; stabbed a lover of his sister to death at Urbino;and in a council of war knocked Francesco Guicciardini down with a blowof his fist. When the history of Italy came to be written, Guicciardiniwas probably mindful of that insult, for he painted Francesco Maria'scharacter and conduct in dark colours. At the same time this Duke ofUrbino passed for one of the first generals of the age. The greateststain upon his memory is his behaviour in the year 1527, when, bydilatory conduct of the campaign in Lombardy, he suffered the passage ofFrundsberg's army unopposed, and afterwards hesitated to relieve Romefrom the horrors of the sack. He was the last Italian Condottiere of theantique type; and the vices which Machiavelli exposed in that bad systemof mercenary warfare were illustrated on these occasions. During hislifetime, the conditions of Italy were so changed by Charles V. 'simperial settlement in 1530, that the occupation of Condottiere ceasedto have any meaning. Strozzi and Farnesi, who afterwards followed thisprofession, enlisted in the ranks of France or Spain, and won theirlaurels in Northern Europe. 

While Leo X. Held the Papal chair, the duchy of Urbino was for a whilewrested from the house of Della Rovere, and conferred upon Lorenzo de'Medici. Francesco Maria made a better fight for his heritage thanGuidobaldo had done. Yet he could not successfully resist the power ofRome. The Pope was ready to spend enormous sums of money on this pettywar; the Duke's purse was shorter, and the mercenary troops he wasobliged to use, proved worthless in the field. Spaniards, for the mostpart, pitted against Spaniards, they suffered the campaigns todegenerate into a guerrilla warfare of pillage and reprisals. In 1517the duchy was formally ceded to Lorenzo. But this Medici did not livelong to enjoy it, and his only child Catherine, the future Queen ofFrance, never exercised the rights which had devolved upon her byinheritance. The shifting scene of Italy beheld Francesco Mariareinstated in Urbino after Leo's death in 1522. 

This Duke married Leonora Gonzaga, a princess of the house of Mantua. Their portraits, painted by Titian, adorn the Venetian room of theUffizzi. Of their son, Guidobaldo II. , little need be said. He was twicemarried, first to Giulia Varano, Duchess by inheritance of Camerino;secondly, to Vittoria Farnese, daughter of the Duke of Parma. Guidobaldospent a lifetime in petty quarrels with his subjects, whom he treatedbadly, attempting to draw from their pockets the wealth which his fatherand the Montefeltri had won in military service. He intervened at anawkward period of Italian politics. The old Italy of despots, commonwealths, and Condottieri, in which his predecessors playedsubstantial parts, was at an end. The new Italy of Popes andAustro-Spanish dynasties had hardly settled into shape. Between theseepochs, Guidobaldo II. , of whom we have a dim and hazy presentation onthe page of history, seems somehow to have fallen flat. As a sign ofaltered circumstances, he removed his court to Pesaro, and built thegreat palace of the Della Roveres upon the public square. 

Guidobaldaccio, as he was called, died in 1574, leaving an only son, Francesco Maria II. , whose life and character illustrate the new agewhich had begun for Italy. He was educated in Spain at the court ofPhilip II. , where he spent more than two years. When he returned, hisSpanish haughtiness, punctilious attention to etiquette, andsuperstitious piety attracted observation. The violent temper of theDella Roveres, which Francesco Maria I. Displayed in acts of homicide, and which had helped to win his bad name for Guidobaldaccio, took theform of sullenness in the last Duke. The finest episode in his life wasthe part he played in the battle of Lepanto, under his old comrade, DonJohn of Austria. His father forced him to an uncongenial marriage withLucrezia d'Este, Princess of Ferrara. She left him, and took refuge inher native city, then honoured by the presence of Tasso and Guarini. Hebore her departure with philosophical composure, recording the event inhis diary as something to be dryly grateful for. Left alone, the Dukeabandoned himself to solitude, religious exercises, hunting, and theeconomy of his impoverished dominions. He became that curious creature, a man of narrow nature and mediocre capacity, who, dedicated to the cultof self, is fain to pass for saint and sage in easy circumstances. Hemarried, for the second time, a lady, Livia della Rovere, who belongedto his own family, but had been born in private station. She brought himone son, the Prince Federigo-Ubaldo. This youth might have sustained theducal honours of Urbino, but for his sage-saint father's want of wisdom. The boy was a spoiled child in infancy. Inflated with Spanish vanityfrom the cradle, taught to regard his subjects as dependants on adespot's will, abandoned to the caprices of his own ungovernable temper, without substantial aid from the paternal piety or stoicism, he rapidlybecame a most intolerable princeling. His father married him, while yeta boy, to Claudia de' Medici, and virtually abdicated in his favour. Left to his own devices, Federigo chose companions from the troupes ofplayers whom he drew from Venice. He filled his palaces with harlots, and degraded himself upon the stage in parts of mean buffoonery. Theresources of the duchy were racked to support these parasites. Spanishrules of etiquette and ceremony were outraged by their orgies. His bridebrought him one daughter, Vittoria, who afterwards became the wife ofFerdinand, Grand Duke of Tuscany. Then in the midst of his lowdissipation and offences against ducal dignity, he died of apoplexy atthe early age of eighteen--the victim, in the severe judgment ofhistory, of his father's selfishness and want of practical ability. 

This happened in 1623. Francesco Maria was stunned by the blow. Hiswithdrawal from the duties of the sovereignty in favour of such a sonhad proved a constitutional unfitness for the duties of his station. Thelife he loved was one of seclusion in a round of pious exercises, pettystudies, peddling economies, and mechanical amusements. A powerful andgrasping Pope was on the throne of Rome. Urban at this juncture pressedFrancesco Maria hard; and in 1624 the last Duke of Urbino devolved hislordships to the Holy See. He survived the formal act of abdicationseven years; when he died, the Pontiff added his duchy to the PapalStates, which thenceforth stretched from Naples to the bounds of Veniceon the Po. 

III. 

Duke Frederick began the palace at Urbino in 1454, when he was stillonly Count. The architect was Luziano of Lauranna, a Dalmatian; and thebeautiful white limestone, hard as marble, used in the construction, wasbrought from the Dalmatian coast. This stone, like the Istrian stone ofVenetian buildings, takes and retains the chisel mark with wonderfulprecision. It looks as though, when fresh, it must have had the pliancyof clay, so delicately are the finest curves in scroll or foliagescooped from its substance. And yet it preserves each cusp and angle ofthe most elaborate pattern with the crispness and the sharpness of acrystal. When wrought by a clever craftsman, its surface has neither thewaxiness of Parian, nor the brittle edge of Carrara marble; and itresists weather better than marble of the choicest quality. This may beobserved in many monuments of Venice, where the stone has been longexposed to sea-air. These qualities of the Dalmatian limestone, no lessthan its agreeable creamy hue and smooth dull polish, adapt it todecoration in low relief. The most attractive details in the palace atUrbino are friezes carved of this material in choice designs of earlyRenaissance dignity and grace. One chimney-piece in the Sala degliAngeli deserves especial comment. A frieze of dancing Cupids, with gilthair and wings, their naked bodies left white on a ground ofultra-marine, is supported by broad flat pilasters. These are engravedwith children holding pots of flowers; roses on one side, carnations onthe other. Above the frieze another pair of angels, one at each end, hold lighted torches; and the pyramidal cap of the chimney is carvedwith two more, flying, and supporting the eagle of the Montefeltri on araised medallion. Throughout the palace we notice emblems appropriate tothe Houses of Montefeltro and Della Rovere: their arms, three goldenbends upon a field of azure: the Imperial eagle, granted whenMontefeltro was made a fief of the Empire: the Garter of England, wornby the Dukes Federigo and Guidobaldo: the ermine of Naples: the_ventosa_, or cupping-glass, adopted for a private badge by Frederick:the golden oak-tree on an azure field of Della Rovere: the palm-tree, bent beneath a block of stone, with its accompanying motto, _InclinataResurgam_: the cypher, FE DX. Profile medallions of Federigo andGuidobaldo, wrought in the lowest possible relief, adorn the staircases. Round the great courtyard runs a frieze of military engines and ensigns, trophies, machines, and implements of war, alluding to Duke Frederick'sprofession of Condottiere. The doorways are enriched with scrolls ofheavy-headed flowers, acanthus foliage, honeysuckles, ivy-berries, birdsand boys and sphinxes, in all the riot of Renaissance fancy. 

This profusion of sculptured _rilievo_ is nearly all that remains toshow how rich the palace was in things of beauty. Castiglione, writingin the reign of Guidobaldo, says that "in the opinion of many it is thefairest to be found in Italy; and the Duke filled it so well with allthings fitting its magnificence, that it seemed less like a palace thana city. Not only did he collect articles of common use, vessels ofsilver, and trappings for chambers of rare cloths of gold and silk, andsuch like furniture, but he added multitudes of bronze and marblestatues, exquisite pictures, and instruments of music of all sorts. There was nothing but was of the finest and most excellent quality to beseen there. Moreover, he gathered together at a vast cost a large numberof the best and rarest books in Greek, Latin, and Hebrew, all of whichhe adorned with gold and silver, esteeming them the chiefest treasureof his spacious palace. " When Cesare Borgia entered Urbino as conquerorin 1502, he is said to have carried off loot to the value of 150, 000ducats, or perhaps about a quarter of a million sterling. Vespasiano, the Florentine bookseller, has left us a minute account of the formationof the famous library of MSS. , which he valued at considerably over30, 000 ducats. Yet wandering now through these deserted halls, we seekin vain for furniture or tapestry or works of art. The books have beenremoved to Rome. The pictures are gone, no man knows whither. The platehas long been melted down. The instruments of music are broken. Iffrescoes adorned the corridors, they have been whitewashed; the ladies'chambers have been stripped of their rich arras. Only here and there wefind a raftered ceiling, painted in fading colours, which, taken withthe stonework of the chimney, and some fragments of inlaid panel-work ondoor or window, enables us to reconstruct the former richness of theseprincely rooms. 

Exception must be made in favour of two apartments between the towersupon the southern façade. These were apparently the private rooms of theDuke and Duchess, and they are still approached by a great windingstaircase in one of the _torricini_. Adorned in indestructible orirremovable materials, they retain some traces of their ancientsplendour. On the first floor, opening on the vaulted loggia, we find alittle chapel encrusted with lovely work in stucco and marble; friezesof bulls, sphinxes, sea-horses, and foliage; with a low relief ofMadonna and Child in the manner of Mino da Fiesole. Close by is a smallstudy with inscriptions to the Muses and Apollo. The cabinet connectingthese two cells has a Latin legend, to say that Religion here dwellsnear the temple of the liberal arts:

 Bina vides parvo discrimine juncta sacella, Altera pars Musis altera sacra Deo est. 

On the floor above, corresponding in position to this apartment, is asecond, of even greater interest, since it was arranged by the DukeFrederick for his own retreat. The study is panelled in tarsia ofbeautiful design and execution. Three of the larger compartments showFaith, Hope, and Charity; figures not unworthy of a Botticelli or aFilippino Lippi. The occupations of the Duke are represented on asmaller scale by armour, _bâtons_ of command, scientific instruments, lutes, viols, and books, some open and some shut. The Bible, Homer, Virgil, Seneca, Tacitus, and Cicero, are lettered; apparently toindicate his favourite authors. The Duke himself, arrayed in his staterobes, occupies a fourth great panel; and the whole of this elaboratecomposition is harmonised by emblems, badges, and occasional devices ofbirds, articles of furniture, and so forth. The tarsia, or inlaid woodof different kinds and colours, is among the best in this kind of art tobe found in Italy, though perhaps it hardly deserves to rank with thecelebrated choir-stalls of Bergamo and Monte Oliveto. Hard by is achapel, adorned, like the lower one, with excellent reliefs. The Loggiato which these rooms have access looks across the Apennines, and down onwhat was once a private garden. It is now enclosed and paved for theexercise of prisoners who are confined in one part of the desecratedpalace!

A portion of the pile is devoted to more worthy purposes; for theAcademy of Raphael here holds its sittings, and preserves a collectionof curiosities and books illustrative of the great painter's life andworks. They have recently placed in a tiny oratory, scooped byGuidobaldo II. From the thickness of the wall, a cast of Raphael'sskull, which will be studied with interest and veneration. It has thefineness of modelling combined with shapeliness of form and smallness ofscale which is said to have characterised Mozart and Shelley. 

The impression left upon the mind after traversing this palace in itslength and breadth is one of weariness and disappointment. How shall wereconstruct the long-past life which filled its rooms with sound, thesplendour of its pageants, the thrill of tragedies enacted here? It isnot difficult to crowd its doors and vacant spaces with liveriedservants, slim pages in tight hose, whose well-combed hair escapes fromtiny caps upon their silken shoulders. We may even replace thetapestries of Troy which hung one hall, and build again the sideboardswith their embossed gilded plate. But are these chambers really thosewhere Emilia Pia held debate on love with Bembo and Castiglione; whereBibbiena's witticisms and Fra Serafino's pranks raised smiles on courtlylips; where Bernardo Accolti, "the Unique, " declaimed his verses toapplauding crowds? Is it possible that into yonder hall, where now thelion of S. Mark looks down alone on staring desolation, strode theBorgia in all his panoply of war, a gilded glittering dragon, and fromthe daïs tore the Montefeltri's throne, and from the arras strippedtheir ensigns, replacing these with his own Bull and Valentinus Dux?Here Tasso tuned his lyre for Francesco Maria's wedding-feast, and read"Aminta" to Lucrezia d'Este. Here Guidobaldo listened to the jests andwhispered scandals of the Aretine. Here Titian set his easel up topaint; here the boy Raphael, cap in hand, took signed and sealedcredentials from his Duchess to the Gonfalonier of Florence. Somewherein these huge chambers, the courtiers sat before a torch-lit stage, whenBibbiena's "Calandria" and Castiglione's "Tirsi, " with their miracles ofmasques and mummers, whiled the night away. Somewhere, we know notwhere, Giuliano de' Medici made love in these bare rooms to thatmysterious mother of ill-fated Cardinal Ippolito; somewhere, in somedarker nook, the bastard Alessandro sprang to his strange-fortuned lifeof tyranny and license, which Brutus-Lorenzino cut short with atraitor's poignard-thrust in Via Larga. How many men, illustrious forarts and letters, memorable by their virtues or their crimes, have trodthese silent corridors, from the great Pope Julius down to James III. , self-titled King of England, who tarried here with Clementina Sobieskithrough some twelve months of his ex-royal exile! The memories of allthis folk, flown guests and masters of the still-abidingpalace-chambers, haunt us as we hurry through. They are but filmyshadows. We cannot grasp them, localise them, people surroundingemptiness with more than withering cobweb forms. 

Death takes a stronger hold on us than bygone life. Therefore, returningto the vast Throne-room, we animate it with one scene it witnessed on anApril night in 1508. Duke Guidobaldo had died at Fossombrone, repeatingto his friends around his bed these lines of Virgil:

 Me circum limus niger et deformis arundo Cocyti tardaque palus inamabilis unda Alligat, et novies Styx interfusa coercet. 

His body had been carried on the shoulders of servants through thosemountain ways at night, amid the lamentations of gathering multitudesand the baying of dogs from hill-set farms alarmed by flaring flambeaux. Now it is laid in state in the great hall. The daïs and the throne aredraped in black. The arms and _bâtons_ of his father hang about thedoorways. His own ensigns are displayed in groups and trophies, with thebanners of S. Mark, the Montefeltrian eagle, and the cross keys of S. Peter. The hall itself is vacant, save for the high-reared catafalque ofsable velvet and gold damask, surrounded with wax-candles burningsteadily. Round it passes a ceaseless stream of people, coming andgoing, gazing at their Duke. He is attired in crimson hose and doubletof black damask. Black velvet slippers are on his feet, and his ducalcap is of black velvet. The mantle of the Garter, made of dark-blueAlexandrine velvet, hooded with crimson, lined with white silk damask, and embroidered with the badge, drapes the stiff sleeping form. 

It is easier to conjure up the past of this great palace, strollinground it in free air and twilight; perhaps because the landscape and thelife still moving on the city streets bring its exterior into harmonywith real existence. The southern façade, with its vaulted balconies andflanking towers, takes the fancy, fascinates the eye, and lends itselfas a fit stage for puppets of the musing mind. Once more imaginationplants trim orange-trees in giant jars of Gubbio ware upon the pavementwhere the garden of the Duchess lay--the pavement paced in these baddays by convicts in grey canvas jackets--that pavement where MonsignorBembo courted "dear dead women" with Platonic phrase, smothering theMenta of his natural man in lettuce culled from Academe and thyme ofMount Hymettus. In yonder _loggia_, lifted above the garden and thecourt, two lovers are in earnest converse. They lean beneath thecoffered arch, against the marble of the balustrade, he fingering hisdagger under the dark velvet doublet, she playing with a clovecarnation, deep as her own shame. The man is Giannandrea, broad-shouldered bravo of Verona, Duke Guidobaldo's favourite andcarpet-count. The lady is Madonna Maria, daughter of Rome's Prefect, widow of Venanzio Varano, whom the Borgia strangled. On their discoursea tale will hang of woman's frailty and man's boldness--Camerino'sDuchess yielding to a low-born suitor's stalwart charms. And more willfollow, when that lady's brother, furious Francesco Maria della Rovere, shall stab the bravo in torch-litten palace rooms with twenty poignardstrokes twixt waist and throat, and their Pandarus shall be sent down tohis account by a varlet's _coltellata_ through the midriff. Imaginationshifts the scene, and shows in that same _loggia_ Rome's warlike Pope, attended by his cardinals and all Urbino's chivalry. The snowy beard ofJulius flows down upon his breast, where jewels clasp the crimsonmantle, as in Raphael's picture. His eyes are bright with wine; for hehas come to gaze on sunset from the banquet-chamber, and to watch theline of lamps which soon will leap along that palace cornice in hishonour. Behind him lies Bologna humbled. The Pope returns, a conqueror, to Rome. Yet once again imagination is at work. A gaunt, bald man, close-habited in Spanish black, his spare, fine features carved inpurest ivory, leans from that balcony. Gazing with hollow eyes, hetracks the swallows in their flight, and notes that winter is at hand. This is the last Duke of Urbino, Francesco Maria II. , he whose youngwife deserted him, who made for himself alone a hermit-pedant's round ofpetty cares and niggard avarice and mean-brained superstition. He drew asecond consort from the convent, and raised up seed unto his line byforethought, but beheld his princeling fade untimely in the bloom ofboyhood. Nothing is left but solitude. To the mortmain of the Churchreverts Urbino's lordship, and even now he meditates the terms ofdevolution. Jesuits cluster in the rooms behind, with comfort for theducal soul and calculations for the interests of Holy See. 

A farewell to these memories of Urbino's dukedom should be taken in thecrypt of the cathedral, where Francesco Maria II. , the last Duke, buriedhis only son and all his temporal hopes. The place is scarcely solemn. Its dreary _barocco_ emblems mar the dignity of death. A bulky _Pietà_by Gian Bologna, with Madonna's face unfinished, towers up and crowdsthe narrow cell. Religion has evanished from this late Renaissance art, nor has the after-glow of Guido Reni's hectic piety yet overflushed it. Chilled by the stifling humid sense of an extinct race here entombed inits last representative, we gladly emerge from the sepulchral vault intothe air of day. 

Filippo Visconti, with a smile on his handsome face, is waiting for usat the inn. His horses, sleek, well-fed, and rested, toss their headsimpatiently. We take our seats in the carriage, open wide beneath asparkling sky, whirl past the palace and its ghost-like recollections, and are half way on the road to Fossombrone in a cloud of dust and whirrof wheels before we think of looking back to greet Urbino. There is justtime. The last decisive turning lies in front. We stand bare-headed tosalute the grey mass of buildings ridged along the sky. Then the openroad invites us with its varied scenery and movement. From the shadowypast we drive into the world of human things, for ever changefullyunchanged, unrestfully the same. This interchange between dead memoriesand present life is the delight of travel. 

A VENETIAN MEDLEY. 

I. --FIRST IMPRESSIONS AND FAMILIARITY. 

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

Venice inspires at first an almost Corybantic rapture. From our earliestvisits, if these have been measured by days rather than weeks, we carryaway with us the memory of sunsets emblazoned in gold and crimson uponcloud and water; of violet domes and bell-towers etched against theorange of a western sky; of moonlight silvering breeze-rippled breadthsof liquid blue; of distant islands shimmering in sunlitten haze; ofmusic and black gliding boats; of labyrinthine darkness made formysteries of love and crime; of statue-fretted palace fronts; of brazenclangour and a moving crowd; of pictures by earth's proudest painters, cased in gold on walls of council chambers where Venice sat enthroned aqueen, where nobles swept the floors with robes of Tyrian brocade. Thesereminiscences will be attended by an ever-present sense of lonelinessand silence in the world around; the sadness of a limitless horizon, thesolemnity of an unbroken arch of heaven, the calm and greyness ofevening on the lagoons, the pathos of a marble city crumbling to itsgrave in mud and brine. 

These first impressions of Venice are true. Indeed they are inevitable. They abide, and form a glowing background for all subsequent pictures, toned more austerely, and painted in more lasting hues of truth upon thebrain. Those have never felt Venice at all who have not known thisprimal rapture, or who perhaps expected more of colour, more ofmelodrama, from a scene which nature and the art of man have made therichest in these qualities. Yet the mood engendered by this firstexperience is not destined to be permanent. It contains an element ofunrest and unreality which vanishes upon familiarity. From the blare ofthat triumphal bourdon of brass instruments emerge the delicate voicesof violin and clarinette. To the contrasted passions of our earliestlove succeed a multitude of sweet and fanciful emotions. It is mypresent purpose to recapture some of the impressions made by Venice inmore tranquil moods. Memory might be compared to a kaleidoscope. Faraway from Venice I raise the wonder-working tube, allow the glitteringfragments to settle as they please, and with words attempt to rendersomething of the patterns I behold. 

II. --A LODGING IN SAN VIO. 

I have escaped from the hotels with their bustle of tourists and crowdedtables-d'hôte. My garden stretches down to the Grand Canal, closed atthe end with a pavilion, where I lounge and smoke and watch the corniceof the Prefettura fretted with gold in sunset light. My sitting-room andbed-room face the southern sun. There is a canal below, crowded withgondolas, and across its bridge the good folk of San Vio come and go thewhole day long--men in blue shirts with enormous hats, and jackets slungon their left shoulder; women in kerchiefs of orange and crimson. Bare-legged boys sit upon the parapet, dangling their feet above therising tide. A hawker passes, balancing a basket full of live andcrawling crabs. Barges filled with Brenta water or Mirano wine take uptheir station at the neighbouring steps, and then ensues a mightysplashing and hurrying to and fro of men with tubs upon their heads. Thebrawny fellows in the winebarge are red from brows to breast withdrippings of the vat. And now there is a bustle in the quarter. A_barca_ has arrived from S. Erasmo, the island of the market-gardens. Itis piled with gourds and pumpkins, cabbages and tomatoes, pomegranatesand pears--a pyramid of gold and green and scarlet. Brown men lift thefruit aloft, and women bending from the pathway bargain for it. Aclatter of chaffering tongues, a ring of coppers, a Babel of hoarsesea-voices, proclaim the sharpness of the struggle. When the quarter hasbeen served, the boat sheers off diminished in its burden. Boys andgirls are left seasoning their polenta with a slice of _zucca_, whilethe mothers of a score of families go pattering up yonder courtyard withthe material for their husbands' supper in their handkerchiefs. Acrossthe canal, or more correctly the _Rio_, opens a wide grass-grown court. It is lined on the right hand by a row of poor dwellings, swarming withgondoliers' children. A garden wall runs along the other side, overwhich I can see pomegranate-trees in fruit and pergolas of vines. Farbeyond are more low houses, and then the sky, swept with sea-breezes, and the masts of an ocean-going ship against the dome and turrets ofPalladio's Redentore. 

This is my home. By day it is as lively as a scene in _Masaniello_. Bynight, after nine o'clock, the whole stir of the quarter has subsided. Far away I hear the bell of some church tell the hours. But no noisedisturbs my rest, unless perhaps a belated gondolier moors his boatbeneath the window. My one maid, Catina, sings at her work the whole daythrough. My gondolier, Francesco, acts as valet. He wakes me in themorning, opens the shutters, brings sea-water for my bath, and takes hisorders for the day. "Will it do for Chioggia, Francesco;" "Sissignore!The Signorino has set off in his _sandolo_ already with Antonio. TheSignora is to go with us in the gondola. " "Then get three more men, Francesco, and see that all of them can sing. "

III. --TO CHIOGGIA WITH OAR AND SAIL. 

The _sandolo_ is a boat shaped like the gondola, but smaller andlighter, without benches, and without the high steel prow or _ferro_which distinguishes the gondola. The gunwale is only just raised abovethe water, over which the little craft skims with a rapid boundingmotion, affording an agreeable variation from the stately swan-likemovement of the gondola. In one of these boats--called by him the_Fisolo_ or Seamew--my friend Eustace had started with Antonio, intending to row the whole way to Chioggia, or, if the breeze favoured, to hoist a sail and help himself along. After breakfast, when the crewfor my gondola had been assembled, Francesco and I followed with theSignora. It was one of those perfect mornings which occur as a respitefrom broken weather, when the air is windless and the light falls softthrough haze on the horizon. As we broke into the lagoon behind theRedentore, the islands in front of us, S. Spirito, Poveglia, Malamocco, seemed as though they were just lifted from the sea-line. The Euganeans, far away to westward, were bathed in mist, and almost blent with theblue sky. Our four rowers put their backs into their work; and soon wereached the port of Malamocco, where a breeze from the Adriatic caughtus sideways for a while. This is the largest of the breaches in theLidi, or raised sand-reefs, which protect Venice from the sea: itaffords an entrance to vessels of draught like the steamers of thePeninsular and Oriental Company. We crossed the dancing wavelets of theport; but when we passed under the lee of Pelestrina, the breeze failed, and the lagoon was once again a sheet of undulating glass. At S. Pietroon this island a halt was made to give the oarsmen wine, and here we sawthe women at their cottage doorways making lace. The old lace industryof Venice has recently been revived. From Burano and Pelestrina cargoesof hand-made imitations of the ancient fabrics are sent at intervals toJesurun's magazine at S. Marco. He is the chief _impresario_ of thetrade, employing hundreds of hands, and speculating for a handsomeprofit in the foreign market on the price he gives his workwomen. 

Now we are well lost in the lagoons--Venice no longer visible behind;the Alps and Euganeans shrouded in a noonday haze; the lowlands at themouth of Brenta marked by clumps of trees ephemerally faint in silversilhouette against the filmy, shimmering horizon. Form and colour havedisappeared in light-irradiated vapour of an opal hue. And yetinstinctively we know that we are not at sea; the different quality ofthe water, the piles emerging here and there above the surface, thesuggestion of coast-lines scarcely felt in this infinity of lustre, allremind us that our voyage is confined to the charmed limits of an inlandlake. At length the jutting headland of Pelestrina was reached. We brokeacross the Porto di Chioggia, and saw Chioggia itself ahead--a huddledmass of houses low upon the water. One by one, as we rowed steadily, thefishing-boats passed by, emerging from their harbour for a twelve hours'cruise upon the open sea. In a long line they came, with variegatedsails of orange, red, and saffron, curiously chequered at the corners, and cantled with devices in contrasted tints. A little land-breezecarried them forward. The lagoon reflected their deep colours till theyreached the port. Then, slightly swerving eastward on their course, butstill in single file, they took the sea and scattered, like beautifulbright-plumaged birds, who from a streamlet float into a lake, and findtheir way at large according as each wills. 

The Signorino and Antonio, though want of wind obliged them to row thewhole way from Venice, had reached Chioggia an hour before, and stoodwaiting to receive us on the quay. It is a quaint town this Chioggia, which has always lived a separate life from that of Venice. Languageand race and customs have held the two populations apart from thosedistant years when Genoa and the Republic of S. Mark fought their duelto the death out in the Chioggian harbours, down to these days, whenyour Venetian gondolier will tell you that the Chioggoto loves his pipemore than his _donna_ or his wife. The main canal is lined withsubstantial palaces, attesting to old wealth and comfort. But fromChioggia, even more than from Venice, the tide of modern luxury andtraffic has retreated. The place is left to fishing folk and builders ofthe fishing craft, whose wharves still form the liveliest quarter. Wandering about its wide deserted courts and _calli_, we feel the spiritof the decadent Venetian nobility. Passages from Goldoni's andCasanova's Memoirs occur to our memory. It seems easy to realise whatthey wrote about the dishevelled gaiety and lawless license of Chioggiain the days of powder, sword-knot, and _soprani_. Baffo walks beside usin hypocritical composure of bag-wig and senatorial dignity, whisperingunmentionable sonnets in his dialect of _Xe_ and _Ga_. Somehow oranother that last dotage of S. Mark's decrepitude is more recoverable byour fancy than the heroism of Pisani in the fourteenth century. 

From his prison in blockaded Venice the great admiral was sent forth ona forlorn hope, and blocked victorious Doria here with boats on whichthe nobles of the Golden Book had spent their fortunes. Pietro Doriaboasted that with his own hands he would bridle the bronze horses of S. Mark. But now he found himself between the navy of Carlo Zeno in theAdriatic and the flotilla led by Vittore Pisani across the lagoon. Itwas in vain that the Republic of S. George strained every nerve to sendhim succour from the Ligurian sea; in vain that the lords of Padua keptopening communications with him from the mainland. From the 1st ofJanuary 1380 till the 21st of June the Venetians pressed the blockadeever closer, grappling their foemen in a grip that if relaxed one momentwould have hurled him at their throats. The long and breathless struggleended in the capitulation at Chioggia of what remained of Doria'sforty-eight galleys and fourteen thousand men. 

These great deeds are far away and hazy. The brief sentences of mediævalannalists bring them less near to us than the _chroniques scandaleuses_of good-for-nothing scoundrels, whose vulgar adventures might be revivedat the present hour with scarce a change of setting. Such is the forceof _intimité_ in literature. And yet Baffo and Casanova are as much ofthe past as Doria and Pisani. It is only perhaps that the survival ofdecadence in all we see around us, forms a fitting frame-work for ourrecollections of their vividly described corruption. 

Not far from the landing-place a balustraded bridge of ample breadth andlarge bravura manner spans the main canal. Like everything at Chioggia, it is dirty and has fallen from its first estate. Yet neither time norinjury can obliterate style or wholly degrade marble. Hard by the bridgethere are two rival inns. At one of these we ordered a sea-dinner--crabs, cuttlefishes, soles, and turbots--which we ate at a table in the open air. Nothing divided us from the street except a row of Japanese privet-bushesin hooped tubs. Our banquet soon assumed a somewhat unpleasant similitudeto that of Dives; for the Chioggoti, in all stages of decrepitude andsqualor, crowded round to beg for scraps--indescribable old women, enveloped in their own petticoats thrown over their heads; girls hoodedwith sombre black mantles; old men wrinkled beyond recognition by theirnearest relatives; jabbering, half-naked boys; slow, slouching fishermenwith clay pipes in their mouths and philosophical acceptance on theirsober foreheads. 

That afternoon the gondola and sandolo were lashed together side byside. Two sails were raised, and in this lazy fashion we stolehomewards, faster or slower according as the breeze freshened orslackened, landing now and then on islands, sauntering along thesea-walls which bulwark Venice from the Adriatic, and singing--those atleast of us who had the power to sing. Four of our Venetians had trainedvoices and memories of inexhaustible music. Over the level water, withthe ripple plashing at our keel, their songs went abroad, and mingledwith the failing day. The barcaroles and serenades peculiar to Venicewere, of course, in harmony with the occasion. But some transcripts fromclassical operas were even more attractive, through the dignity withwhich these men invested them. By the peculiarity of their treatment the_recitativo_ of the stage assumed a solemn movement, marked in rhythm, which removed it from the commonplace into antiquity, and made meunderstand how cultivated music may pass back by natural, unconscioustransition into the realm of popular melody. 

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

Then came the steps of the Palazzo Venier and the deep-scented darknessof the garden. As we passed through to supper, I plucked a spray ofyellow Banksia rose, and put it in my button-hole. The dew was on itsburnished leaves, and evening had drawn forth its perfume. 

IV. --MORNING RAMBLES. 

A story is told of Poussin, the French painter, that when he was askedwhy he would not stay in Venice, he replied, "If I stay here, I shallbecome a colourist!" A somewhat similar tale is reported of afashionable English decorator. While on a visit to friends in Venice, heavoided every building which contains a Tintoretto, averring that thesight of Tintoretto's pictures would injure his carefully trained taste. It is probable that neither anecdote is strictly true. Yet there is acertain epigrammatic point in both; and I have often speculated whethereven Venice could have so warped the genius of Poussin as to shed oneray of splendour on his canvases, or whether even Tintoretto could haveso sublimed the prophet of Queen Anne as to make him add dramaticpassion to a London drawing-room. Anyhow, it is exceedingly difficult toescape from colour in the air of Venice, or from Tintoretto in herbuildings. Long, delightful mornings may be spent in the enjoyment ofthe one and the pursuit of the other by folk who have no classical orpseudo-mediæval theories to oppress them. 

Tintoretto's house, though changed, can still be visited. It formed partof the Fondamenta dei Mori, so called from having been the quarterassigned to Moorish traders in Venice. A spirited carving of a turbanedMoor leading a camel charged with merchandise, remains above thewater-line of a neighbouring building; and all about the crumbling wallssprout flowering weeds--samphire and snapdragon and the spikedcampanula, which shoots a spire of sea-blue stars from chinks of Istrianstone. 

The house stands opposite the Church of Santa Maria dell'Orto, whereTintoretto was buried, and where four of his chief masterpieces are tobe seen. This church, swept and garnished, is a triumph of modernItalian restoration. They have contrived to make it as commonplace ashuman ingenuity could manage. Yet no malice of ignorant industry canobscure the treasures it contains--the pictures of Cima, Gian Bellini, Palma, and the four Tintorettos, which form its crowning glory. Here themaster may be studied in four of his chief moods: as the painter oftragic passion and movement, in the huge Last Judgment; as the painterof impossibilities, in the Vision of Moses upon Sinai; as the painter ofpurity and tranquil pathos, in the Miracle of S. Agnes; as the painterof Biblical history brought home to daily life, in the Presentation ofthe Virgin. Without leaving the Madonna dell'Orto, a student can explorehis genius in all its depth and breadth; comprehend the enthusiasm heexcites in those who seek, as the essentials of art, imaginativeboldness and sincerity; understand what is meant by adversaries whomaintain that, after all, Tintoretto was but an inspired Gustave Doré. Between that quiet canvas of the Presentation, so modest in its coolgreys and subdued gold, and the tumult of flying, ruining, ascendingfigures in the Judgment, what an interval there is! How strangely thewhite lamb-like maiden, kneeling beside her lamb in the picture of S. Agnes, contrasts with the dusky gorgeousness of the Hebrew womendespoiling themselves of jewels for the golden calf! Comparing theseseveral manifestations of creative power, we feel ourselves in the graspof a painter who was essentially a poet, one for whom his art was themedium for expressing before all things thought and passion. Eachpicture is executed in the manner suited to its tone of feeling, the keyof its conception. 

Elsewhere than in the Madonna dell'Orto there are more distinguishedsingle examples of Tintoretto's realising faculty. The Last Supper inSan Giorgio, for instance, and the Adoration of the Shepherds in theScuola di San Rocco illustrate his unique power of presenting sacredhistory in a novel, romantic frame-work of familiar things. Thecommonplace circumstances of ordinary life have been employed to portrayin the one case a lyric of mysterious splendour; in the other, an idyllof infinite sweetness. Divinity shines through the rafters of thatupper chamber, where round a low large table the Apostles are assembledin a group translated from the social customs of the painter's days. Divinity is shed upon the straw-spread manger, where Christ liessleeping in the loft, with shepherds crowding through the room beneath. 

A studied contrast between the simplicity and repose of the centralfigure and the tumult of passions in the multitude around, may beobserved in the Miracle of S. Agnes. It is this which gives dramaticvigour to the composition. But the same effect is carried to its highestfulfilment, with even a loftier beauty, in the episode of Christ beforethe judgment-seat of Pilate, at San Rocco. Of all Tintoretto's religiouspictures, that is the most profoundly felt, the most majestic. No otherartist succeeded as he has here succeeded in presenting to us Godincarnate. For this Christ is not merely the just man, innocent, silentbefore his accusers. The stationary, white-draped figure, raised highabove the agitated crowd, with tranquil forehead slightly bent, facinghis perplexed and fussy judge, is more than man. We cannot say perhapsprecisely why he is divine. But Tintoretto has made us feel that he is. In other words, his treatment of the high theme chosen by him has beenadequate. 

We must seek the Scuola di San Rocco for examples of Tintoretto'sliveliest imagination. Without ceasing to be Italian in his attention toharmony and grace, he far exceeded the masters of his nation in thepower of suggesting what is weird, mysterious, upon the border-land ofthe grotesque. And of this quality there are three remarkable instancesin the Scuola. No one but Tintoretto could have evoked the fiend in hisTemptation of Christ. It is an indescribable hermaphroditic genius, thegenius of carnal fascination, with outspread downy rose-plumed wings, and flaming bracelets on the full but sinewy arms, who kneels and liftsaloft great stones, smiling entreatingly to the sad, grey Christ seatedbeneath a rugged pent-house of the desert. No one again but Tintorettocould have dashed the hot lights of that fiery sunset in such quiveringflakes upon the golden flesh of Eve, half-hidden among laurels, as shestretches forth the fruit of the Fall to shrinking Adam. No one butTintoretto, till we come to Blake, could have imagined yonder Jonah, summoned by the beck of God from the whale's belly. The monstrous fishrolls over in the ocean, blowing portentous vapour from his trump-shapednostril. The prophet's beard descends upon his naked breast in hoaryringlets to the girdle. He has forgotten the past peril of the deep, although the whale's jaws yawn around him. Between him and theoutstretched finger of Jehovah calling him again to life, there runs aspark of unseen spiritual electricity. 

To comprehend Tintoretto's touch upon the pastoral idyll we must turnour steps to San Giorgio again, and pace those meadows by the runningriver in company with his Manna-Gatherers. Or we may seek the Accademia, and notice how he here has varied the Temptation of Adam by Eve, choosing a less tragic motive of seduction than the one so powerfullyrendered at San Rocco. Or in the Ducal Palace we may take our station, hour by hour, before the Marriage of Bacchus and Ariadne. It is well toleave the very highest achievements of art untouched by criticismundescribed. And in this picture we have the most perfect of all modernattempts to realise an antique myth--more perfect than Raphael'sGalatea, or Titian's Meeting of Bacchus with Ariadne, or Botticelli'sBirth of Venus from the Sea. It may suffice to marvel at the slighteffect which melodies so powerful and so direct as these produce uponthe ordinary public. Sitting, as is my wont, one Sunday morning, opposite the Bacchus, four Germans with a cicerone sauntered by. Thesubject was explained to them. They waited an appreciable space of time. Then the youngest opened his lips and spake: "Bacchus war derWein-Gott. " And they all moved heavily away. _Bos locutus est. _ "Bacchuswas the wine-god!" This, apparently, is what a picture tells to one man. To another it presents divine harmonies, perceptible indeed in nature, but here by the painter-poet for the first time brought together andcadenced in a work of art. For another it is perhaps the hieroglyph ofpent-up passions and desired impossibilities. For yet another it mayonly mean the unapproachable inimitable triumph of consummate craft. 

Tintoretto, to be rightly understood, must be sought all over Venice--inthe church as well as the Scuola di San Rocco; in the Temptation of S. Anthony at S. Trovaso no less than in the Temptations of Eve and Christ;in the decorative pomp of the Sala del Senato, and in the Paradisalvision of the Sala del Gran Consiglio. Yet, after all, there is one ofhis most characteristic moods, to appreciate which fully we return tothe Madonna dell'Orto. I have called him "the painter ofimpossibilities. " At rare moments he rendered them possible by sheerimaginative force. If we wish to realise this phase of his creativepower, and to measure our own subordination to his genius in its mosthazardous enterprise, we must spend much time in the choir of thischurch. Lovers of art who mistrust this play of the audaciousfancy--aiming at sublimity in supersensual regions, sometimes attainingto it by stupendous effort or authentic revelation, not seldom sinkingto the verge of bathos, and demanding the assistance of interpretativesympathy in the spectator--such men will not take the point of viewrequired of them by Tintoretto in his boldest flights, in the Worship ofthe Golden Calf and in the Destruction of the World by Water. It is forthem to ponder well the flying archangel with the scales of judgment inhis hand, and the seraph-charioted Jehovah enveloping Moses upon Sinaiin lightnings. 

The gondola has had a long rest. Were Francesco but a little moreimpatient, he might be wondering what had become of the padrone. I bidhim turn, and we are soon gliding into the Sacca della Misericordia. This is a protected float, where the wood which comes from Cadore andthe hills of the Ampezzo is stored in spring. Yonder square white house, standing out to sea, fronting Murano and the Alps, they call the Casadegli Spiriti. No one cares to inhabit it; for here, in old days, it wasthe wont of the Venetians to lay their dead for a night's rest beforetheir final journey to the graveyard of S. Michele. So many generationsof dead folk had made that house their inn, that it is now no fittinghome for living men. San Michele is the island close before Murano, where the Lombardi built one of their most romantically gracefulchurches of pale Istrian stone, and where the Campo Santo has forcenturies received the dead into its oozy clay. The cemetery is atpresent undergoing restoration. Its state of squalor and abandonment tocynical disorder makes one feel how fitting for Italians would be thecustom of cremation. An island in the lagoons devoted to funeral pyresis a solemn and ennobling conception. This graveyard, with its ruinouswalls, its mangy riot of unwholesome weeds, its corpses festering inslime beneath neglected slabs in hollow chambers, and the mephitic washof poisoned waters that surround it, inspires the horror of disgust. 

The morning has not lost its freshness. Antelao and Tofana, guarding thevale above Cortina, show faint streaks of snow upon their amethyst. Little clouds hang in the still autumn sky. There are men dredging forshrimps and crabs through shoals uncovered by the ebb. Nothing can belovelier, more resting to eyes tired with pictures than this tranquil, sunny expanse of the lagoon. As we round the point of the Bersaglio, newlandscapes of island and Alp and low-lying mainland move into sight atevery slow stroke of the oar. A luggage-train comes lumbering along therailway bridge, puffing white smoke into the placid blue. Then we strikedown Cannaregio, and I muse upon processions of kings and generals andnoble strangers, entering Venice by this water-path from Mestre, beforethe Austrians built their causeway for the trains. Some of the rarescraps of fresco upon house fronts, still to be seen in Venice, are leftin Cannaregio. They are chiaroscuro allegories in a bold bravura mannerof the sixteenth century. From these and from a few rosy fragments onthe Fondaco dei Tedeschi, the Fabbriche Nuove, and precious fadingfigures in a certain courtyard near San Stefano, we form some notionhow Venice looked when all her palaces were painted. Pictures by GentileBellini, Mansueti, and Carpaccio help the fancy in this work ofrestoration. And here and there, in back canals, we come across colouredsections of old buildings, capped by true Venetian chimneys, which for amoment seem to realise our dream. 

A morning with Tintoretto might well be followed by a morning withCarpaccio or Bellini. But space is wanting in these pages. Nor would itsuit the manner of this medley to hunt the Lombardi through palaces andchurches, pointing out their singularities of violet and yellowpanellings in marble, the dignity of their wide-opened arches, or thedelicacy of their shallow chiselled traceries in cream-white Istrianstone. It is enough to indicate the goal of many a pleasant pilgrimage:warrior angels of Vivarini and Basaiti hidden in a dark chapel of theFrari; Fra Francesco's fantastic orchard of fruits and flowers indistant S. Francesco della Vigna; the golden Gian Bellini in S. Zaccaria; Palma's majestic S. Barbara in S. Maria Formosa; San Giobbe'swealth of sculptured frieze and floral scroll; the Ponte di Paradiso, with its Gothic arch; the painted plates in the Museo Civico; and palaceafter palace, loved for some quaint piece of tracery, some moulding fullof mediæval symbolism, some fierce impossible Renaissance freak offancy. 

Rather than prolong this list, I will tell a story which drew me one daypast the Public Gardens to the metropolitan Church of Venice, San Pietrodi Castello. The novella is related by Bandello. It has, as will benoticed, points of similarity to that of "Romeo and Juliet. "

V. --A VENETIAN NOVELLA. 

At the time when Carpaccio and Gentile Bellini were painting thosehandsome youths in tight jackets, parti-coloured hose, and little roundcaps placed awry upon their shocks of well-combed hair, there lived inVenice two noblemen, Messer Pietro and Messer Paolo, whose palacesfronted each other on the Grand Canal. Messer Paolo was a widower, withone married daughter, and an only son of twenty years or thereabouts, named Gerardo. Messer Pietro's wife was still living; and this couplehad but one child, a daughter, called Elena, of exceeding beauty, agedfourteen. Gerardo, as is the wont of gallants, was paying his addressesto a certain lady; and nearly every day he had to cross the Grand Canalin his gondola, and to pass beneath the house of Elena on his way tovisit his Dulcinea; for this lady lived some distance up a little canalon which the western side of Messer Pietro's palace looked. 

Now it so happened that at the very time when the story opens, MesserPietro's wife fell ill and died, and Elena was left alone at home withher father and her old nurse. Across the little canal of which I spokethere dwelt another nobleman, with four daughters, between the years ofseventeen and twenty-one. Messer Pietro, desiring to provide amusementfor poor little Elena, besought this gentleman that his daughters mightcome on feast-days to play with her. For you must know that, except onfestivals of the Church, the custom of Venice required that gentlewomenshould remain closely shut within the private apartments of theirdwellings. His request was readily granted; and on the next feast-daythe five girls began to play at ball together for forfeits in the greatsaloon, which opened with its row of Gothic arches and balustratedbalcony upon the Grand Canal. The four sisters, meanwhile, had otherthoughts than for the game. One or other of them, and sometimes threetogether, would let the ball drop, and run to the balcony to gaze upontheir gallants, passing up and down in gondolas below; and then theywould drop flowers or ribbands for tokens. Which negligence of theirsannoyed Elena much; for she thought only of the game. Wherefore shescolded them in childish wise, and one of them made answer, "Elena, ifyou only knew how pleasant it is to play as we are playing on thisbalcony, you would not care so much for ball and forfeits!"

On one of those feast-days the four sisters were prevented from keepingtheir little friend company. Elena, with nothing to do, and feelingmelancholy, leaned upon the window-sill which overlooked the narrowcanal. And it chanced that just then Gerardo, on his way to Dulcinea, went by; and Elena looked down at him, as she had seen those sisterslook at passers-by. Gerardo caught her eye, and glances passed betweenthem, and Gerardo's gondolier, bending from the poop, said to hismaster, "O master! methinks that gentle maiden is better worth yourwooing than Dulcinea. " Gerardo pretended to pay no heed to these words;but after rowing a little way, he bade the man turn, and they wentslowly back beneath the window. This time Elena, thinking to play thegame which her four friends had played, took from her hair a clovecarnation and let it fall close to Gerardo on the cushion of thegondola. He raised the flower and put it to his lips, acknowledging thecourtesy with a grave bow. But the perfume of the clove and the beautyof Elena in that moment took possession of his heart together, andstraightway he forgot Dulcinea. 

As yet he knew not who Elena was. Nor is this wonderful; for thedaughters of Venetian nobles were but rarely seen or spoken of. But thethought of her haunted him awake and sleeping; and every feast-day, whenthere was the chance of seeing her, he rowed his gondola beneath herwindows. And there she appeared to him in company with her four friends;the five girls clustering together like sister roses beneath the pointedwindows of the Gothic balcony. Elena, on her side, had no thought oflove; for of love she had heard no one speak. But she took pleasure inthe game those friends had taught her, of leaning from the balcony towatch Gerardo. He meanwhile grew love-sick and impatient, wondering howhe might declare his passion. Until one day it happened that, walkingthrough a lane or _calle_ which skirted Messer Pietro's palace, hecaught sight of Elena's nurse, who was knocking at the door, returningfrom some shopping she had made. This nurse had been his own nurse inchildhood; therefore he remembered her, and cried aloud, "Nurse, Nurse!"But the old woman did not hear him, and passed into the house and shutthe door behind her. Whereupon Gerardo, greatly moved, still called toher, and when he reached the door, began to knock upon it violently. Andwhether it was the agitation of finding himself at last so near the wishof his heart, or whether the pains of waiting for his love had weakenedhim, I know not; but, while he knocked, his senses left him, and hefell fainting in the doorway. Then the nurse recognised the youth towhom she had given suck, and brought him into the courtyard by the helpof handmaidens, and Elena came down and gazed upon him. The house wasnow full of bustle, and Messer Pietro heard the noise, and seeing theson of his neighbour in so piteous a plight, he caused Gerardo to belaid upon a bed. But for all they could do with him, he recovered notfrom his swoon. And after a while force was that they should place himin a gondola and ferry him across to his father's house. The nurse wentwith him, and informed Messer Paolo of what had happened. Doctors weresent for, and the whole family gathered round Gerardo's bed. After awhile he revived a little; and thinking himself still upon the doorstepof Pietro's palace, called again, "Nurse, Nurse!" She was near at hand, and would have spoken to him. But while he summoned his senses to hisaid, he became gradually aware of his own kinsfolk and dissembled thesecret of his grief. They beholding him in better cheer, departed ontheir several ways, and the nurse still sat alone beside him. Then heexplained to her what he had at heart, and how he was in love with amaiden whom he had seen on feast-days in the house of Messer Pietro. Butstill he knew not Elena's name; and she, thinking it impossible thatsuch a child had inspired this passion, began to marvel which of thefour sisters it was Gerardo loved. Then they appointed the next Sunday, when all the five girls should be together, for Gerardo by some sign, ashe passed beneath the window, to make known to the old nurse his lady. 

Elena, meanwhile, who had watched Gerardo lying still and pale in swoonbeneath her on the pavement of the palace, felt the stirring of a newunknown emotion in her soul. When Sunday came, she devised excuses forkeeping her four friends away, bethinking her that she might see himonce again alone, and not betray the agitation which she dreaded. Thisill suited the schemes of the nurse, who nevertheless was forced to becontent. But after dinner, seeing how restless was the girl, and how shecame and went, and ran a thousand times to the balcony, the nurse beganto wonder whether Elena herself were not in love with some one. So shefeigned to sleep, but placed herself within sight of the window. Andsoon Gerardo came by in his gondola; and Elena, who was prepared, threwto him her nosegay. The watchful nurse had risen, and peeping behind thegirl's shoulder, saw at a glance how matters stood. Thereupon she beganto scold her charge, and say, "Is this a fair and comely thing, to standall day at balconies and throw flowers at passers-by? Woe to you if yourfather should come to know of this! He would make you wish yourselfamong the dead!" Elena, sore troubled at her nurse's rebuke, turned andthrew her arms about her neck, and called her "Nanna!" as the wont is ofVenetian children. Then she told the old woman how she had learned thatgame from the four sisters, and how she thought it was not different, but far more pleasant, than the game of forfeits; whereupon her nursespoke gravely, explaining what love is, and how that love should lead tomarriage, and bidding her search her own heart if haply she could chooseGerardo for her husband. There was no reason, as she knew, why MesserPaolo's son should not mate with Messer Pietro's daughter. But being aromantic creature, as many women are, she resolved to bring the matchabout in secret. 

Elena took little time to reflect, but told her nurse that she waswilling, if Gerardo willed it too, to have him for her husband. Thenwent the nurse and made the young man know how matters stood, andarranged with him a day, when Messer Pietro should be in the Council ofthe Pregadi, and the servants of the palace otherwise employed, for himto come and meet his Elena. A glad man was Gerardo, nor did he wait tothink how better it would be to ask the hand of Elena in marriage fromher father. But when the day arrived, he sought the nurse, and she tookhim to a chamber in the palace, where there stood an image of theBlessed Virgin. Elena was there, pale and timid; and when the loversclasped hands, neither found many words to say. But the nurse bade themtake heart, and leading them before Our Lady, joined their hands, andmade Gerardo place his ring on his bride's finger. After this fashionwere Gerardo and Elena wedded. And for some while, by the assistance ofthe nurse, they dwelt together in much love and solace, meeting often asoccasion offered. 

Messer Paolo, who knew nothing of these things, took thought meanwhilefor his son's career. It was the season when the Signory of Venice sendsa fleet of galleys to Beirut with merchandise; and the noblemen may bidfor the hiring of a ship, and charge it with wares, and send whomsoeverthey list as factor in their interest. One of these galleys, then, Messer Paolo engaged, and told his son that he had appointed him tojourney with it and increase their wealth. "On thy return, my son, " hesaid, "we will bethink us of a wife for thee. " Gerardo, when he heardthese words, was sore troubled, and first he told his father roundlythat he would not go, and flew off in the twilight to pour out hisperplexities to Elena. But she, who was prudent and of gentle soul, besought him to obey his father in this thing, to the end, moreover, that, having done his will and increased his wealth, he might afterwardsunfold the story of their secret marriage. To these good counsels, though loth, Gerardo consented. His father was overjoyed at his son'srepentance. The galley was straightway laden with merchandise, andGerardo set forth on his voyage. 

The trip to Beirut and back lasted usually six months or at the mostseven. Now when Gerardo had been some six months away, Messer Pietro, noticing how fair his daughter was, and how she had grown intowomanhood, looked about him for a husband for her. When he had found ayouth suitable in birth and wealth and years, he called for Elena, andtold her that the day had been appointed for her marriage. She, alas!knew not what to answer. She feared to tell her father that she wasalready married, for she knew not whether this would please Gerardo. Forthe same reason she dreaded to throw herself upon the kindness of MesserPaolo. Nor was her nurse of any help in counsel; for the old womanrepented her of what she had done, and had good cause to believe that, even if the marriage with Gerardo were accepted by the two fathers, theywould punish her for her own part in the affair. Therefore she badeElena wait on fortune, and hinted to her that, if the worst came to theworst, no one need know she had been wedded with the ring to Gerardo. Such weddings, you must know, were binding; but till they had beenblessed by the Church, they had not taken the force of a religioussacrament. And this is still the case in Italy among the common folk, who will say of a man, "Si, è ammogliato; ma il matrimonio non è statobenedetto. " "Yes, he has taken a wife, but the marriage has not yet beenblessed. "

So the days flew by in doubt and sore distress for Elena. Then on thenight before her wedding, she felt that she could bear this life nolonger. But having no poison, and being afraid to pierce her bosom witha knife, she lay down on her bed alone, and tried to die by holding inher breath. A mortal swoon came over her; her senses fled; the life inher remained suspended. And when her nurse came next morning to callher, she found poor Elena cold as a corpse. Messer Pietro and all thehousehold rushed, at the nurse's cries, into the room, and they all sawElena stretched dead upon her bed undressed. Physicians were called, whomade theories to explain the cause of death. But all believed that shewas really dead, beyond all help of art or medicine. Nothing remainedbut to carry her to church for burial instead of marriage. Therefore, that very evening, a funeral procession was formed, which moved bytorchlight up the Grand Canal, along the Riva, past the blank walls ofthe Arsenal, to the Campo before San Pietro in Castello. Elena laybeneath the black felze in one gondola, with a priest beside herpraying, and other boats followed bearing mourners. Then they laid hermarble chest outside the church, and all departed, still with torchesburning, to their homes. 

Now it so fell out that upon that very evening Gerardo's galley hadreturned from Syria, and was anchoring within the port of Lido, whichlooks across to the island of Castello. It was the gentle custom ofVenice at that time that, when a ship arrived from sea, the friends ofthose on board at once came out to welcome them, and take and give thenews. Therefore many noble youths and other citizens were on the deck ofGerardo's galley, making merry with him over the safe conduct of hisvoyage. Of one of these he asked, "Whose is yonder funeral processionreturning from San Pietro?" The young man made answer, "Alas for poorElena, Messer Pietro's daughter! She should have been married this day. But death took her, and to-night they buried her in the marble monumentoutside the church. " A woeful man was Gerardo, hearing suddenly thisnews, and knowing what his dear wife must have suffered ere she died. Yet he restrained himself, daring not to disclose his anguish, andwaited till his friends had left the galley. Then he called to him thecaptain of the oarsmen, who was his friend, and unfolded to him all thestory of his love and sorrow, and said that he must go that night andsee his wife once more, if even he should have to break her tomb. Thecaptain tried to dissuade him, but in vain. Seeing him so obstinate, heresolved not to desert Gerardo. The two men took one of the galley'sboats, and rowed together toward San Pietro. It was past midnight whenthey reached the Campo and broke the marble sepulchre asunder. Pushingback its lid, Gerardo descended into the grave and abandoned himselfupon the body of his Elena. One who had seen them at that moment couldnot well have said which of the two was dead and which was living--Elenaor her husband. Meantime the captain of the oarsmen, fearing lest thewatch (set by the Masters of the Night to keep the peace of Venice)might arrive, was calling on Gerardo to come back. Gerardo heeded him nowhit. But at the last, compelled by his entreaties, and as it wereastonied, he arose, bearing his wife's corpse in his arms, and carriedher clasped against his bosom to the boat, and laid her therein, and satdown by her side and kissed her frequently, and suffered not hisfriend's remonstrances. Force was for the captain, having broughthimself into this scrape, that he should now seek refuge by the nearestway from justice. Therefore he hoved gently from the bank, and plied hisoar, and brought the gondola apace into the open waters. Gerardo stillclasped Elena, dying husband by dead wife. But the sea-breeze freshenedtowards daybreak, and the Captain, looking down upon that pair, andbringing to their faces the light of his boat's lantern, judged theircase not desperate at all. On Elena's cheek there was a flush of lifeless deadly even than the pallor of Gerardo's forehead. Thereupon thegood man called aloud, and Gerardo started from his grief; and bothtogether they chafed the hands and feet of Elena; and, the sea-breezeaiding with its saltness, they awoke in her the spark of life. 

Dimly burned the spark. But Gerardo, being aware of it, became a managain. Then, having taken counsel with the captain, both resolved tobear her to that brave man's mother's house. A bed was soon made ready, and food was brought; and after due time, she lifted up her face andknew Gerardo. The peril of the grave was past, but thought had now to betaken for the future. Therefore Gerardo, leaving his wife to thecaptain's mother, rowed back to the galley and prepared to meet hisfather. With good store of merchandise and with great gains from histraffic, he arrived in that old palace on the Grand Canal. Then havingopened to Messer Paolo the matters of his journey, and shown him how hehad fared, and set before him tables of disbursements and receipts, heseized the moment of his father's gladness. "Father, " he said, and as hespoke he knelt upon his knees, "Father, I bring you not good store ofmerchandise and bags of gold alone; I bring you also a wedded wife, whomI have saved this night from death. " And when the old man's surprise wasquieted, he told him the whole story. Now Messer Paolo, desiring nobetter than that his son should wed the heiress of his neighbour, andknowing well that Messer Pietro would make great joy receiving back hisdaughter from the grave, bade Gerardo in haste take rich apparel andclothe Elena therewith, and fetch her home. These things were swiftlydone; and after evenfall Messer Pietro was bidden to grave business inhis neighbour's palace. With heavy heart he came, from a house ofmourning to a house of gladness. But there, at the banquet-table's headhe saw his dead child Elena alive, and at her side a husband. And whenthe whole truth had been declared, he not only kissed and embraced thepair who knelt before him, but of his goodness forgave the nurse, who inher turn came trembling to his feet. Then fell there joy and bliss inover-measure that night upon both palaces of the Canal Grande. And withthe morrow the Church blessed the spousals which long since had been onboth sides vowed and consummated. 

VI. --ON THE LAGOONS. 

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

Yonder lies San Lazzaro, with the neat red buildings of the Armenianconvent. The last oleander blossoms shine rosy pink above its wallsagainst the pure blue sky as we glide into the little harbour. Boatspiled with coal-black grapes block the landing-place, for the Padri aregathering their vintage from the Lido, and their presses run with newwine. Eustace and I have not come to revive memories of Byron--thatcurious patron saint of the Armenian colony--or to inspect theprinting-press, which issues books of little value for our studies. Itis enough to pace the terrace, and linger half an hour beneath the lowbroad arches of the alleys pleached with vines, through which the domesand towers of Venice rise more beautiful by distance. 

Malamocco lies considerably farther, and needs a full hour of stoutrowing to reach it. Alighting there, we cross the narrow strip of land, and find ourselves upon the huge sea-wall--block piled on block--ofIstrian stone in tiers and ranks, with cunning breathing-places for thewaves to wreak their fury on and foam their force away in fretful waste. The very existence of Venice may be said to depend sometimes on these_murazzi_, which were finished at an immense cost by the Republic in thedays of its decadence. The enormous monoliths which compose them had tobe brought across the Adriatic in sailing vessels. Of all the Lidi, thatof Malamocco is the weakest; and here, if anywhere, the sea might effectan entrance into the lagoon. Our gondoliers told us of some places wherethe _murazzi_ were broken in a gale, or _sciroccale_, not very long ago. Lying awake in Venice, when the wind blows hard, one hears the seathundering upon its sandy barrier, and blesses God for the _murazzi_. Onsuch a night it happened once to me to dream a dream of Veniceoverwhelmed by water. I saw the billows roll across the smooth lagoonlike a gigantic Eager. The Ducal Palace crumbled, and San Marco's domeswent down. The Campanile rocked and shivered like a reed. And all alongthe Grand Canal the palaces swayed helpless, tottering to their fall, while boats piled high with men and women strove to stem the tide, andsave themselves from those impending ruins. It was a mad dream, born ofthe sea's roar and Tintoretto's painting. But this afternoon no suchvisions are suggested. The sea sleeps, and in the moist autumn air webreak tall branches of the seeded yellowing samphire from hollows of therocks, and bear them homeward in a wayward bouquet mixed with cobs ofIndian-corn. 

Fusina is another point for these excursions. It lies at the mouth ofthe Canal di Brenta, where the mainland ends in marsh and meadows, intersected by broad renes. In spring the ditches bloom withfleurs-de-lys; in autumn they take sober colouring from lilac daisiesand the delicate sea-lavender. Scores of tiny plants are turning scarleton the brown moist earth; and when the sun goes down behind the Euganeanhills, his crimson canopy of cloud, reflected on these shallows, muddyshoals, and wilderness of matted weeds, converts the common earth into afairyland of fabulous dyes. Purple, violet, and rose are spread aroundus. In front stretches the lagoon, tinted with a pale light from theeast, and beyond this pallid mirror shines Venice--a long low brokenline, touched with the softest roseate flush. Ere we reach the Giudeccaon our homeward way, sunset has faded. The western skies have cladthemselves in green, barred with dark fire-rimmed clouds. The Euganeanhills stand like stupendous pyramids, Egyptian, solemn, against a lemonspace on the horizon. The far reaches of the lagoons, the Alps, andislands assume those tones of glowing lilac which are the supreme beautyof Venetian evening. Then, at last, we see the first lamps glitter onthe Zattere. The quiet of the night has come. 

Words cannot be formed to express the endless varieties of Venetiansunset. The most magnificent follow after wet stormy days, when the westbreaks suddenly into a labyrinth of fire, when chasms of clear turquoiseheavens emerge, and horns of flame are flashed to the zenith, andunexpected splendours scale the fretted clouds, step over step, stealingalong the purple caverns till the whole dome throbs. Or, again, after afair day, a change of weather approaches, and high, infinitely high, theskies are woven over with a web of half-transparent cirrus-clouds. Thesein the after-glow blush crimson, and through their rifts the depth ofheaven is of a hard and gem-like blue, and all the water turns to rosebeneath them. I remember one such evening on the way back from Torcello. We were well out at sea between Mazzorbo and Murano. The ruddy archesoverhead were reflected without interruption in the waveless ruddy lakebelow. Our black boat was the only dark spot in this sphere ofsplendour. We seemed to hang suspended; and such as this, I fancied, must be the feeling of an insect caught in the heart of a fiery-petalledrose. Yet not these melodramatic sunsets alone are beautiful. Even moreexquisite, perhaps, are the lagoons, painted in monochrome of greys, with just one touch of pink upon a western cloud, scattered in rippleshere and there on the waves below, reminding us that day has passed andevening come. And beautiful again are the calm settings of fair weather, when sea and sky alike are cheerful, and the topmost blades of thelagoon grass, peeping from the shallows, glance like emeralds upon thesurface. There is no deep stirring of the spirit in a symphony of lightand colour; but purity, peace, and freshness make their way into ourhearts. 

VII. --AT THE LIDO. 

Of all these afternoon excursions, that to the Lido is most frequent. Ithas two points for approach. The more distant is the little station ofSan Nicoletto, at the mouth of the Porto. With an ebb-tide, the waterof the lagoon runs past the mulberry gardens of this hamlet like ariver. There is here a grove of acacia-trees, shadowy and dreamy, abovedeep grass, which even an Italian summer does not wither. The Riva isfairly broad, forming a promenade, where one may conjure up thepersonages of a century ago. For San Nicoletto used to be a fashionableresort before the other points of Lido had been occupied bypleasure-seekers. An artist even now will select its old-world quiet, leafy shade, and prospect through the islands of Vignole and Sant'Erasmoto snow-touched peaks of Antelao and Tofana, rather than the glare andbustle and extended view of Venice which its rival Sant'Elisabettaoffers. 

But when we want a plunge into the Adriatic, or a stroll along smoothsands, or a breath of genuine sea-breeze, or a handful of horned poppiesfrom the dunes, or a lazy half-hour's contemplation of a limitlesshorizon flecked with russet sails, then we seek Sant'Elisabetta. Ourboat is left at the landing-place. We saunter across the island and backagain. Antonio and Francesco wait and order wine, which we drink withthem in the shade of the little _osteria's_ wall. 

A certain afternoon in May I well remember, for this visit to the Lidowas marked by one of those apparitions which are as rare as they arewelcome to the artist's soul. I have always held that in our modern lifethe only real equivalent for the antique mythopoeic sense--that sensewhich enabled the Hellenic race to figure for themselves the powers ofearth and air, streams and forests, and the presiding genii of places, under the forms of living human beings, is supplied by the appearance atsome felicitous moment of a man or woman who impersonates for ourimagination the essence of the beauty that environs us. It seems, atsuch a fortunate moment, as though we had been waiting for thisrevelation, although perchance the want of it had not been previouslyfelt. Our sensations and perceptions test themselves at the touchstoneof this living individuality. The keynote of the whole music dimlysounding in our ears is struck. A melody emerges, clear in form andexcellent in rhythm. The landscapes we have painted on our brain, nolonger lack their central figure. The life proper to the complexconditions we have studied is discovered, and every detail, judged bythis standard of vitality, falls into its right relations. 

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

We had picked up shells and looked for sea-horses on the Adriatic shore. Then we returned to give our boatmen wine beneath the vine-clad_pergola_. Four other men were there, drinking, and eating from a dishof fried fish set upon the coarse white linen cloth. Two of them soonrose and went away. Of the two who stayed, one was a large, middle-agedman; the other was still young. He was tall and sinewy, but slender, forthese Venetians are rarely massive in their strength. Each limb isequally developed by the exercise of rowing upright, bending all themuscles to their stroke. Their bodies are elastically supple, with freesway from the hips and a mercurial poise upon the ankle. Stefano showedthese qualities almost in exaggeration. The type in him was refined toits artistic perfection. Moreover, he was rarely in repose, but movedwith a singular brusque grace. A black broad-brimmed hat was thrown backupon his matted _zazzera_ of dark hair tipped with dusky brown. Thisshock of hair, cut in flakes, and falling wilfully, reminded me of thelagoon grass when it darkens in autumn upon uncovered shoals, and sunsetgilds its sombre edges. Fiery grey eyes beneath it gazed intensely, withcompulsive effluence of electricity. It was the wild glance of a Triton. Short blonde moustache, dazzling teeth, skin bronzed, but showing whiteand healthful through open front and sleeves of lilac shirt. The dashingsparkle of this animate splendour, who looked to me as though thesea-waves and the sun had made him in some hour of secret and unquietrapture, was somehow emphasised by a curious dint dividing his squarechin--a cleft that harmonised with smile on lip and steady flame ineyes. I hardly know what effect it would have upon a reader to compareeyes to opals. Yet Stefano's eyes, as they met mine, had the vitreousintensity of opals, as though the colour of Venetian waters werevitalised in them. This noticeable being had a rough, hoarse voice, which, to develop the parallel with a sea-god, might have screamed instorm or whispered raucous messages from crests of tossing billows. 

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

Then we rose, and wandered through the Jews' cemetery. It is a quietplace, where the flat grave-stones, inscribed in Hebrew and Italian, liedeep in Lido sand, waved over with wild grass and poppies. I would fainbelieve that no neglect, but rather the fashion of this folk, had leftthe monuments of generations to be thus resumed by nature. Yet, knowingnothing of the history of this burial-ground, I dare not affirm so much. There is one outlying piece of the cemetery which seems to contradict mycharitable interpretation. It is not far from San Nicoletto. Noenclosure marks it from the unconsecrated dunes. Acacia-trees sproutamid the monuments, and break the tablets with their thorny shootsupthrusting from the soil. Where patriarchs and rabbis sleep forcenturies, the fishers of the sea now wander, and defile thesehabitations of the dead:

 Corruption most abhorred Mingling itself with their renownèd ashes. 

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

VIII. --A VENETIAN RESTAURANT. 

At the end of a long glorious day, unhappy is that mortal whom theHermes of a cosmopolitan hotel, white-chokered and white-waistcoated, marshals to the Hades of the _table-d'hôte_. The world has often beencompared to an inn; but on my way down to this common meal I have, notunfrequently, felt fain to reverse the simile. From their separatestations, at the appointed hour, the guests like ghosts flit to a gloomygas-lit chamber. They are of various speech and race, preoccupied withdivers interests and cares. Necessity and the waiter drive them all to asepulchral syssition, whereof the cook too frequently deserves that oldGreek comic epithet--+hadou mageiros+--cook of the Inferno. And just aswe are told that in Charon's boat we shall not be allowed to pick oursociety, so here we must accept what fellowship the fates provide. AnEnglish spinster retailing paradoxes culled to-day from Ruskin'shandbooks; an American citizen describing his jaunt in a gondola fromthe railway station; a German shopkeeper descanting in one breath onBaur's Bock and the beauties of the Marcusplatz; an intelligent æsthetebent on working into clearness his own views of Carpaccio's genius: allthese in turn, or all together, must be suffered gladly throughwell-nigh two long hours. Uncomforted in soul we rise from the expensivebanquet; and how often rise from it unfed!

Far other be the doom of my own friends--of pious bards and genialcompanions, lovers of natural and lovely things! Nor for these do Idesire a seat at Florian's marble tables, or a perch in Quadri'swindow, though the former supply dainty food, and the latter command abird's-eye view of the Piazza. Rather would I lead them to a certainhumble tavern on the Zattere. It is a quaint, low-built, unpretendinglittle place, near a bridge, with a garden hard by which sends acataract of honeysuckles sunward over a too-jealous wall. In front liesa Mediterranean steamer, which all day long has been discharging cargo. Gazing westward up Giudecca, masts and funnels bar the sunset and thePaduan hills; and from a little front room of the _trattoria_ the viewis so marine that one keeps fancying oneself in some ship's cabin. Sea-captains sit and smoke beside their glass of grog in the pavilionand the _caffé_. But we do not seek their company at dinner-time. Ourway lies under yonder arch, and up the narrow alley into a paved court. Here are oleanders in pots, and plants of Japanese spindle-wood in tubs;and from the walls beneath the window hang cages of all sorts ofbirds--a talking parrot, a whistling blackbird, goldfinches, canaries, linnets. Athos, the fat dog, who goes to market daily in a _barchetta_with his master, snuffs around. "Where are Porthos and Aramis, myfriend?" Athos does not take the joke; he only wags his stump of tailand pokes his nose into my hand. What a Tartufe's nose it is! Its bridgedisplays the full parade of leather-bound brass-nailed muzzle. Butbeneath, this muzzle is a patent sham. The frame does not even pretendto close on Athos' jaw, and the wise dog wears it like a decoration. Alittle farther we meet that ancient grey cat, who has no discoverablename, but is famous for the sprightliness and grace with which she bearsher eighteen years. Not far from the cat one is sure to find Carlo--thebird-like, bright-faced, close-cropped Venetian urchin, whose duty it isto trot backwards and forwards between the cellar and the dining-tables. At the end of the court we walk into the kitchen, where the black-cappedlittle _padrone_ and the gigantic white-capped _chef_ are in closeconsultation. Here we have the privilege of inspecting the larder--fishof various sorts, meat, vegetables, several kinds of birds, pigeons, tordi, beccafichi, geese, wild ducks, chickens, woodcock, &c . , according to the season. We select our dinner, and retire to eat iteither in the court among the birds beneath the vines, or in the lowdark room which occupies one side of it. Artists of many nationalitiesand divers ages frequent this house; and the talk arising from theseveral little tables, turns upon points of interest and beauty in thelife and landscape of Venice. There can be no difference of opinionabout the excellence of the _cuisine_, or about the reasonable chargesof this _trattoria_. A soup of lentils, followed by boiled turbot orfried soles, beef-steak or mutton cutlets, tordi or beccafichi, with asalad, the whole enlivened with good red wine or Florio's SicilianMarsala from the cask, costs about four francs. Gas is unknown in theestablishment. There is no noise, no bustle, no brutality of waiters, no_ahurissement_ of tourists. And when dinner is done, we can sit awhileover our cigarette and coffee, talking until the night invites us to astroll along the Zattere or a _giro_ in the gondola. 

IX. --NIGHT IN VENICE. 

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

There is the ever-recurring miracle of the full moon rising, before dayis dead, behind San Giorgio, spreading a path of gold on the lagoonwhich black boats traverse with the glow-worm lamp upon their prow;ascending the cloudless sky and silvering the domes of the Salute;pouring vitreous sheen upon the red lights of the Piazzetta; floodingthe Grand Canal, and lifting the Rialto higher in ethereal whiteness;piercing but penetrating not the murky labyrinth of _rio_ linked with_rio_, through which we wind in light and shadow, to reach once more thelevel glories and the luminous expanse of heaven beyond theMisericordia. 

This is the melodrama of Venetian moonlight; and if a single impressionof the night has to be retained from one visit to Venice, those arefortunate who chance upon a full moon of fair weather. Yet I know notwhether some quieter and soberer effects are not more thrilling. To-night, for example, the waning moon will rise late through veils of_scirocco_. Over the bridges of San Cristoforo and San Gregorio, throughthe deserted Calle di Mezzo, my friend and I walk in darkness, pass themarble basements of the Salute, and push our way along its Riva to thepoint of the Dogana. We are out at sea alone, between the Canalozzo andthe Giudecca. A moist wind ruffles the water and cools our forehead. Itis so dark that we can only see San Giorgio by the light reflected onit from the Piazzetta. The same light climbs the Campanile of S. Mark, and shows the golden angel in mystery of gloom. The only noise thatreaches us is a confused hum from the Piazza. Sitting and musing there, the blackness of the water whispers in our ears a tale of death. And nowwe hear a plash of oars and gliding through the darkness comes a singleboat. One man leaps upon the landing-place without a word anddisappears. There is another wrapped in a military cloak asleep. I seehis face beneath me, pale and quiet. The _barcaruolo_ turns the point insilence. From the darkness they came; into the darkness they have gone. It is only an ordinary incident of coastguard service. But the spirit ofthe night has made a poem of it. 

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

Take yet another night. There had been a representation of Verdi's"Forza del Destino" at the Teatro Malibran. After midnight we walkedhomeward through the Merceria, crossed the Piazza, and dived into thenarrow _calle_ which leads to the _traghetto_ of the Salute. It was awarm moist starless night, and there seemed no air to breathe in thosenarrow alleys. The gondolier was half asleep. Eustace called him as wejumped into his boat, and rang our _soldi_ on the gunwale. Then he aroseand turned the _ferro_ round, and stood across towards the Salute. Silently, insensibly, from the oppression of confinement in the airlessstreets to the liberty and immensity of the water and the night wepassed. It was but two minutes ere we touched the shore and saidgood-night, and went our way and left the ferryman. But in that briefpassage he had opened our souls to everlasting things--the freshness, and the darkness, and the kindness of the brooding, all-enfolding nightabove the sea. 

THE GONDOLIER'S WEDDING. 

The night before the wedding we had a supper-party in my rooms. We weretwelve in all. My friend Eustace brought his gondolier Antonio withfair-haired, dark-eyed wife, and little Attilio, their eldest child. Myown gondolier, Francesco, came with his wife and two children. Thenthere was the handsome, languid Luigi, who, in his best clothes, or outof them, is fit for any drawing-room. Two gondoliers, in dark blueshirts, completed the list of guests, if we exclude the maid Catina, whocame and went about the table, laughing and joining in the songs, andsitting down at intervals to take her share of wine. The big roomlooking across the garden to the Grand Canal had been prepared forsupper; and the company were to be received in the smaller, which has afine open space in front of it to southwards. But as the guests arrived, they seemed to find the kitchen and the cooking that was going on quiteirresistible. Catina, it seems, had lost her head with so manycuttlefishes, _orai_, cakes, and fowls, and cutlets to reduce to order. There was, therefore, a great bustle below stairs; and I could hearplainly that all my guests were lending their making, or their marring, hands to the preparation of the supper. That the company should cooktheir own food on the way to the dining-room, seemed a quite novelarrangement, but one that promised well for their contentment with thebanquet. Nobody could be dissatisfied with what was everybody's affair. 

When seven o'clock struck, Eustace and I, who had been entertaining thechildren in their mothers' absence, heard the sound of steps upon thestairs. The guests arrived, bringing their own _risotto_ with them. Welcome was short, if hearty. We sat down in carefully appointed order, and fell into such conversation as the quarter of San Vio and ourseveral interests supplied. From time to time one of the matrons leftthe table and descended to the kitchen, when a finishing stroke wasneeded for roast pullet or stewed veal. The excuses they made their hostfor supposed failure in the dishes, lent a certain grace and comic charmto the commonplace of festivity. The entertainment was theirs as much asmine; and they all seemed to enjoy what took the form by degrees ofcuriously complicated hospitality. I do not think a well-ordered supperat any _trattoria_, such as at first suggested itself to my imagination, would have given any of us an equal pleasure or an equal sense offreedom. The three children had become the guests of the whole party. Little Attilio, propped upon an air-cushion, which puzzled himexceedingly, ate through his supper and drank his wine with solidsatisfaction, opening the large brown eyes beneath those tufts ofclustering fair hair which promise much beauty for him in his manhood. Francesco's boy, who is older and begins to know the world, sat with asemi-suppressed grin upon his face, as though the humour of thesituation was not wholly hidden from him. Little Teresa too was happy, except when her mother, a severe Pomona, with enormous earrings andsplendid _fazzoletto_ of crimson and orange dyes, pounced down upon herfor some supposed infraction of good manners--_creanza_, as they vividlyexpress it here. Only Luigi looked a trifle bored. But Luigi has been asoldier, and has now attained the supercilious superiority ofyoung-manhood, which smokes its cigar of an evening in the piazza andknows the merits of the different cafés. 

The great business of the evening began when the eating was over, andthe decanters filled with new wine of Mirano circulated freely. The fourbest singers of the party drew together; and the rest preparedthemselves to make suggestions, hum tunes, and join with fitful effectin choruses. Antonio, who is a powerful young fellow, with bronzedcheeks and a perfect tempest of coal-black hair in flakes upon hisforehead, has a most extraordinary soprano--sound as a bell, strong as atrumpet, well-trained, and true to the least shade in intonation. Piero, whose rugged Neptunian features, sea-wrinkled, tell of a roughwater-life, boasts a bass of resonant, almost pathetic quality. Francesco has a _mezza voce_, which might, by a stretch of politeness, be called baritone. Piero's comrade, whose name concerns us not, hasanother of these nondescript voices. They sat together with theirglasses and cigars before them, sketching part-songs in outline, striking the keynote--now higher and now lower--till they saw theirsubject well in view. Then they burst into full singing, Antonio leadingwith a metal note that thrilled one's ears, but still was musical. Complicated contrapuntal pieces, such as we should call madrigals, withever-recurring refrains of "Venezia, gemma Triatica, sposa del mar, "descending probably from ancient days, followed each other in quicksuccession. Barcaroles, serenades, love-songs, and invitations to thewater were interwoven for relief. One of these romantic pieces had abeautiful burden, "Dormi, o bella, o fingi di dormir, " of which themelody was fully worthy. But the most successful of all the tunes weretwo with a sad motive. The one repeated incessantly "Ohimé! mia madremorì;" the other was a girl's love lament: "Perchè tradirmi, perchèlasciarmi! prima d'amarmi non eri così!" Even the children joined inthese; and Catina, who took the solo part in the second, was inspired toa great dramatic effort. All these were purely popular songs. The peopleof Venice, however, are passionate for operas. Therefore we had duetsand solos from "Ernani, " the "Ballo in Maschera, " and the "Forza delDestino, " and one comic chorus from "Boccaccio, " which seemed to makethem wild with pleasure. To my mind, the best of these more formalpieces was a duet between Attila and Italia from some opera unknown tome, which Antonio and Piero performed with incomparable spirit. It wasnoticeable how, descending to the people, sung by them for love at sea, or on excursions to the villages round Mestre, these operaticreminiscences had lost something of their theatrical formality, andassumed instead the serious gravity, the quaint movement, and markedemphasis which belong to popular music in Northern and Central Italy. Anantique character was communicated even to the recitative of Verdi byslight, almost indefinable, changes of rhythm and accent. There was noend to the singing. "Siamo appassionati per il canto, " frequentlyrepeated, was proved true by the profusion and variety of songs producedfrom inexhaustible memories, lightly tried over, brilliantly performed, rapidly succeeding each other. Nor were gestures wanting--lifted arms, hands stretched to hands, flashing eyes, hair tossed from theforehead--unconscious and appropriate action--which showed how thespirit of the music and words alike possessed the men. One by one thechildren fell asleep. Little Attilio and Teresa were tucked up beneathmy Scotch shawl at two ends of a great sofa; and not even his father'sclarion voice, in the character of Italia defying Attila to harm "le miesuperbe città, " could wake the little boy up. The night wore on. It waspast one. Eustace and I had promised to be in the church of the Gesuatiat six next morning. We, therefore, gave the guests a gentle hint, whichthey as gently took. With exquisite, because perfectly unaffected, breeding they sank for a few moments into common conversation, thenwrapped the children up, and took their leave. It was an uncomfortable, warm, wet night of sullen _scirocco_. 

The next day, which was Sunday, Francesco called me at five. There wasno visible sunrise that cheerless damp October morning. Grey dawn stolesomehow imperceptibly between the veil of clouds and leaden waters, asmy friend and I, well sheltered by our _felze_, passed into theGiudecca, and took our station before the church of the Gesuati. A fewwomen from the neighbouring streets and courts crossed the bridges indraggled petticoats on their way to first mass. A few men, shoulderingtheir jackets, lounged along the Zattere, opened the great green doors, and entered. Then suddenly Antonio cried out that the bridal party wason its way, not as we had expected, in boats, but on foot. We left ourgondola, and fell into the ranks, after shaking hands with Francesco, who is the elder brother of the bride. There was nothing very noticeablein her appearance, except her large dark eyes. Otherwise both face andfigure were of a common type; and her bridal dress of sprigged greysilk, large veil and orange blossoms, reduced her to the level of a_bourgeoise_. It was much the same with the bridegroom. His features, indeed, proved him a true Venetian gondolier; for the skin was strainedover the cheekbones, and the muscles of the throat beneath the jawsstood out like cords, and the bright blue eyes were deep-set beneath aspare brown forehead. But he had provided a complete suit of black forthe occasion, and wore a shirt of worked cambric, which disguised whatis really splendid in the physique of these oarsmen, at once slender andsinewy. Both bride and bridegroom looked uncomfortable in their clothes. The light that fell upon them in the church was dull and leaden. Theceremony, which was very hurriedly performed by an unctuous priest, didnot appear to impress either of them. Nobody in the bridal party, crowding together on both sides of the altar, looked as though theservice was of the slightest interest and moment. Indeed, this washardly to be wondered at; for the priest, so far as I could understandhis gabble, took the larger portion for read, after muttering the firstwords of the rubric. A little carven image of an acolyte--a weird boywho seemed to move by springs, whose hair had all the semblance ofpainted wood, and whose complexion was white and red like a clown's--didnot make matters more intelligible by spasmodically clatteringresponses. 

After the ceremony we heard mass and contributed to three distinctoffertories. Considering how much account even two _soldi_ are to thesepoor people, I was really angry when I heard the copper shower. Everymember of the party had his or her pennies ready, and dropped them intothe boxes. Whether it was the effect of the bad morning, or the uglinessof a very ill-designed _barocco_ building, or the fault of the fat oilypriest, I know not. But the _sposalizio_ struck me as tame andcheerless, the mass as irreverent and vulgarly conducted. At the sametime there is something too impressive in the mass for any perfunctoryperformance to divest its symbolism of sublimity. A Protestant CommunionService lends itself more easily to degradation by unworthiness in theminister. 

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

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

_Traghetti_ are stations for gondolas at different points of the canals. As their name implies, it is the first duty of the gondoliers upon themto ferry people across. This they do for the fixed fee of five centimes. The _traghetti_ are in fact Venetian cab-stands. And, of course, likeLondon cabs, the gondolas may be taken off them for trips. Themunicipality, however, makes it a condition, under penalty of fine tothe _traghetto_, that each station should always be provided with twoboats for the service of the ferry. When vacancies occur on the_traghetti_, a gondolier who owns or hires a boat makes application tothe municipality, receives a number, and is inscribed as plying at acertain station. He has now entered a sort of guild, which is presidedover by a _Capo-traghetto_, elected by the rest for the protection oftheir interests, the settlement of disputes, and the management of theircommon funds. In the old acts of Venice this functionary is styled_Gastaldo di traghetto_. The members have to contribute something yearlyto the guild. This payment varies upon different stations, according tothe greater or less amount of the tax levied by the municipality on the_traghetto_. The highest subscription I have heard of is twenty-fivefrancs; the lowest, seven. There is one _traghetto_, known by the nameof Madonna del Giglio or Zobenigo, which possesses near its _pergola_ ofvines a nice old brown Venetian picture. Some stranger offered aconsiderable sum for this. But the guild refused to part with it. 

As may be imagined, the _traghetti_ vary greatly in the amount andquality of their custom. By far the best are those in the neighbourhoodof the hotels upon the Grand Canal. At any one of these a gondolierduring the season is sure of picking up some foreigner or other who willpay him handsomely for comparatively light service. A _traghetto_ on theGiudecca, on the contrary, depends upon Venetian traffic. The work ismore monotonous, and the pay is reduced to its tariffed minimum. So faras I can gather, an industrious gondolier, with a good boat, belongingto a good _traghetto_, may make as much as ten or fifteen francs in asingle day. But this cannot be relied on. They therefore prefer a fixedappointment with a private family, for which they receive by tariff fivefrancs a day, or by arrangement for long periods perhaps four francs aday, with certain perquisites and small advantages. It is great luck toget such an engagement for the winter. The heaviest anxieties whichbeset a gondolier are then disposed of. Having entered private service, they are not allowed to ply their trade on the _traghetto_, except bystipulation with their masters. Then they may take their place one nightout of every six in the rank and file. The gondoliers have two proverbs, which show how desirable it is, while taking a fixed engagement, to keeptheir hold on the _traghetto_. One is to this effect: _il traghetto è unbuon padrone_. The other satirises the meanness of the poverty-strickenVenetian nobility: _pompa di servitù, misera insegna_. When they combinethe _traghetto_ with private service, the municipality insists on theirretaining the number painted on their gondola; and against this theiremployers frequently object. It is, therefore, a great point for agondolier to make such an arrangement with his master as will leave himfree to show his number. The reason for this regulation is obvious. Gondoliers are known more by their numbers and their _traghetti_ thantheir names. They tell me that though there are upwards of a thousandregistered in Venice, each man of the trade knows the wholeconfraternity by face and number. Taking all things into consideration, I think four francs a day the whole year round are very good earningsfor a gondolier. On this he will marry and rear a family, and put alittle money by. A young unmarried man, working at two and a half orthree francs a day, is proportionately well-to-do. If he is economical, he ought upon these wages to save enough in two or three years to buyhimself a gondola. A boy from fifteen to nineteen is called a_mezz'uomo_, and gets about one franc a day. A new gondola with all itsfittings is worth about a thousand francs. It does not last in goodcondition more than six or seven years. At the end of that time the hullwill fetch eighty francs. A new hull can be had for three hundredfrancs. The old fittings--brass sea-horses or _cavalli_, steel prow or_ferro_, covered cabin or _felze_, cushions and leather-coveredback-board or _stramazetto_, may be transferred to it. When a man wantsto start a gondola, he will begin by buying one already half pastservice--a _gondola da traghetto_ or _di mezza età_. This should costhim something over two hundred francs. Little by little, he accumulatesthe needful fittings; and when his first purchase is worn out, he hopesto set up with a well-appointed equipage. He thus gradually works hisway from the rough trade which involves hard work and poor earnings tothat more profitable industry which cannot be carried on without a smartboat. The gondola is a source of continual expense for repairs. Its oarshave to be replaced. It has to be washed with sponges, blacked, andvarnished. Its bottom needs frequent cleaning. Weeds adhere to it in thewarm brackish water, growing rapidly through the summer months, anddemanding to be scrubbed off once in every four weeks. The gondolier hasno place where he can do this for himself. He therefore takes his boatto a wharf, or _squero_, as the place is called. At these _squeri_gondolas are built as well as cleaned. The fee for a thorough setting torights of the boat is five francs. It must be done upon a fine day. Thusin addition to the cost, the owner loses a good day's work. 

These details will serve to give some notion of the sort of people withwhom Eustace and I spent our day. The bride's house is in an excellentposition on an open canal leading from the Canalozzo to the Giudecca. She had arrived before us, and received her friends in the middle of theroom. Each of us in turn kissed her cheek and murmured ourcongratulations. We found the large living-room of the house arrangedwith chairs all round the walls, and the company were marshalled in someorder of precedence, my friend and I taking place near the bride. Oneither hand airy bed-rooms opened out, and two large doors, wide open, gave a view from where we sat of a good-sized kitchen. This arrangementof the house was not only comfortable, but pretty; for the bright copperpans and pipkins ranged on shelves along the kitchen walls had a verycheerful effect. The walls were whitewashed, but literally covered withall sorts of pictures. A great plaster cast from some antique, an Atys, Adonis, or Paris, looked down from a bracket placed between the windows. There was enough furniture, solid and well kept, in all the rooms. Amongthe pictures were full-length portraits in oils of two celebratedgondoliers--one in antique costume, the other painted a few years since. The original of the latter soon came and stood before it. He had wonregatta prizes; and the flags of four discordant colours were paintedround him by the artist, who had evidently cared more to commemorate thetriumphs of his sitter and to strike a likeness than to secure the tone ofhis own picture. This champion turned out a fine fellow--Corradini--withone of the brightest little gondoliers of thirteen for his son. 

After the company were seated, lemonade and cakes were handed roundamid a hubbub of chattering women. Then followed cups of black coffeeand more cakes. Then a glass of Cyprus and more cakes. Then a glass ofcuraçoa and more cakes. Finally, a glass of noyau and still more cakes. It was only a little after seven in the morning. Yet politenesscompelled us to consume these delicacies. I tried to shirk my duty; butthis discretion was taken by my hosts for well-bred modesty; and insteadof being let off, I had the richest piece of pastry and the largestmacaroon available pressed so kindly on me, that, had they beenpoisoned, I would not have refused to eat them. The conversation grewmore and more animated, the women gathering together in their dresses ofbright blue and scarlet, the men lighting cigars and puffing out a fewquiet words. It struck me as a drawback that these picturesque peoplehad put on Sunday-clothes to look as much like shop-keepers as possible. But they did not all of them succeed. Two handsome women, who handed thecups round--one a brunette, the other a blonde--wore skirts of brilliantblue, with a sort of white jacket, and white kerchief folded heavilyabout their shoulders. The brunette had a great string of coral, theblonde of amber, round her throat. Gold earrings and the long goldchains Venetian women wear, of all patterns and degrees of value, abounded. Nobody appeared without them; but I could not see any of anantique make. The men seemed to be contented with rings--huge, heavyrings of solid gold, worked with a rough flower pattern. One youngfellow had three upon his fingers. This circumstance led me to speculatewhether a certain portion at least of this display of jewellery aroundme had not been borrowed for the occasion. 

Eustace and I were treated quite like friends. They called us _ISignori_. But this was only, I think, because our English names arequite unmanageable. The women fluttered about us and kept asking whetherwe really liked it all? whether we should come to the _pranzo_? whetherit was true we danced? It seemed to give them unaffected pleasure to bekind to us; and when we rose to go away, the whole company crowdedround, shaking hands and saying: "_Si divertirà bene stasera_!" Nobodyresented our presence; what was better, no one put himself out for us. "_Vogliono veder il nostro costume_, " I heard one woman say. 

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

At half-past three, Eustace and I again prepared ourselves for action. His gondola was in attendance, covered with the _felze_, to take us tothe house of the _sposa_. We found the canal crowded with poor people ofthe quarter--men, women, and children lining the walls along its side, and clustering like bees upon the bridges. The water itself was almostchoked with gondolas. Evidently the folk of San Vio thought our weddingprocession would be a most exciting pageant. We entered the house, andwere again greeted by the bride and bridegroom, who consigned each of usto the control of a fair tyrant. This is the most fitting way ofdescribing our introduction to our partners of the evening; for we wereno sooner presented, than the ladies swooped upon us like their prey, placing their shawls upon our left arms, while they seized and clung towhat was left available of us for locomotion. There was considerablegiggling and tittering throughout the company when Signora Fenzo, theyoung and comely wife of a gondolier, thus took possession of Eustace, and Signora dell'Acqua, the widow of another gondolier, appropriated me. The affair had been arranged beforehand, and their friends had probablychaffed them with the difficulty of managing two mad Englishmen. However, they proved equal to the occasion, and the difficulties wereentirely on our side. Signora Fenzo was a handsome brunette, quiet inher manners, who meant business. I envied Eustace his subjection to sucha reasonable being. Signora dell'Acqua, though a widow, was by no meansdisconsolate; and I soon perceived that it would require all the addressand diplomacy I possessed, to make anything out of her society. Shelaughed incessantly; darted in the most diverse directions, dragging mealong with her; exhibited me in triumph to her cronies; made eyes at meover a fan; repeated my clumsiest remarks, as though they gave herindescribable amusement; and all the while jabbered Venetian at expressrate, without the slightest regard for my incapacity to follow hervagaries. The _Vecchio_ marshalled us in order. First went the _sposa_and _comare_ with the mothers of bride and bridegroom. Then followed the_sposo_ and the bridesmaid. After them I was made to lead my fairtormentor. As we descended the staircase there arose a hubbub ofexcitement from the crowd on the canals. The gondolas moved turbidlyupon the face of the waters. The bridegroom kept muttering to himself, "How we shall be criticised! They will tell each other who was decentlydressed, and who stepped awkwardly into the boats, and what the price ofmy boots was!" Such exclamations, murmured at intervals, and followed bychest-drawn sighs, expressed a deep preoccupation. With regard to hisboots, he need have had no anxiety. They were of the shiniest patentleather, much too tight, and without a speck of dust upon them. But hisnervousness infected me with a cruel dread. All those eyes were going towatch how we comported ourselves in jumping from the landing-steps intothe boat! If this operation, upon a ceremonious occasion, has terrorseven for a gondolier, how formidable it ought to be to me! And here isthe Signora dell'Acqua's white cachemire shawl dangling on one arm, andthe Signora herself languishingly clinging to the other; and thegondolas are fretting in a fury of excitement, like corks, upon thechurned green water! The moment was terrible. The _sposa_ and her threecompanions had been safely stowed away beneath their _felze_. The_sposo_ had successfully handed the bridesmaid into the second gondola. I had to perform the same office for my partner. Off she went, like abird, from the bank. I seized a happy moment, followed, bowed, and foundmyself to my contentment gracefully ensconced in a corner opposite thewidow. Seven more gondolas were packed. The procession moved. We glideddown the little channel, broke away into the Grand Canal, crossed it, and dived into a labyrinth from which we finally emerged before ourdestination, the Trattoria di San Gallo. The perils of the landing weresoon over; and, with the rest of the guests, my mercurial companion andI slowly ascended a long flight of stairs leading to a vast upperchamber. Here we were to dine. 

It had been the gallery of some palazzo in old days, was above onehundred feet in length, fairly broad, with a roof of wooden rafters andlarge windows opening on a courtyard garden. I could see the tops ofthree cypress-trees cutting the grey sky upon a level with us. A longtable occupied the centre of this room. It had been laid for upwards offorty persons, and we filled it. There was plenty of light from greatglass lustres blazing with gas. When the ladies had arranged theirdresses, and the gentlemen had exchanged a few polite remarks, we allsat down to dinner--I next my inexorable widow, Eustace beside his calmand comely partner. The first impression was one of disappointment. Itlooked so like a public dinner of middle-class people. There was nolocal character in costume or customs. Men and women sat politely bored, expectant, trifling with their napkins, yawning, muttering nothingsabout the weather or their neighbours. The frozen commonplaceness of thescene was made for me still more oppressive by Signora dell'Acqua. Shewas evidently satirical, and could not be happy unless continuallylaughing at or with somebody. "What a stick the woman will think me!" Ikept saying to myself. "How shall I ever invent jokes in this strangeland? I cannot even flirt with her in Venetian! And here I havecondemned myself--and her too, poor thing--to sit through at least threehours of mortal dulness!" Yet the widow was by no means unattractive. Dressed in black, she had contrived by an artful arrangement of lace andjewellery to give an air of lightness to her costume. She had a prettylittle pale face, a _minois chiffonné_, with slightly turned-up nose, large laughing brown eyes, a dazzling set of teeth, and a tempestuouslyfrizzled mop of powdered hair. When I managed to get a side-look at herquietly, without being giggled at or driven half mad by unintelligibleincitements to a jocularity I could not feel, it struck me that, if weonce found a common term of communication we should become good friends. But for the moment that _modus vivendi_ seemed unattainable. She had notrecovered from the first excitement of her capture of me. She was stillshowing me off and trying to stir me up. The arrival of the soup gave mea momentary relief; and soon the serious business of the afternoonbegan. I may add that before dinner was over, the Signora dell'Acqua andI were fast friends. I had discovered the way of making jokes, and shehad become intelligible. I found her a very nice, though flighty, littlewoman; and I believe she thought me gifted with the faculty of utteringeccentric epigrams in a grotesque tongue. Some of my remarks were flungabout the table, and had the same success as uncouth Lombard carvingshave with connoisseurs in _naïvetés_ of art. By that time we had come tobe _compare_ and _comare_ to each other--the sequel of some clumsy pieceof jocularity. 

It was a heavy entertainment, copious in quantity, excellent in quality, plainly but well cooked. I remarked there was no fish. The widow repliedthat everybody present ate fish to satiety at home. They did not join amarriage feast at the San Gallo, and pay their nine francs, for that! Itshould be observed that each guest paid for his own entertainment. Thisappears to be the custom. Therefore attendance is complimentary, andthe married couple are not at ruinous charges for the banquet. A curiousfeature in the whole proceeding had its origin in this custom. I noticedthat before each cover lay an empty plate, and that my partner beganwith the first course to heap upon it what she had not eaten. She alsotook large helpings, and kept advising me to do the same. I said: "No; Ionly take what I want to eat; if I fill that plate in front of me as youare doing, it will be great waste. " This remark elicited shrieks oflaughter from all who heard it; and when the hubbub had subsided, Iperceived an apparently official personage bearing down upon Eustace, who was in the same perplexity. It was then circumstantially explainedto us that the empty plates were put there in order that we might layaside what we could not conveniently eat, and take it home with us. Atthe end of the dinner the widow (whom I must now call my _comare_) hadaccumulated two whole chickens, half a turkey, and a large assortment ofmixed eatables. I performed my duty and won her regard by placingdelicacies at her disposition. 

Crudely stated, this proceeding moves disgust. But that is only becauseone has not thought the matter out. In the performance there was nothingcoarse or nasty. These good folk had made a contract at so much ahead--so many fowls, so many pounds of beef, &c. , to be supplied; andwhat they had fairly bought, they clearly had a right to. No one, so faras I could notice, tried to take more than his proper share; except, indeed, Eustace and myself. In our first eagerness to conform to custom, we both overshot the mark, and grabbed at disproportionate helpings. The waiters politely observed that we were taking what was meant fortwo; and as the courses followed in interminable sequence, we soonacquired the tact of what was due to us. 

Meanwhile the room grew warm. The gentlemen threw off their coats--apleasant liberty of which I availed myself, and was immediately more atease. The ladies divested themselves of their shoes (strange to relate!)and sat in comfort with their stockinged feet upon the _scagliola_pavement. I observed that some cavaliers by special permission wereallowed to remove their partners' slippers. This was not my lucky fate. My _comare_ had not advanced to that point of intimacy. Healths began tobe drunk. The conversation took a lively turn; and women went flutteringround the table, visiting their friends, to sip out of their glass, andask each other how they were getting on. It was not long before thestiff veneer of _bourgeoisie_ which bored me had worn off. The peopleemerged in their true selves: natural, gentle, sparkling with enjoyment, playful. Playful is, I think, the best word to describe them. Theyplayed with infinite grace and innocence, like kittens, from the old menof sixty to the little boys of thirteen. Very little wine was drunk. Each guest had a litre placed before him. Many did not finish theirs;and for very few was it replenished. When at last the desert arrived, and the bride's comfits had been handed round, they began to sing. Itwas very pretty to see a party of three or four friends gathering roundsome popular beauty, and paying her compliments in verse--they groupedbehind her chair, she sitting back in it and laughing up to them, andjoining in the chorus. The words, "Brunetta mia simpatica, ti amo semprepiù, " sung after this fashion to Eustace's handsome partner, who puffeddelicate whiffs from a Russian cigarette, and smiled her thanks, had apeculiar appropriateness. All the ladies, it may be observed in passing, had by this time lit their cigarettes. The men were smoking Toscani, Sellas, or Cavours, and the little boys were dancing round the tablebreathing smoke from their pert nostrils. 

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

My friend and I were now at liberty to chat with the men. He knew someof them by sight, and claimed acquaintance with others. There was plentyof talk about different boats, gondolas, and sandolos and topos, remarksupon the past season, and inquiries as to chances of engagements in thefuture. One young fellow told us how he had been drawn for the army, andshould be obliged to give up his trade just when he had begun to make itanswer. He had got a new gondola, and this would have to be hung upduring the years of his service. The warehousing of a boat in thesecircumstances costs nearly one hundred francs a year, which is a serioustax upon the pockets of a private in the line. Many questions were putin turn to us, but all of the same tenor. "Had we really enjoyed the_pranzo_? Now, really, were we amusing ourselves? And did we think thecustom of the wedding _un bel costume_?" We could give an unequivocallyhearty response to all these interrogations. The men seemed pleased. Their interest in our enjoyment was unaffected. It is noticeable howoften the word _divertimento_ is heard upon the lips of the Italians. They have a notion that it is the function in life of the _Signori_ toamuse themselves. 

The ball opened, and now we were much besought by the ladies. I had todeny myself with a whole series of comical excuses. Eustace performedhis duty after a stiff English fashion--once with his pretty partner ofthe _pranzo_, and once again with a fat gondolier. The band playedwaltzes and polkas, chiefly upon patriotic airs--the Marcia Reale, Garibaldi's Hymn, &c. Men danced with men, women with women, little boysand girls together. The gallery whirled with a laughing crowd. There wasplenty of excitement and enjoyment--not an unseemly or extravagant wordor gesture. My _comare_ careered about with a light mænadic impetuosity, which made me regret my inability to accept her pressing invitations. She pursued me into every corner of the room, but when at last I droppedexcuses and told her that my real reason for not dancing was that itwould hurt my health, she waived her claims at once with an _Ah, poverino_!

Some time after midnight we felt that we had had enough of_divertimento_. Francesco helped us to slip out unobserved. With manysilent good wishes we left the innocent, playful people who had been sokind to us. The stars were shining from a watery sky as we passed intothe piazza beneath the Campanile and the pinnacles of S. Mark. The Rivawas almost empty, and the little waves fretted the boats moored to thepiazzetta, as a warm moist breeze went fluttering by. We smoked a lastcigar, crossed our _traghetto_, and were soon sound asleep at the end ofa long, pleasant day. The ball, we heard next morning, finished aboutfour. 

Since that evening I have had plenty of opportunities for seeing myfriends the gondoliers, both in their own homes and in my apartment. Several have entertained me at their mid-day meal of fried fish andamber-coloured polenta. These repasts were always cooked with scrupulouscleanliness, and served upon a table covered with coarse linen. Thepolenta is turned out upon a wooden platter, and cut with a stringcalled _lassa_. You take a large slice of it on the palm of the lefthand, and break it with the fingers of the right. Wholesome red wine ofthe Paduan district and good white bread were never wanting. The roomsin which we met to eat looked out on narrow lanes or over pergolas ofyellowing vines. Their whitewashed walls were hung with photographs offriends and foreigners, many of them souvenirs from English or Americanemployers. The men, in broad black hats and lilac skirts, sat round thetable, girt with the red waist-wrapper, or _fascia_, which marks theancient faction of the Castellani. The other faction, called Nicolotti, are distinguished by a black _assisa_. The quarters of the town aredivided unequally and irregularly into these two parties. What was oncea formidable rivalry between two sections of the Venetian populace, still survives in challenges to trials of strength and skill upon thewater. The women, in their many-coloured kerchiefs, stirred polenta atthe smoke-blackened chimney, whose huge pent-house roof projects twofeet or more across the hearth. When they had served the table they tooktheir seat on low stools, knitted stockings, or drank out of glasseshanded across the shoulder to them by their lords. Some of these womenwere clearly notable housewives, and I have no reason to suppose thatthey do not take their full share of the housework. Boys and girls camein and out, and got a portion of the dinner to consume where theythought best. Children went tottering about upon the red-brick floor, the playthings of those hulking fellows, who handled them very gentlyand spoke kindly in a sort of confidential whisper to their ears. Theselittle ears were mostly pierced for earrings, and the light blue eyes ofthe urchins peeped maliciously beneath shocks of yellow hair. A dog wasoften of the party. He ate fish like his masters, and was made to begfor it by sitting up and rowing with his paws. _Voga, Azzò, voga!_ TheAnzolo who talked thus to his little brown Spitz-dog has the hoarsevoice of a Triton and the movement of an animated sea-wave. Azzòperformed his trick, swallowed his fish-bones, and the fiery Anzololooked round approvingly. 

On all these occasions I have found these gondoliers the samesympathetic, industrious, cheery affectionate folk. They live in manyrespects a hard and precarious life. The winter in particular is a timeof anxiety, and sometimes of privation, even to the well-to-do amongthem. Work then is scarce, and what there is, is rendered disagreeableto them by the cold. Yet they take their chance with facile temper, andare not soured by hardships. The amenities of the Venetian sea and air, the healthiness of the lagoons, the cheerful bustle of the poorerquarters, the brilliancy of this Southern sunlight, and the beauty whichis everywhere apparent, must be reckoned as important factors in theformation of their character. And of that character, as I have said, thefinal note is playfulness. In spite of difficulties, their life hasnever been stern enough to sadden them. Bare necessities aremarvellously cheap, and the pinch of real bad weather--such frost aslocked the lagoons in ice two years ago, or such south-western gales asflooded the basement floors of all the houses on the Zattere--is rareand does not last long. On the other hand, their life has never been solazy as to reduce them to the savagery of the traditional Neapolitanlazzaroni. They have had to work daily for small earnings, but underfavourable conditions, and their labour has been lightened by muchgood-fellowship among themselves, by the amusements of their _feste_ andtheir singing clubs. 

Of course it is not easy for a stranger in a very different socialposition to feel that he has been admitted to their confidence. Italianshave an ineradicable habit of making themselves externally agreeable, ofbending in all indifferent matters to the whims and wishes of superiors, and of saying what they think _Signori_ like. This habit, while itsmoothes the surface of existence, raises up a barrier of compliment andpartial insincerity, against which the more downright natures of usNorthern folk break in vain efforts. Our advances are met with animperceptible but impermeable resistance by the very people who are benton making the world pleasant to us. It is the very reverse of that douropposition which a Lowland Scot or a North English peasant offers tofamiliarity; but it is hardly less insurmountable. The treatment, again, which Venetians of the lower class have received through centuries fromtheir own nobility, makes attempts at fraternisation on the part ofgentlemen unintelligible to them. The best way, here and elsewhere, ofovercoming these obstacles is to have some bond of work or interest incommon--of service on the one side rendered, and good-will on the otherhonestly displayed. The men of whom I have been speaking will, I amconvinced, not shirk their share of duty or make unreasonable claimsupon the generosity of their employers. 

FORNOVO. 

In the town of Parma there is one surpassingly strange relic of thepast. The palace of the Farnesi, like many a haunt of upstart tyrannyand beggared pride on these Italian plains, rises misshapen anddisconsolate above the stream that bears the city's name. The squalor ofthis gray-brown edifice of formless brick, left naked like the palace ofthe same Farnesi at Piacenza, has something even horrid in it now thatonly vague memory survives of its former uses. The princely_sprezzatura_ of its ancient occupants, careless of these unfinishedcourts and unroofed galleries amid the splendor of their purfled silksand the glitter of their torchlight pageantry, has yielded to sullencynicism--the cynicism of arrested ruin and unreverend age. All that wassatisfying to the senses and distracting to the eyesight in theirtransitory pomp has passed away, leaving a sinister and naked shell. Remembrance can but summon up the crimes, the madness, the trivialitiesof those dead palace-builders. An atmosphere of evil clings to thedilapidated walls, as though the tainted spirit of the infamous PierLuigi still possessed the spot, on which his toadstool brood ofprincelings sprouted in the mud of their misdeeds. Enclosed in this hugelabyrinth of brickwork is the relic of which I spoke. It is the onceworld-famous Teatro Farnese, raised in the year 1618 by RanunzioFarnese for the marriage of Odoardo Farnese with Margaret of Austria. Giambattista Aleotti, a native of pageant-loving Ferrara, traced thestately curves and noble orders of the galleries, designed the columnsthat support the raftered roof, marked out the orchestra, arranged thestage, and breathed into the whole the spirit of Palladio's most heroicneo-Latin style. Vast, built of wood, dishevelled, with broken statuesand blurred coats-of-arms, with its empty scene, its uncurling frescos, its hangings all in rags, its cobwebs of two centuries, its dust andmildew and discolored gold--this theatre, a sham in its best days, andnow that ugliest of things, a sham unmasked and naked to the light ofday, is yet sublime, because of its proportioned harmony, because of itsgrand Roman manner. The sight and feeling of it fasten upon the mind andabide in the memory like a nightmare--like one of Piranesi's weirdestand most passion-haunted etchings for the _Carceri_. Idling there atnoon in the twilight of the dust-bedarkened windows, we fill the tiersof those high galleries with ladies, the space below with grooms andpages; the stage is ablaze with torches, and an Italian Masque, such asour Marlowe dreamed of, fills the scene. But it is impossible to dowerthese fancies with even such life as in healthier, happier ruinsphantasy may lend to imagination's figments. This theatre is like amaniac's skull, empty of all but unrealities and mockeries of thingsthat are. The ghosts we raise here could never have been living men andwomen: _questi sciaurati non fur mai vivi_. So clinging is the sense ofinstability that appertains to every fragment of that dry-rot tyrannywhich seized by evil fortune in the sunset of her golden day on Italy. 

In this theatre I mused one morning after visiting Fornovo; and thethoughts suggested by the battlefield found their proper atmosphere inthe dilapidated place. What, indeed, is the Teatro Farnese but a symbolof those hollow principalities which the despot and the stranger builtin Italy after the fatal date of 1494, when national enthusiasm andpolitical energy were expiring in a blaze of art, and when the Italiansas a people had ceased to be; but when the phantom of their former life, surviving in high works of beauty, was still superb by reason ofimperishable style! How much in Italy of the Renaissance was, like thisplank-built, plastered theatre, a glorious sham! The sham was seenthrough then; and now it stands unmasked: and yet, strange to say, soperfect is its form that we respect the sham and yield our spirits tothe incantation of its music. 

The battle of Fornovo, as modern battles go, was a paltry affair; andeven at the time it seemed sufficiently without result. Yet the trumpetswhich rang on July 6th, 1495, for the onset, sounded the _réveille_ ofthe modern world; and in the inconclusive termination of the struggle ofthat day the Italians were already judged and sentenced as a nation. Thearmies who met that morning represented Italy and France--Italy, theSibyl of Renaissance; France, the Sibyl of Revolution. At the fall ofevening Europe was already looking northward; and the last years of thefifteenth century were opening an act which closed in blood at Paris onthe ending of the eighteenth. 

If it were not for thoughts like these, no one, I suppose, would takethe trouble to drive for two hours out of Parma to the little village ofFornovo--a score of bare gray hovels on the margin of a pebblyriver-bed beneath the Apennines. The fields on either side, as far aseye can see, are beautiful indeed in May sunlight, painted here withflax, like shallow sheets of water reflecting a pale sky, and there withclover red as blood. Scarce unfolded leaves sparkle like flamelets ofbright green upon the knotted vines, and the young corn is bending allone way beneath a western breeze. But not less beautiful than this isthe whole broad plain of Lombardy; nor are the nightingales louder herethan in the acacia-trees around Pavia. As we drive, the fields becomeless fertile, and the hills encroach upon the level, sending down theirspurs upon that waveless plain like blunt rocks jutting out into atranquil sea. When we reach the bed of the Taro, these hills begin tonarrow on either hand, and the road rises. Soon they open out again withgradual curving lines, forming a kind of amphitheatre filled up fromflank to flank with the _ghiara_, or pebbly bottom, of the Taro. TheTaro is not less wasteful than any other of the brotherhood of streamsthat pour from Alp or Apennine to swell the Po. It wanders, an impatientrivulet, through a wilderness of boulders, uncertain of its aim, shifting its course with the season of the year, unless the jaws of somedeep-cloven gully hold it tight and show how insignificant it is. As weadvance, the hills approach again; between their skirts there is nothingbut the river-bed; and now on rising ground above the stream, at thepoint of juncture between the Ceno and the Taro, we find Fornovo. Beyondthe village the valley broadens out once more, disclosing Apenninescapped with winter snow. To the right descends the Ceno. To the leftfoams the Taro, following whose rocky channel we should come at last toPontremoli and the Tyrrhenian Sea beside Sarzana. On a May-day ofsunshine like the present, the Taro is a gentle stream. A waggon drawnby two white oxen has just entered its channel, guided by a contadinowith goat-skin leggings, wielding a long goad. The patient creaturesstem the water, which rises to the peasant's thighs and ripples roundthe creaking wheels. Swaying to and fro, as the shingles shift upon theriver-bed, they make their way across; and now they have emerged uponthe stones; and now we lose them in a flood of sunlight. 

It was by this pass that Charles VIII. In 1495 returned from Tuscany, when the army of the League was drawn up waiting to intercept and crushhim in the mouse-trap of Fornovo. No road remained for Charles and histroops but the rocky bed of the Taro, running as I have described itbetween the spurs of steep hills. It is true that the valley of theBaganza leads, from a little higher up among the mountains, intoLombardy. But this pass runs straight to Parma; and to follow it wouldhave brought the French upon the walls of a strong city. Charles couldnot do otherwise than descend upon the village of Fornovo, and cut hisway thence in the teeth of the Italian army over stream and boulderbetween the gorges of throttling mountain. The failure of the Italiansto achieve what here upon the ground appears so simple delivered Italyhand-bound to strangers. Had they but succeeded in arresting Charles anddestroying his forces at Fornovo, it is just possible that then--eventhen, at the eleventh hour--Italy might have gained the sense ofnational coherence, or at least have proved herself capable of holdingby her leagues the foreigner at bay. As it was, the battle of Fornovo, in spite of Venetian bonfires and Mantuan Madonnas of Victory, made herconscious of incompetence and convicted her of cowardice. After Fornovo, her sons scarcely dared to hold their heads up in the field againstinvaders; and the battles fought upon her soil were duels among aliensfor the prize of Italy. 

In order to comprehend the battle of Fornovo in its bearings on Italianhistory, we must go back to the year 1492, and understand the conditionsof the various states of Italy at that date. On April 8th in that year, Lorenzo de' Medici, who had succeeded in maintaining a politicalequilibrium in the peninsula, expired, and was succeeded by his sonPiero, a vain and foolhardy young man, from whom no guidance could beexpected. On July 25th, Innocent VIII. Died, and was succeeded by thevery worst pope who has ever occupied St. Peter's chair, RoderigoBorgia, Alexander VI. It was felt at once that the old order of thingshad somehow ended, and that a new era, the destinies of which as yetremained incalculable, was opening for Italy. The chief Italian powers, hitherto kept in equipoise by the diplomacy of Lorenzo de' Medici, werethese--the Duchy of Milan, the Republic of Venice, the Republic ofFlorence, the Papacy, and the Kingdom of Naples. Minor states, such asthe republics of Genoa and Siena, the duchies of Urbino and Ferrara, themarquisate of Mantua, the petty tyrannies of Romagna, and the wealthycity of Bologna, were sufficiently important to affect the balance ofpower, and to produce new combinations. For the present purpose it is, however, enough to consider the five great powers. 

After the peace of Constance, which freed the Lombard Communes fromimperial interference in the year 1183, Milan, by her geographicalposition, rose rapidly to be the first city of North Italy. Withoutnarrating the changes by which she lost her freedom as a Commune, it isenough to state that, earliest of all Italian cities, Milan passed intothe hands of a single family. The Visconti managed to convert thisflourishing commonwealth, with all its dependencies, into their privateproperty, ruling it exclusively for their own profit, using itsmunicipal institutions as the machinery of administration, and employingthe taxes which they raised upon its wealth for purely selfish ends. When the line of the Visconti ended, in the year 1447, their tyranny wascontinued by Francesco Sforza, the son of a poor soldier of adventure, who had raised himself by his military genius, and had married Bianca, the illegitimate daughter of the last Visconti. On the death ofFrancesco Sforza, in 1466, he left two sons, Galeazzo Maria andLodovico, surnamed Il Moro, both of whom were destined to play aprominent part in history. Galeazzo Maria, dissolute, vicious, and cruelto the core, was murdered by his injured subjects in the year 1476. Hisson, Giovanni Galeazzo, aged eight, would in course of time havesucceeded to the duchy, had it not been for the ambition of his uncleLodovico. Lodovico contrived to name himself as regent for his nephew, whom he kept, long after he had come of age, in a kind of honorableprison. Virtual master in Milan, but without a legal title to thethrone, unrecognized in his authority by the Italian powers, and holdingit from day to day by craft and fraud, Lodovico at last found hissituation untenable; and it was this difficulty of a usurper tomaintain himself in his despotism which, as we shall see, brought theFrench into Italy. 

Venice, the neighbor and constant foe of Milan, had become a closeoligarchy by a process of gradual constitutional development, whichthrew her government into the hands of a few nobles. She was practicallyruled by the hereditary members of the Grand Council. Ever since theyear 1453, when Constantinople fell beneath the Turk, the Venetians hadbeen more and more straitened in their Oriental commerce, and werethrown back upon the policy of territorial aggrandisement in Italy, fromwhich they had hitherto refrained as alien to the temperament of therepublic. At the end of the fifteenth century Venice, therefore, becamean object of envy and terror to the Italian States. They envied herbecause she alone was tranquil, wealthy, powerful, and free. They fearedher because they had good reason to suspect her of encroachment; and itwas foreseen that if she got the upper hand in Italy, all Italy would bethe property of the families inscribed upon the Golden Book. It was thusalone that the Italians comprehended government. The principle ofrepresentation being utterly unknown, and the privileged burghers ineach city being regarded as absolute and lawful owners of the city andof everything belonging to it, the conquest of a town by a republicimplied the political extinction of that town and the disfranchisementof its inhabitants in favor of the conquerors. 

Florence at this epoch still called itself a republic; and of allItalian commonwealths it was by far the most democratic. Its history, unlike that of Venice, had been the history of continual and brusquechanges, resulting in the destruction of the old nobility, in theequalization of the burghers, and in the formation of a new aristocracyof wealth. From this class of _bourgeois_ nobles sprang the Medici, who, by careful manipulation of the State machinery, by the creation of apowerful party devoted to their interests, by flattery of the people, bycorruption, by taxation, and by constant scheming, raised themselves tothe first place in the commonwealth, and became its virtual masters. Inthe year 1492, Lorenzo de Medici, the most remarkable chief of thisdespotic family, died, bequeathing his supremacy in the republic to ason of marked incompetence. 

Since the pontificate of Nicholas V. The See of Rome had entered upon anew period of existence. The popes no longer dreaded to reside in Rome, but were bent upon making the metropolis of Christendom both splendid asa seat of art and learning, and also potent as the capital of a secularkingdom. Though their fiefs in Romagna and the March were still held butloosely, though their provinces swarmed with petty despots who defiedthe papal authority, and though the princely Roman houses of Colonna andOrsini were still strong enough to terrorize the Holy Father in theVatican, it was now clear that the Papal See must in the end get thebetter of its adversaries, and consolidate itself into a first-ratepower. The internal spirit of the papacy, at this time, corresponded toits external policy. It was thoroughly secularized by a series ofworldly and vicious pontiffs, who had clean forgotten what their title, Vicar of Christ, implied. They consistently used their religiousprestige to enforce their secular authority, while by their temporalpower they caused their religious claims to be respected. Corrupt andshameless, they indulged themselves in every vice, openly acknowledgedtheir children, and turned Italy upside down in order to establishfavorites and bastards in the principalities they seized as spoils ofwar. 

The kingdom of Naples differed from any other state of Italy. Subjectcontinually to foreign rulers since the decay of the Greek Empire, governed in succession by the Normans, the Hohenstauffens, and the Houseof Anjou, it had never enjoyed the real independence or the freeinstitutions of the northern provinces; nor had it been Italianized inthe same sense as the rest of the peninsula. Despotism, which assumed somany forms in Italy, was here neither the tyranny of a noble house, northe masked autocracy of a burgher, nor yet the forceful sway of acondottiere. It had a dynastic character, resembling the monarchy of oneof the great European nations, but modified by the peculiar conditionsof Italian state-craft. Owing to this dynastic and monarchicalcomplexion of the Neapolitan kingdom, semi-feudal customs flourished inthe south far more than in the north of Italy. The barons were morepowerful; and the destinies of the Regno often turned upon their feudsand quarrels with the crown. At the same time the Neapolitan despotsshared the uneasy circumstances of all Italian potentates, owing to theuncertainty of their tenure, both as conquerors and aliens, and also asthe nominal vassals of the Holy See. The rights of suzerainty which theNormans had yielded to the papacy over their Southern conquests, andwhich the popes had arbitrarily exercised in favor of the Angevineprinces, proved a constant source of peril to the rest of Italy byrendering the succession to the crown of Naples doubtful. On theextinction of the Angevine line, however, the throne was occupied by aprince who had no valid title but that of the sword to its possession. Alfonso of Aragon conquered Naples in 1442, and neglecting hishereditary dominion, settled in his Italian capital. Possessed with theenthusiasm for literature which was then the ruling passion of theItalians, and very liberal to men of learning, Alfonso won for himselfthe surname of Magnanimous. On his death, in 1458, he bequeathed hisSpanish kingdom, together with Sicily and Sardinia, to his brother, andleft the fruits of his Italian conquest to his bastard, Ferdinand. ThisFerdinand, whose birth was buried in profound obscurity, was thereigning sovereign in the year 1492. Of a cruel and sombre temperament, traitorous and tyrannical, Ferdinand was hated by his subjects as muchas Alfonso had been loved. He possessed, however, to a remarkabledegree, the qualities which at that epoch constituted a consummatestatesman; and though the history of his reign is the history of plotsand conspiracies, of judicial murders and forcible assassinations, offamines produced by iniquitous taxation, and of every kind of diabolicaltyranny, Ferdinand contrived to hold his own, in the teeth of arebellious baronage or a maddened population. His political sagacityamounted almost to a prophetic instinct in the last years of his life, when he became aware that the old order was breaking up in Italy, andhad cause to dread that Charles VIII. Of France would prove his title tothe kingdom of Naples by force of arms. [D]

Such were the component parts of the Italian body politic, with theaddition of numerous petty principalities and powers, adhering more orless consistently to one or other of the greater states. The wholecomplex machine was bound together by no sense of common interest, animated by no common purpose, amenable to no central authority. Evensuch community of feeling as one spoken language gives was lacking. Andyet Italy distinguished herself clearly from the rest of Europe, notmerely as a geographical fact, but also as a people intellectually andspiritually one. The rapid rise of humanism had aided in producing thisnational self-consciousness. Every state and every city was absorbed inthe recovery of culture and in the development of art and literature. Far in advance of the other European nations, the Italians regarded therest of the world as barbarous, priding themselves the while, in spiteof mutual jealousies and hatreds, on their Italic civilization. Theywere enormously wealthy. The resources of the papal treasury, theprivate fortunes of the Florentine bankers, the riches of the Venetianmerchants might have purchased all that France or Germany possessed ofvalue. The single duchy of Milan yielded to its masters seven hundredthousand golden florins of revenue, according to the computation of DeComines. In default of a confederative system, the several states wereheld in equilibrium by diplomacy. By far the most important people, nextto the despots and the captains of adventure, were ambassadors andorators. War itself had become a matter of arrangement, bargain, anddiplomacy. The game of stratagem was played by generals who had beenfriends yesterday and might be friends again to-morrow, with troops whofelt no loyalty whatever for the standards under which they listed. Toavoid slaughter and to achieve the ends of warfare by parade anddemonstration was the interest of every one concerned. Looking back uponItaly of the fifteenth century, taking account of her religious deadnessand moral corruption, estimating the absence of political vigor in therepublics and the noxious tyranny of the despots, analyzing her lack ofnational spirit, and comparing her splendid life of cultivated ease withthe want of martial energy, we can see but too plainly that contact witha simpler and stronger people could not but produce a terriblecatastrophe. The Italians themselves, however, were far fromcomprehending this. Centuries of undisturbed internal intrigue hadaccustomed them to play the game of forfeits with each other, andnothing warned them that the time was come at which diplomacy, finesse, and craft would stand them in ill stead against rapacious conquerors. 

The storm which began to gather over Italy in the year 1492 had itsfirst beginning in the North. Lodovico Sforza's position in the Duchy ofMilan was becoming every day more difficult, when a slight and to allappearances insignificant incident converted his apprehension of dangerinto panic. It was customary for the states of Italy to congratulate anew pope on his election by their ambassadors; and this ceremony had nowto be performed for Roderigo Borgia. Lodovico proposed that his envoysshould go to Rome together with those of Venice, Naples, and Florence;but Piero de' Medici, whose vanity made him wish to send an embassy inhis own name, contrived that Lodovico's proposal should be rejectedboth by Florence and the King of Naples. So strained was the situationof Italian affairs that Lodovico saw in the repulse a menace to his ownusurped authority. Feeling himself isolated among the princes of hiscountry, rebuffed by the Medici, and coldly treated by the King ofNaples, he turned in his anxiety to France, and advised the young king, Charles VIII. , to make good his claim upon the Regno. It was a bold moveto bring the foreigner thus into Italy; and even Lodovico, who pridedhimself upon his sagacity, could not see how things would end. Hethought his situation so hazardous, however, that any change must be forthe better. Moreover, a French invasion of Naples would tie the hands ofhis natural foe, King Ferdinand, whose grand-daughter, Isabella ofAragon, had married Giovanni Galeazzo Sforza, and was now the rightfulDuchess of Milan. When the Florentine ambassador at Milan asked him howhe had the courage to expose Italy to such peril, his reply betrayed theegotism of his policy: "You talk to me of Italy; but when have I lookedItaly in the face? No one ever gave a thought to my affairs. I have, therefore, had to give them such security as I could. "

Charles VIII. Was young, light-brained, romantic, and ruled by_parvenus_ who had an interest in disturbing the old order of themonarchy. He lent a willing ear to Lodovico's invitation, backed as thiswas by the eloquence and passion of numerous Italian refugees andexiles. Against the advice of his more prudent counsellors, he taxed allthe resources of his kingdom, and concluded treaties on disadvantageousterms with England, Germany, and Spain, in order that he might be ableto concentrate all his attention upon the Italian expedition. At the endof the year 1493, it was known that the invasion was resolved upon. Gentile Becchi, the Florentine envoy at the Court of France, wrote toPiero de' Medici: "If the king succeeds, it is all over withItaly--_tutta a bordello_. " The extraordinary selfishness of the severalItalian states at this critical moment deserves to be noticed. TheVenetians, as Paolo Antonio Soderini described them to Piero de' Medici, "are of opinion that to keep quiet, and to see other potentates of Italyspending and suffering, cannot but be to their advantage. They trust noone, and feel sure they have enough money to be able at any moment toraise sufficient troops, and so to guide events according to theirinclinations. " As the invasion was directed against Naples, Ferdinand ofAragon displayed the acutest sense of the situation. "Frenchmen, " heexclaimed, in what appears like a prophetic passion when contrasted withthe cold indifference of others no less really menaced, "have never comeinto Italy without inflicting ruin; and this invasion, if rightlyconsidered, cannot but bring universal ruin, although it seems to menaceus alone. " In his agony Ferdinand applied to Alexander VI. But the Popelooked coldly upon him, because the King of Naples, with rareperspicacity, had predicted that his elevation to the papacy would provedisastrous to Christendom. Alexander preferred to ally himself withVenice and Milan. Upon this Ferdinand wrote as follows: "It seems fatedthat the popes should leave no peace in Italy. We are compelled tofight; but the Duke of Bari (_i. E. _, Lodovico Sforza) should think whatmay ensue from the tumult he is stirring up. He who raises this windwill not be able to lay the tempest when he likes. Let him look to thepast, and he will see how every time that our internal quarrels havebrought powers from beyond the Alps into Italy, these have oppressed andlorded over her. "

Terribly verified as these words were destined to be--and they were noless prophetic in their political sagacity than Savonarola's predictionof the Sword and bloody Scourge--it was now too late to avert the comingruin. On March 1, 1494, Charles was with his army at Lyons. Early inSeptember he had crossed the pass of Mont Genêvre and taken up hisquarters in the town of Asti. There is no need to describe in detail theholiday march of the French troops through Lombardy, Tuscany, and Rome, until, without having struck a blow of consequence, the gates of Naplesopened to receive the conqueror upon February 22, 1495. Philippe deComines, who parted from the king at Asti and passed the winter as hisenvoy at Venice, has more than once recorded his belief that nothing butthe direct interposition of Providence could have brought so mad anexpedition to so successful a conclusion. "Dieu monstroit conduirel'entreprise. " No sooner, however, was Charles installed in Naples thanthe states of Italy began to combine against him. Lodovico Sforza hadavailed himself of the general confusion consequent upon the firstappearance of the French, to poison his nephew. He was, therefore, nowthe titular, as well as virtual, Lord of Milan. So far, he had achievedwhat he desired, and had no further need of Charles. The overtures henow made to the Venetians and the Pope terminated in a league betweenthese powers for the expulsion of the French from Italy. Germany andSpain entered into the same alliance; and De Comines, finding himselftreated with marked coldness by the Signory of Venice, despatched acourier to warn Charles in Naples of the coming danger. After a stay ofonly fifty days in his new capital, the French king hurried northward. Moving quickly through the Papal States and Tuscany, he engaged histroops in the passes of the Apennines near Pontremoli, and on July 5th, 1495, took up his quarters in the village of Fornovo. De Comines reckonsthat his whole fighting force at this time did not exceed nine thousandmen, with fourteen pieces of artillery. Against him at the opening ofthe valley was the army of the League, numbering some thirty-fivethousand men, of whom three fourths were supplied by Venice, the rest byLodovico Sforza and the German emperor. Francesco Gonzaga, Marquis ofMantua, was the general of the Venetian forces; and on him, therefore, fell the real responsibility of the battle. 

De Comines remarks on the imprudence of the allies, who allowed Charlesto advance as far as Fornovo, when it was their obvious policy to haveestablished themselves in the village and so have caught the Frenchtroops in a trap. It was a Sunday when the French marched down uponFornovo. Before them spread the plain of Lombardy, and beyond it thewhite crests of the Alps. "We were, " says De Comines, "in a valleybetween two little mountain flanks, and in that valley ran a river whichcould easily be forded on foot, except when it is swelled with suddenrains. The whole valley was a bed of gravel and big stones, verydifficult for horses, about a quarter of a league in breadth, and on theright bank lodged our enemies. " Any one who has visited Fornovo canunderstand the situation of the two armies. Charles occupied the villageon the right bank of the Taro. On the same bank, extending downwardtowards the plain, lay the host of the allies; and in order that Charlesshould escape them, it was necessary that he should cross the Taro, justbelow its junction with the Ceno, and reach Lombardy by marching in aparallel line with his foes. 

All through the night of Sunday it thundered and rained incessantly; sothat on the Monday morning the Taro was considerably swollen. At seveno'clock the king sent for De Comines, who found him already armed andmounted on the finest horse he had ever seen. The name of this chargerwas Savoy. He was black, one-eyed, and of middling height; and to hisgreat courage, as we shall see, Charles owed life upon that day. TheFrench army, ready for the march, now took to the gravelly bed of theTaro, passing the river at a distance of about a quarter of a leaguefrom the allies. As the French left Fornovo, the light cavalry of theirenemies entered the village and began to attack the baggage. At the sametime the Marquis of Mantua, with the flower of his men-at-arms, crossedthe Taro and harassed the rear of the French host; while raids from theright bank to the left were constantly being made by sharp-shooters andflying squadrons. "At this moment, " says De Comines, "not a single manof us could have escaped if our ranks had once been broken. " The Frencharmy was divided into three main bodies. The vanguard consisted of somethree hundred and fifty men-at-arms, three thousand Switzers, threehundred archers of the Guard, a few mounted crossbow-men, and theartillery. Next came the Battle, and after this the rear-guard. At thetime when the Marquis of Mantua made his attack, the French rear-guardhad not yet crossed the river. Charles quitted the van, put himself atthe head of his chivalry, and charged the Italian horsemen, driving themback, some to the village and others to their camp. De Comines observes, that had the Italian knights been supported in this passage of arms bythe light cavalry of the Venetian force, called Stradiots, the Frenchmust have been outnumbered, thrown into confusion, and defeated. As itwas, these Stradiots were engaged in plundering the baggage of theFrench; and the Italians, accustomed to bloodless encounters, did notventure, in spite of their immense superiority of numbers, to renew thecharge. In the pursuit of Gonzaga's horsemen Charles outstripped hisstaff, and was left almost alone to grapple with a little band ofmounted foemen. It was here that his noble horse, Savoy, saved hisperson by plunging and charging till assistance came up from the French, and enabled the king to regain his van. 

It is incredible, considering the nature of the ground and the number ofthe troops engaged, that the allies should not have returned to theattack and have made the passage of the French into the plainimpossible. De Comines, however, assures us that the actual engagementonly lasted a quarter of an hour, and the pursuit of the Italians threequarters of an hour. After they had once resolved to fly, they threwaway their lances and betook themselves to Reggio and Parma. So completewas their discomfiture, that De Comines gravely blames the want ofmilitary genius and adventure in the French host. If, instead ofadvancing along the left bank of the Taro and there taking up hisquarters for the night, Charles had recrossed the stream and pursued thearmy of the allies, he would have had the whole of Lombardy at hisdiscretion. As it was, the French army encamped not far from the sceneof the action in great discomfort and anxiety. De Comines had to bivouacin a vineyard, without even a mantle to wrap round him, having lent hiscloak to the king in the morning; and as it had been pouring all day, the ground could not have afforded very luxurious quarters. The sameextraordinary luck which had attended the French in their wholeexpedition now favored their retreat; and the same pusillanimity whichthe allies had shown at Fornovo prevented them from re-forming andengaging with the army of Charles upon the plain. One hour beforedaybreak on Tuesday morning the French broke up their camp and succeededin clearing the valley. That night they lodged at Fiorenzuola, the nextat Piacenza, and so on; till on the eighth day they arrived at Astiwithout having been so much as incommoded by the army of the allies intheir rear. 

Although the field of Fornovo was in reality so disgraceful to theItalians, they reckoned it a victory upon the technical pretence thatthe camp and baggage of the French had been seized. Illuminations andrejoicings made the piazza of St. Mark in Venice gay, and Francesco daGonzaga had the glorious Madonna della Vittoria painted for him byMantegna, in commemoration of what ought only to have been rememberedwith shame. 

A fitting conclusion to this sketch, connecting its close with thecommencement, may be found in some remarks upon the manner of warfareto which the Italians of the Renaissance had become accustomed, andwhich proved so futile on the field of Fornovo. During the Middle Ages, and in the days of the Communes, the whole male population of Italy hadfought light armed on foot. Merchant and artisan left the counting-houseand the workshop, took shield and pike, and sallied forth to attack thebarons in their castles, or to meet the emperor's troops upon the field. It was with this national militia that the citizens of Florence freedtheir _Contado_ of the nobles, and the burghers of Lombardy gained thebattle of Legnano. In course of time, by a process of change which it isnot very easy to trace, heavily armed cavalry began to take the place ofinfantry in mediæval warfare. Men-at-arms, as they were called, encasedfrom head to foot in iron, and mounted upon chargers no less solidlycaparisoned, drove the foot-soldiers before them at the points of theirlong lances. Nowhere in Italy do they seem to have met with the fierceresistance which the bears of the Swiss Oberland and the bulls of Urioffered to the knights of Burgundy. No Tuscan Arnold von Winkelriedclasped a dozen lances to his bosom that the foeman's ranks might thusbe broken at the cost of his own life; nor did it occur to the Italianburghers to meet the charge of the horsemen with squares protected bybristling spears. They seem, on the contrary, to have abandoned militaryservice with the readiness of men whose energies were already absorbedin the affairs of peace. To become a practised and efficient man-at-armsrequired long training and a life's devotion. So much time the burghersof the free towns could not spare to military service, while the pettynobles were only too glad to devote themselves to so honorable acalling. Thus it came to pass that a class of professional fighting-menwas gradually formed in Italy, whose services the burghers and theprinces bought, and by whom the wars of the peninsula were regularlyfarmed by contract. Wealth and luxury in the great cities continued toincrease; and as the burghers grew more comfortable, they were lessinclined to take the field in their own persons, and more disposed tovote large sums of money for the purchase of necessary aid. At the sametime this system suited the despots, since it spared them the peril ofarming their own subjects, while they taxed them to pay the services offoreign captains. War thus became a commerce. Romagna, the Marches ofAncona, and other parts of the papal dominions supplied a number ofpetty nobles whose whole business in life it was to form companies oftrained horsemen, and with these bands to hire themselves out to therepublics and the despots. Gain was the sole purpose of these captains. They sold their service to the highest bidder, fighting irrespectivelyof principle or patriotism, and passing with the coldest equanimity fromthe camp of one master to that of his worst foe. It was impossible thattrue military spirit should survive this prostitution of the art of war. A species of mock warfare prevailed in Italy. Battles were fought with aview to booty more than victory; prisoners were taken for the sake ofransom, bloodshed was carefully avoided, for the men who fought oneither side in any pitched field had been comrades with their presentfoemen in the last encounter, and who could tell how soon the general ofthe one host might not need his rival's troops to recruit his ownranks? Like every genuine institution of the Italian Renaissance, warfare was thus a work of fine art, a masterpiece of intellectualsubtlety; and, like the Renaissance itself, this peculiar form ofwarfare was essentially transitional. The cannon and the musket werealready in use; and it only required one blast of gunpowder to turn theshamfight of courtly, traitorous, finessing captains of adventure intosomething terribly more real. To men like the Marquis of Mantua war hadbeen a highly profitable game of skill; to men like the Maréchal de Giéit was a murderous horse-play; and this difference the Italians were notslow to perceive. When they cast away their lances at Fornovo, andfled--in spite of their superior numbers--never to return, onefair-seeming sham of the fifteenth century became a vision of the past. 

FOOTNOTES:

[D] Charles claimed under the will of René of Anjou, who in turn claimedunder the will of Joan II. 

BERGAMO AND BARTOLOMMEO COLLEONI. 

From the new town of commerce to the old town of history upon the hillthe road is carried along a rampart lined with horse-chestnuttrees--clumps of massy foliage and snowy pyramids of bloom expanded inthe rapture of a Southern spring. Each pair of trees between their stemsand arch of intermingling leaves includes a space of plain checkeredwith cloud-shadows, melting blue and green in amethystine haze. To rightand left the last spurs of the Alps descend, jutting like promontories, heaving like islands from the misty breadth below; and here and thereare towers half lost in airy azure, and cities dwarfed to blots, andsilvery lines where rivers flow, and distant, vapor-drowned, dim crestsof Apennines. The city walls above us wave with snapdragons and irisamong fig-trees sprouting from the riven stones. There are terracesover-rioted with pergolas of vine, and houses shooting forward intobalconies and balustrades, from which a Romeo might launch himself atdaybreak, warned by the lark's song. A sudden angle in the road isturned, and we pass from air-space and freedom into the old town, beneath walls of dark-brown masonry, where wild valerians light theirtorches of red bloom in immemorial shade. Squalor and splendor livehere side by side. Grand Renaissance portals grinning with satyr masksare flanked by tawdry frescos shamming stonework, or by doorways wherethe withered bush hangs out a promise of bad wine. 

The Cappella Colleoni is our destination--that masterpiece of thesculptor-architect's craft, with its variegated marbles--rosy and whiteand creamy yellow and jet-black--in patterns, bass-reliefs, pilasters, statuettes, incrusted on the fanciful domed shrine. Upon the façade aremingled, in the true Renaissance spirit of genial acceptance, motivesChristian and Pagan with supreme impartiality. Medallions of emperorsand gods alternate with virtues, angels, and cupids in a maze ofloveliest arabesque; and round the base of the building are told twostories--the one of Adam from his creation to his fall, the other ofHercules and his labors. Italian craftsmen of the _quattrocento_ werenot averse to setting thus together, in one frame-work, the myths of ourfirst parents and Alemena's son; partly, perhaps, because both subjectsgave scope to the free treatment of the nude; but partly, also, we mayventure to surmise, because the heroism of Hellas counterbalanced thesin of Eden. Here, then, we see how Adam and Eve were made and temptedand expelled from Paradise and set to labor, how Cain killed Abel, andLamech slew a man to his hurt, and Isaac was offered on the mountain. The tale of human sin and the promise of redemption are epitomized intwelve of the sixteen bass-reliefs. The remaining four show Herculeswrestling with Antæus, taming the Nemean lion, extirpating the Hydra, and bending to his will the bull of Crete. Labor, appointed for apunishment to Adam, becomes a title to immortality for the hero. Thedignity of man is reconquered by prowess for the Greek, as it isrepurchased for the Christian by vicarious suffering. Many may thinkthis interpretation of Amadeo's bass-reliefs far-fetched; yet, such asit is, it agrees with the spirit of humanism, bent ever on harmonizingthe two great traditions of the past. Of the workmanship little need besaid, except that it is wholly Lombard, distinguished from the similarwork of Della Quercia at Bologna and Siena by a more imperfect feelingfor composition and a lack of monumental gravity, yet graceful, rich inmotives, and instinct with a certain wayward _improvisatore_ charm. 

This chapel was built by the great Condottiere Bartolommeo Colleoni, tobe the monument of his puissance even in the grave. It had been theSacristy of S. Maria Maggiore, which, when the Consiglio dellaMisericordia refused it to him for his half-proud, half-pious purpose, he took and held by force. The structure, of costliest materials, rearedby Gian Antonio Amadeo, cost him fifty thousand golden florins. Anequestrian statue of gilt wood, voted to him by the town of Bergamo, surmounts his monument inside the chapel. This was the work of twoGerman masters called Sisto figlio di Enrico Syri da Norimberga andLeonardo Tedesco. The tomb itself is of marble, executed for the mostpart in a Lombard style resembling Amadeo's, but scarcely worthy of hisgenius. The whole effect is disappointing. Five figures representingMars, Hercules, and three sons-in-law of Colleoni, who surround thesarcophagus of the buried general, are, indeed, almost grotesque. Theangularity and crumpled draperies of the Milanese manner, when soexaggerated, produce an impression of caricature. Yet many subordinatedetails--a row of _putti_ in a Cinque Cento frieze, for instance--andmuch of the low relief work, especially the Crucifixion, with itscharacteristic episodes of the fainting Marys and the soldiers castingdice, are lovely in their unaffected Lombardism. 

There is another portrait of Colleoni in a round above the great door, executed with spirit, though in a _bravura_ style that curiouslyanticipates the decline of Italian sculpture. Gaunt, hollow-eyed, withprominent cheekbones and strong jaws, this animated half-length statueof the hero bears the stamp of a good likeness, but when or by whom itwas made I do not know. 

Far more noteworthy than Colleoni's own monument is that of his daughterMedea. She died young in 1470, and her father caused her tomb, carved ofCarrara marble, to be placed in the Dominican Church of Basella, whichhe had previously founded. It was not until 1842 that this most preciousmasterpiece of Antonio Amadeo's skill was transferred to Bergamo. _Hicjacet Medea virgo. _ Her hands are clasped across her breast. A robe ofrich brocade, gathered to the waist and girdled, lies in simple foldsupon the bier. Her throat, exceedingly long and slender, is circled witha string of pearls. Her face is not beautiful, for the features, especially the nose, are large and prominent; but it is pure andexpressive of vivid individuality. The hair curls in crisp, shortclusters; and the ear, fine and shaped almost like a Faun's, reveals thescrupulous fidelity of the sculptor. Italian art has, in truth, nothingmore exquisite than this still-sleeping figure of the girl who, when shelived, must certainly have been so rare of type and lovable inpersonality. If Busti's Lancinus Curtius be the portrait of a humanist, careworn with study, burdened by the laurel leaves that were so dry anddusty; if Gaston de Foix in the Brera, smiling at death and beautiful inthe cropped bloom of youth, idealize the hero of romance; if MichaelAngelo's Penseroso translate in marble the dark broodings of a despot'ssoul; if Della Porta's Julia Farnese be the Roman courtesanmagnificently throned in nonchalance at a pope's footstool; ifVerocchio's Colleoni on his horse at Venice impersonate the pomp andcircumstance of scientific war--surely this Medea exhales theflower-like graces, the sweet sanctities of human life, that even inthat turbid age were found among high-bred Italian ladies. Such powerhave mighty sculptors, even in our modern world, to make the mute stonespeak in poems and clasp the soul's life of a century in some five orsix transcendent forms. 

The Colleoni, or Coglioni, family were of considerable antiquity andwell authenticated nobility in the town of Bergamo. Two lions' headsconjoined formed one of their canting ensigns; another was borrowed fromthe vulgar meaning of their name. Many members of the house heldimportant office during the three centuries preceding the birth of thefamous general Bartolommeo. He was born in the year 1400 at Solza in theBergamasque Contado. His father, Paolo, or Pùho as he was commonlycalled, was poor and exiled from the city, together with the rest of theGuelf nobles, by the Visconti. Being a man of daring spirit, and littleinclined to languish in a foreign state as the dependent on some patron, Pùho formed the bold design of seizing the Castle of Trezzo. This heachieved in 1405 by fraud, and afterwards held it as his own by force. Partly with the view of establishing himself more firmly in his acquiredlordship, and partly out of family affection, Pùho associated four ofhis first-cousins in the government of Trezzo. They repaid his kindnesswith an act of treason and cruelty only too characteristic of thosetimes in Italy. One day while he was playing at draughts in a room ofthe castle, they assaulted him and killed him, seized his wife and theboy Bartolommeo, and flung them into prison. The murdered Pùho hadanother son, Antonio, who escaped and took refuge with Giorgio Benzone, the tyrant of Crema. After a short time the Colleoni brothers foundmeans to assassinate him also; therefore Bartolommeo alone, a child ofwhom no heed was taken, remained to be his father's avenger. He and hismother lived together in great indigence at Solza, until the lad feltstrong enough to enter the service of one of the numerous petty Lombardprinces, and to make himself if possible a captain of adventure. Hisname alone was a sufficient introduction, and the Duchy of Milan, dismembered upon the death of Gian Maria Visconti, was in such a statethat all the minor despots were increasing their forces and preparing todefend by arms the fragments they had seized from the Visconti heritage. Bartolommeo therefore had no difficulty in recommending himself toFilippo d'Arcello, sometime general in the pay of the Milanese, but nowthe new lord of Piacenza. With this master he remained as page for twoor three years, learning the use of arms, riding, and training himselfin the physical exercises which were indispensable to a young Italiansoldier. Meanwhile Filippo Maria Visconti reacquired his hereditarydominions; and at the age of twenty, Bartolommeo found it prudent toseek a patron stronger than D'Arcello. The two great Condottieri, SforzaAttendolo and Braccio, divided the military glories of Italy at thisperiod; and any youth who sought to rise in his profession had to enrollhimself under the banners of the one or the other. Bartolommeo choseBraccio for his master, and was enrolled among his men as a simpletrooper, or _ragazzo_, with no better prospects than he could make forhimself by the help of his talents and his borrowed horse and armor. Braccio at this time was in Apulia, prosecuting the war of theNeapolitan Succession disputed between Alfonso of Aragon and Louis ofAnjou under the weak sovereignty of Queen Joan. On which side of aquarrel a condottiere fought mattered but little, so great was theconfusion of Italian politics, and so complete was the egotism of thesefraudful, violent, and treacherous party leaders. Yet it may bementioned that Braccio had espoused Alfonso's cause. BartolommeoColleoni early distinguished himself among the ranks of the Bracceschi. But he soon perceived that he could better his position by deserting toanother camp. Accordingly he offered his services to Jacopo Caldora, oneof Joan's generals, and received from him a commission of twentymen-at-arms. It may here be parenthetically said that the rank and payof an Italian captain varied with the number of the men he brought intothe field. His title "Condottiere" was derived from the circumstancethat he was said to have received a _Condotta di venti cavalli_, and soforth. Each _cavallo_ was equal to one mounted man-at-arms and twoattendants, who were also called _ragazzi_. It was his business toprovide the stipulated number of men, to keep them in good discipline, and to satisfy their just demands. Therefore an Italian army at thisepoch consisted of numerous small armies varying in size, each heldtogether by personal engagements to a captain, and all dependent on thewill of a general-in-chief, who had made a bargain with some prince orrepublic for supplying a fixed contingent of fighting-men. The_condottiere_ was in other words a contractor or _impresario_, undertaking to do a certain piece of work for a certain price, and tofurnish the requisite forces for the business in good working order. Itwill be readily seen upon this system how important were the personalqualities of the captain, and what great advantages those condottierihad who, like the petty princes of Romagna and the March, theMontefeltri, Ordelaffi, Malatesti, Manfredi, Orsini, and Vitelli, couldrely upon a race of hardy vassals for their recruits. 

It is not necessary to follow Colleoni's fortunes in the Regno, atAquila, Ancona, and Bologna. He continued in the service of Caldora, whowas now General of the Church, and had his _condotta_ graduallyincreased. Meanwhile his cousins, the murderers of his father, began todread his rising power, and determined, if possible, to ruin him. He wasnot a man to be easily assassinated; so they sent a hired ruffian toCaldora's camp to say that Bartolommeo had taken his name by fraud, andthat he was himself the real son of Pùho Colleoni. Bartolommeo defiedthe liar to a duel; and this would have taken place before the army, hadnot two witnesses appeared who knew the fathers of both Colleoni andthe _bravo_, and who gave such evidence that the captains of the armywere enabled to ascertain the truth. The impostor was stripped anddrummed out of the camp. 

At the conclusion of a peace between the Pope and the Bolognese, Bartolommeo found himself without occupation. He now offered himself tothe Venetians, and began to fight again under the great Carmagnolaagainst Filippo Visconti. His engagement allowed him forty men, which, after the judicial murder of Carmagnola at Venice in 1432, wereincreased to eighty. Erasmo da Narni, better known as Gattamelata, wasnow his general-in-chief--a man who had risen from the lowest fortunesto one of the most splendid military positions in Italy. Colleoni spentthe next years of his life, until 1443, in Lombardy, manoeuvringagainst Il Piccinino, and gradually rising in the Venetian service, until his condotta reached the number of eight hundred men. UponGattamelata's death at Padua in 1440, Colleoni became the most importantof the generals who had fought with Caldora in the March. The lordshipsof Romano in the Bergamasque, and of Covo and Antegnate in theCremonese, had been assigned to him; and he was in a position to makeindependent engagements with princes. What distinguished him as ageneral was a combination of caution with audacity. He united thebrilliant system of his master Braccio with the more prudent tactics ofthe Sforzeschi; and thus, though he often surprised his foes by daringstratagems and vigorous assaults, he rarely met with any serious check. He was a captain who could be relied upon for boldly seizing anadvantage, no less than for using a success with discretion. Moreoverhe had acquired an almost unique reputation for honesty in dealing withhis masters, and for justice combined with humane indulgence to his men. His company was popular, and he could always bring capital troops intothe field. 

In the year 1443, Colleoni quitted the Venetian service on account of aquarrel with Gherardo Dandolo, the Proveditore of the Republic. He nowtook a commission from Filippo Maria Visconti, who received him at Milanwith great honor, bestowed on him the Castello Adorno at Pavia, and senthim into the March of Ancona upon a military expedition. Of all Italiantyrants, this Visconti was the most difficult to serve. Constitutionallytimid, surrounded with a crowd of spies and base informers, shrinkingfrom the sight of men in the recesses of his palace, and controlling thecomplicated affairs of his duchy by means of correspondents andintelligencers, this last scion of the Milanese despots lived like aspider in an inscrutable network of suspicion and intrigue. His policywas one of endless plot and counterplot. He trusted no man; his servantswere paid to act as spies on one another; his body-guard consisted ofmutually hostile mercenaries; his captains in the field were watched andthwarted by commissioners appointed to check them at the point ofsuccessful ambition or magnificent victory. The historian has a hardtask when he tries to fathom the Visconti's schemes, or to understandhis motives. Half the duke's time seems to have been spent inunravelling the webs that he had woven, in undoing his own work, andweakening the hands of his chosen ministers. Conscious that his powerwas artificial, that the least breath might blow him back into thenothingness from which he had arisen on the wrecks of his father'styranny, he dreaded the personal eminence of his generals above allthings. His chief object was to establish a system of checks, by meansof which no one whom he employed should at any moment be great enough tothreaten him. The most formidable of these military adventurers, Francesco Sforza, had been secured by marriage with Bianca MariaVisconti, his master's only daughter, in 1441; but the duke did not eventrust his son-in-law. The last six years of his life were spent inscheming to deprive Sforza of his lordships; and the war in the March, on which he employed Colleoni, had the object of ruining theprincipality acquired by this daring captain from Pope Eugenius IV. In1443. 

Colleoni was by no means deficient in those foxlike qualities which werenecessary to save the lion from the toils spread for him by Italianintriguers. He had already shown that he knew how to push his owninterests, by changing sides and taking service with the highest bidder, as occasion prompted. Nor, though his character for probity and loyaltystood exceptionally high among the men of his profession, was he theslave to any questionable claims of honor or of duty. In that age ofconfused politics and extinguished patriotism, there was not indeed muchscope for scrupulous honesty. But Filippo Maria Visconti proved morethan a match for him in craft. While Colleoni was engaged in pacifyingthe revolted population of Bologna, the duke yielded to the suggestionof his parasites at Milan, who whispered that the general was becomingdangerously powerful. He recalled him, and threw him without trial intothe dungeons of the Forni at Monza. Here Colleoni remained a prisonermore than a year, until the duke's death, in 1447, when he made hisescape, and profited by the disturbance of the duchy to reacquire hislordships in the Bergamasque territory. The true motive for hisimprisonment remains still buried in obscure conjecture. Probably it wasnot even known to the Visconti, who acted on this, as on so many otheroccasions, by a mere spasm of suspicious jealousy, for which he couldhave given no account. 

From the year 1447 to the year 1455, it is difficult to followColleoni's movements, or to trace his policy. First, we find himemployed by the Milanese Republic, during its brief space ofindependence; then he is engaged by the Venetians, with a commission forfifteen hundred horse; next, he is in the service of Francesco Sforza;once more in that of the Venetians, and yet again in that of the Duke ofMilan. His biographer relates with pride that, during this period, hewas three times successful against French troops in Piedmont andLombardy. It appears that he made short engagements, and changed hispaymasters according to convenience. But all this time he rose inpersonal importance, acquired fresh lordships in the Bergamasque, andaccumulated wealth. He reached the highest point of his prosperity in1455, when the Republic of St. Mark elected him general-in-chief oftheir armies, with the fullest powers, and with a stipend of one hundredthousand florins. For nearly twenty-one years, until the day of hisdeath, in 1475, Colleoni held this honorable and lucrative office. Inhis will he charged the Signory of Venice that they should never againcommit into the hands of a single captain such unlimited control overtheir military resources. It was indeed no slight tribute to Colleoni'sreputation for integrity that the jealous republic, which had signifiedits sense of Carmagnola's untrustworthiness by capital punishment, should have left him so long in the undisturbed disposal of their army. The standard and the baton of St. Mark were conveyed to Colleoni by twoambassadors, and presented to him at Brescia on June 24, 1455. Threeyears later he made a triumphal entry into Venice, and received the sameensigns of military authority from the hands of the new doge, PasqualeMalipiero. On this occasion his staff consisted of some two hundredofficers, splendidly armed, and followed by a train of serving-men. Noblemen from Bergamo, Brescia, and other cities of the Venetianterritory, swelled the cortége. When they embarked on the lagoons, theyfound the water covered with boats and gondolas, bearing the populationof Venice in gala attire to greet the illustrious guest with instrumentsof music. Three great galleys of the republic, called bucentaurs, issuedfrom the crowd of smaller craft. On the first was the doge in his staterobes, attended by the government in office, or the Signoria of St. Mark. On the second were members of the senate and minor magistrates. The third carried the ambassadors of foreign powers. Colleoni wasreceived into the first state galley, and placed by the side of thedoge. The oarsmen soon cleared the space between the land and Venice, passed the small canals, and swept majestically up the Canalozzo amongthe plaudits of the crowds assembled on both sides to cheer theirgeneral. Thus they reached the piazzetta, where Colleoni alightedbetween the two great pillars, and, conducted by the doge in person, walked to the Church of St. Mark. Here, after mass had been said, and asermon had been preached, kneeling before the high-altar he received thetruncheon from the doge's hands. The words of his commission ran asfollows:

 "By authority and decree of this most excellent city of Venice, of us the prince, and of the senate, you are to be commander and captain-general of all our forces and armaments on _terra firma_. Take from our hands this truncheon, with good augury and fortune, as sign and warrant of your power. Be it your care and effort, with dignity and splendor to maintain and to defend the majesty, the loyalty, and the principles of this empire. Neither provoking, nor yet provoked, unless at our command, shall you break into open warfare with our enemies. Free jurisdiction and lordship over each one of our soldiers, except in cases of treason, we hereby commit to you. "

After the ceremony of his reception, Colleoni was conducted with no lesspomp to his lodgings, and the next ten days were spent in festivities ofall sorts. 

The commandership-in-chief of the Venetian forces was perhaps thehighest military post in Italy. It placed Colleoni on the pinnacle ofhis profession, and made his camp the favorite school of young soldiers. Among his pupils or lieutenants we read of Ercole d'Este, the futureDuke of Ferrara; Alessandro Sforza, Lord of Pesaro; Boniface, Marquis ofMontferrat; Cicco and Pino Ordelaffi, Princes of Forli; AstorreManfredi, the Lord of Faenza; three Counts of Mirandola; two Princes ofCarpi; Deifobo, the Count of Anguillara; Giovanni Antonio Caldora, Lordof Jesi in the March; and many others of less name. Honors came thickupon him. When one of the many ineffectual leagues against the infidelwas formed in 1468, during the pontificate of Paul II. , he was namedcaptain-general for the crusade. Pius II. Designed him for the leaderof the expedition he had planned against the impious and savage despotSigismondo Malatesta. King René of Anjou, by special patent, authorizedhim to bear his name and arms, and made him a member of his family. TheDuke of Burgundy, by a similar heraldic fiction, conferred upon him hisname and armorial bearings. This will explain why Colleoni is oftenstyled "di Andegavia e Borgogna. " In the case of René, the honor was buta barren show. But the patent of Charles the Bold had more significance. In 1473 he entertained the project of employing the great Italiangeneral against his Swiss foes; nor does it seem reasonable to reject astatement made by Colleoni's biographer, to the effect that a secretcompact had been drawn up between him and the Duke of Burgundy, for theconquest and partition of the Duchy of Milan. The Venetians, in whoseservice Colleoni still remained, when they became aware of this project, met it with peaceful but irresistible opposition. 

Colleoni had been engaged continually since his earliest boyhood in thetrade of war. It was not therefore possible that he should have gained agreat degree of literary culture. Yet the fashion of the times made itnecessary that a man in his position should seek the society ofscholars. Accordingly his court and camp were crowded with students, inwhose wordy disputations he is said to have delighted. It will beremembered that his contemporaries, Alfonso the Magnanimous, FrancescoSforza, Federigo of Urbino, and Sigismondo Pandolfo Malatesta, piquedthemselves at least as much upon their patronage of letters as upontheir prowess in the field. 

Colleoni's court, like that of Urbino, was a model of manners. As becamea soldier, he was temperate in food and moderate in slumber. It wasrecorded of him that he had never sat more than one hour at meat in hisown house, and that he never overslept the sunrise. After dinner hewould converse with his friends, using commonly his native dialect ofBergamo, and entertaining the company now with stories of adventure, andnow with pithy sayings. In another essential point he resembled hisillustrious contemporary, the Duke of Urbino; for he was sincerely piousin an age which, however it preserved the decencies of ceremonialreligion, was profoundly corrupt at heart. His principal lordships inthe Bergamasque territory owed to his munificence their fairest churchesand charitable institutions. At Martinengo, for example, he rebuilt andre-endowed two monasteries, the one dedicated to St. Chiara, the otherto St. Francis. In Bergamo itself he founded an establishment named "LaPietà, " for the good purpose of dowering and marrying poor girls. Thishouse he endowed with a yearly income of three thousand ducats. Thesulphur baths of Trescorio, at some distance from the city, wereimproved and opened to poor patients by a hospital which he provided. AtRumano he raised a church to St. Peter, and erected buildings of publicutility, which on his death he bequeathed to the society of theMisericordia in that town. All the places of his jurisdiction owed tohim such benefits as good water, new walls, and irrigation-works. Inaddition to these munificent foundations must be mentioned the Basella, or Monastery of Dominican friars, which he established not far fromBergamo, upon the river Serio, in memory of his beloved daughter Medea. Last, not least, was the Chapel of St. John the Baptist, attached to theChurch of S. Maria Maggiore, which he endowed with fitting maintenancefor two priests and deacons. 

The one defect acknowledged by his biographer was his partiality forwomen. Early in life he married Tisbe, of the noble house of theBrescian Martinenghi, who bore him one daughter, Caterina, wedded toGasparre Martinengo. Two illegitimate daughters, Ursina and Isotta, wererecognized and treated by him as legitimate. The first he gave inmarriage to Gherardo Martinengo, and the second to Jacopo of the samefamily. Two other natural children, Doratina and Ricardona, werementioned in his will: he left them four thousand ducats apiece fordowry. Medea, the child of his old age (for she was born to him when hewas sixty), died before her father, and was buried, as we have seen, inthe Chapel of Basella. 

Throughout his life he was distinguished for great physical strength andagility. When he first joined the troop of Braccio, he could race, withhis corselet on, against the swiftest runner of the army; and when hewas stripped, few horses could beat him in speed. Far on into old age hewas in the habit of taking long walks every morning for the sake ofexercise, and delighted in feats of arms and jousting-matches. "He wastall, straight, and full of flesh, well-proportioned, and excellentlymade in all his limbs. His complexion inclined somewhat to brown, butwas colored with sanguine and lively carnation. His eyes were black; inlook and sharpness of light they were vivid, piercing, and terrible. Theoutlines of his nose and all his countenance expressed a certain manlynobleness, combined with goodness and prudence. " Such is the portraitdrawn of Colleoni by his biographer and it well accords with the famousbronze statue of the general at Venice. 

Colleoni lived with a magnificence that suited his rank. His favoriteplace of abode was Malpaga, a castle built by him at the distance ofabout an hour's drive from Bergamo. The place is worth a visit, thoughits courts and gates and galleries have now been turned into a monsterfarm, and the southern rooms, where Colleoni entertained his guests, aregiven over to the silkworms. Half a dozen families, employed upon a vastestate of the Martinengo family, occupy the still substantial house andstables. The moat is planted with mulberry-trees; the upper rooms areused as granaries for golden maize; cows, pigs, and horses litter in thespacious yard. Yet the walls of the inner court and of the ancientstate-rooms are brilliant with frescos, executed by some good Venetianhand, which represent the chief events of Colleoni's life--his battles, his reception by the Signory of Venice, his tournaments andhawking-parties, and the great series of entertainments with which hewelcomed Christiern of Denmark. This king had made his pilgrimage toRome, and was returning westward, when the fame of Colleoni and hisprincely state at Malpaga induced him to turn aside and spend some daysas the general's guest. In order to do him honor, Colleoni left hiscastle at the king's disposal and established himself with all his staffand servants in a camp at some distance from Malpaga. The camp was dulyfurnished with tents and trenches, stockades, artillery, and all theother furniture of war. On the king's approach, Colleoni issued withtrumpets blowing and banners flying to greet his guest, gratifying himthus with a spectacle of the pomp and circumstance of war as carried onin Italy. The visit was further enlivened by sham fights, feats of arms, and trials of strength. When it ended, Colleoni presented the king withone of his own suits of armor, and gave to each of his servants acomplete livery of red and white, his colors. Among the frescos atMalpaga none are more interesting, and none, thanks to the silkwormsrather than to any other cause, are fortunately in a better state ofpreservation, than those which represent this episode in the history ofthe castle. 

Colleoni died in the year 1475, at the age of seventy-five. Since heleft no male representative, he constituted the Republic of St. Mark hisheir in chief, after properly providing for his daughters and hisnumerous foundations. The Venetians received under this testament a sumof one hundred thousand ducats, together with all arrears of pay due tohim, and ten thousand ducats owed him by the Duke of Ferrara. It setforth the testator's intention that this money should be employed indefence of the Christian faith against the Turk. One condition wasattached to the bequest. The legatees were to erect a statue to Colleonion the Piazza of St. Mark. This, however, involved some difficulty; forthe proud republic had never accorded a similar honor, nor did theychoose to encumber their splendid square with a monument. They evadedthe condition by assigning the Campo in front of the Scuola di S. Marco, where also stands the Church of S. Zanipolo, to the purpose. Hereaccordingly the finest bronze equestrian statue in Italy, if we exceptthe Marcus Aurelius of the Capitol, was reared upon its marble pedestalby Andrea Verocchio and Alessandro Leopardi. 

Colleoni's liberal expenditure of wealth found its reward in theimmortality conferred by art. While the names of Braccio, his master inthe art of war, and of Piccinino, his great adversary, are familiar tofew but professed students, no one who has visited either Bergamo orVenice can fail to have learned something about the founder of theChapel of St. John and the original of Leopardi's bronze. The annals ofsculpture assign to Verocchio, of Florence, the principal share in thisstatue: but Verocchio died before it was cast; and even granting that hedesigned the model, its execution must be attributed to hiscollaborator, the Venetian Leopardi. For my own part, I am loath toadmit that the chief credit of this masterpiece belongs to a man whoseundisputed work at Florence shows but little of its living spirit andsplendor of suggested motion. That the Tuscan science of Verocchiosecured conscientious modelling for man and horse may be assumed; but Iam fain to believe that the concentrated fire which animates them bothis due in no small measure to the handling of his northernfellow-craftsman. 

While immersed in the dreary records of crimes, treasons, cruelties, andbase ambitions, which constitute the bulk of fifteenth-century Italianhistory, it is refreshing to meet with a character so frank and manly, so simply pious and comparatively free from stain, as Colleoni. The onlygeneral of his day who can bear comparison with him for purity of publiclife and decency in conduct was Federigo di Montefeltro. Even here, thecomparison redounds to Colleoni's credit; for he, unlike the Duke ofUrbino, rose to eminence by his own exertion in a profession fraughtwith peril to men of ambition and energy. Federigo started with aprincipality sufficient to satisfy his just desires for power. Nothingbut his own sense of right and prudence restrained Colleoni upon thepath which brought Francesco Sforza to a duchy by dishonorable dealings, and Carmagnola to the scaffold by questionable practice against hismasters. 

LOMBARD VIGNETTES. 

ON THE SUPERGA. 

This is the chord of Lombard coloring in May: Lowest in the scale, bright green of varied tints, the meadow-grasses mingling with willowsand acacias, harmonized by air and distance; next, opaque blue--the blueof something between amethyst and lapis-lazuli--that belongs alone tothe basements of Italian mountains; higher, the roseate whiteness ofridged snow on Alps or Apennines; highest, the blue of the sky, ascending from pale turquoise to transparent sapphire filled with light. A mediæval mystic might have likened this chord to the spiritual world. For the lowest region is that of natural life, of plant and bird andbeast, and unregenerate man. It is the place of faun and nymph andsatyr, the plain where wars are fought and cities built and work isdone. Thence we climb to purified humanity, the mountains of purgation, the solitude and simplicity of contemplative life not yet made perfectby freedom from the flesh. Higher comes that thin white belt, where arethe resting-places of angelic feet, the points whence purged souls taketheir flight towards infinity. Above all is heaven, the hierarchiesascending row on row to reach the light of God. 

This fancy occurred to me as I climbed the slope of the Superga, gazingover acacia hedges and poplars to the mountains bare in morning light. The occasional occurrence of bars across this chord--poplars shiveringin sun and breeze, stationary cypresses as black as night, and tallcampanili with the hot red shafts of glowing brick--adds just enough ofcomposition to the landscape. Without too much straining of theallegory, the mystic might have recognised in these aspiring bars theupward effort of souls rooted in the common life of earth. 

The panorama, unrolling as we ascend, is enough to overpower a lover ofbeauty. There is nothing equal to it for space and breadth and majesty. Monte Rosa, the masses of Mont Blanc blended with the Grand Paradis, theairy pyramid of Monte Viso, these are the battlements of that vastAlpine rampart in which the vale of Susa opens like a gate. To west andsouth sweep the Maritime Alps and the Apennines. Beneath glides theinfant Po; and where he leads our eyes the plain is only limited bypearly mist. 

A BRONZE BUST OF CALIGULA AT TURIN. 

The Albertina bronze is one of the most precious portraits of antiquity, not merely because it confirms the testimony of the green basalt bust inthe Capitol, but also because it supplies an even more emphatic andimpressive illustration to the narrative of Suetonius. 

Caligula is here represented as young and singularly beautiful. It isindeed an ideal Roman head, with the powerful square modelling, thecrisp short hair, low forehead, and regular firm features proper to thenoblest Roman type. The head is thrown backward from the throat; andthere is a something of menace or defiance or suffering in thesuggestion of brusque movement given to the sinews of the neck. Thisattitude, together with the tension of the forehead and the fixedexpression of pain and strain communicated by the lines of themouth--strong muscles of the upper lip and abruptly chiselled underlip--in relation to the small eyes, deep set beneath their cavernous andlevel brows, renders the whole face a monument of spiritual anguish. Iremember that the green basalt bust of the Capitol has the same anxiousforehead, the same troubled and overburdened eyes; but the agony of thisfretful mouth, comparable to nothing but the mouth of PandolfoSigismondo Malatesta, and, like that, on the verge of breaking into thespasms of delirium, is quite peculiar to the Albertina bronze. It isjust this which the portrait of the Capitol lacks for the completion ofCaligula. The man who could be so represented in art had nothing whollyvulgar in him. The brutality of Caracalla, the overblown sensuality ofNero, the effeminacy of Commodus or Heliogabalus are all absent here. This face idealizes the torture of a morbid soul. It is withal so trulybeautiful that it might easily be made the poem of high suffering ornoble passion. If the bronze were plastic I see how a great sculptor bybut few strokes could convert it into an agonizing Stephen or Sebastian. As it is, the unimaginable touch of disease, the unrest of madness, madeCaligula the genius of insatiable appetite; and his martyrdom was thetorment of lust and ennui and everlasting agitation. The accident ofempire tantalized him with vain hopes of satisfying the Charybdis of hissoul's sick cravings. From point to point he passed of empty pleasureand unsatisfying cruelty, forever hungry; until the malady of hisspirit, unrestrained by any limitations, and with the right medium forits development, became unique--the tragic type of pathological desire. What more than all things must have plagued a man with that face wasprobably the unavoidable meanness of his career. When we study thechapters of Suetonius we are forced to feel that, though the situationand the madness of Caligula were dramatically impressive, his crimeswere trivial and small. In spite of the vast scale on which he workedhis devilish will, his life presents a total picture of sordid vice, differing only from pothouse dissipation and school-boy cruelty in pointof size. And this of a truth is the Nemesis of evil. After a time, meretyrannous caprice must become commonplace and cloying, tedious to thetyrant and uninteresting to the student of humanity; nor can I believethat Caligula failed to perceive this to his own infinite disgust. 

Suetonius asserts that he was hideously ugly. How are we to square thistestimony with the witness of the bronze before us? What changed theface, so beautiful and terrible in youth, to ugliness that shrank fromsight in manhood? Did the murderers find it blurred in its finelineaments, furrowed with lines of care, hollowed with the soul'shunger? Unless a life of vice and madness had succeeded in makingCaligula's face what the faces of some maniacs are--the bloated ruin ofwhat was once a living witness to the soul within--I could fancy thatdeath may have sanctified it with even more beauty than this bust of theself-tormented young man shows. Have we not all seen the anguish ofthought-fretted faces smoothed out by the hands of the Deliverer?

FERRARI AT VERCELLI. 

It is possible that many visitors to the Cathedral of Como have carriedaway the memory of stately women with abundant yellow hair and draperiesof green and crimson in a picture they connect thereafter with GaudenzioFerrari. And when they come to Milan they are probably both impressedand disappointed by a Martyrdom of St. Catherine in the Brera, bearingthe same artist's name. If they wish to understand this painter theymust seek him at Varallo, at Saronno, and at Vercelli. In the Church ofS. Christoforo, in Vercelli, Gaudenzio Ferrari, at the full height ofhis powers, showed what he could do to justify Lomazzi's title chosenfor him of the eagle. He has indeed the strong wing and the swiftness ofthe king of birds. And yet the works of few really great painters--andamong the really great we place Ferrari--leave upon the mind a moredistressing sense of imperfection. Extraordinary fertility of fancy, vehement dramatic passion, sincere study of nature, and great command oftechnical resources are here (as elsewhere in Ferrari's frescos)neutralized by an incurable defect of the combining and harmonizingfaculty so essential to a masterpiece. There is stuff enough of thoughtand vigor and imagination to make a dozen artists. And yet we turn awaydisappointed from the crowded, dazzling, stupefying wilderness of formsand faces on these mighty walls. 

All that Ferrari derived from actual life--the heads of single figures, the powerful movement of men and women in excited action, the monumentalpose of two praying nuns--is admirably rendered. His angels, too, in S. Cristoforo, as elsewhere, are quite original; not only in their type ofbeauty, which is terrestrial and peculiar to Ferrari, without a touch ofCorreggio's sensuality; but also in the intensity of their emotion, therealisation of their vitality. Those which hover round the Cross in thefresco of the "Crucifixion" are as passionate as any angels of theGiottesque masters in Assisi. Those, again, which crowd the Stable ofBethlehem in the "Nativity" yield no point of idyllic charm to Gozzoli'sin the Riccardi Chapel. 

The "Crucifixion, " and the "Assumption of Madonna" are very tall andnarrow compositions, audacious in their attempt to fill almostunmanageable space with a connected action. Of the two frescos, the"Crucifixion, " which has points of strong similarity to the same subjectat Varallo, is by far the best. Ferrari never painted anything at oncetruer to life and nobler in tragic style than the fainting Virgin. Herface expresses the very acme of martyrdom--not exaggerated norspasmodic, but real and sublime--in the suffering of a stately matron. In points like this Ferrari cannot be surpassed. Raphael could scarcelyhave done better; besides, there is an air of sincerity, a stamp ofpopular truth in this episode which lies beyond Raphael's sphere. Itreminds us rather of Tintoretto. 

After the "Crucifixion, " I place the "Adoration of the Magi, " full offine mundane motives and gorgeous costumes; then the "Sposalizio" (whosemarriage I am not certain), the only grandly composed picture of theseries, and marked by noble heads; then the "Adoration of theShepherds, " with two lovely angels holding the bambino. The "Assumptionof the Magdalen"--for which fresco there is a valuable cartoon in theAlbertina Collection at Turin--must have been a fine picture; but it isruined now. An oil altar-piece, in the choir of the same church, struckme less than the frescos. It represents Madonna and a crowd of saintsunder an orchard of apple-trees, with cherubs curiously flung aboutalmost at random in the air. The motive of the orchard is prettilyconceived and carried out with spirit. 

What Ferrari possessed was rapidity of movement, fulness and richness ofreality, exuberance of invention, excellent portraiture, dramaticvehemence, and an almost unrivalled sympathy with the swift andpassionate world of angels. What he lacked was power of composition, simplicity of total effect, harmony in coloring, control over his ownluxuriance, the sense of tranquillity. He seems to have sought grandeurin size and multitude, richness, éclat, contrast. Being the disciple ofLeonardo and Raphael, his defects are truly singular. As a composer, theold leaven of Giovenone remained in him; but he felt the dramatictendencies of a later age, and in occasional episodes he realized themwith a force and _furia_ granted to very few of the Italian painters. 

LANINI AT VERCELLI. 

The Casa Mariano is a palace which belonged to a family of that name. Like many houses of the sort in Italy, it fell to vile uses, and itshall of audience was turned into a lumber-room. The Operai of Vercelli, I was told, bought the palace a few years ago, restored the noble hall, and devoted a smaller room to a collection of pictures valuable forstudents of the early Vercellese style of painting. Of these there is noneed to speak. The great hall is the gem of the Casa Mariano. It has acoved roof, with a large, flat, oblong space in the centre of theceiling. The whole of this vault and the lunettes beneath were paintedby Lanini; so runs the tradition of the fresco-painter's name; andthough much injured by centuries of outrage, and somewhat marred byrecent restoration, these frescos form a precious monument of Lombardart. The object of the painter's design seems to have been theglorification of Music. In the central compartment of the roof is anassembly of the gods, obviously borrowed from Raphael's "Marriage ofCupid and Psyche" in the Farnesina at Rome. The fusion of Romancomposition with Lombard execution constitutes the chief charm of thissingular work, and makes it, so far as I am aware, unique. Singlefigures of the Goddesses, and the whole movement of the scene uponOlympus, are transcribed without attempt at concealment. And yet thefresco is not a bare-faced copy. The manner of feeling and of executionis quite different from that of Raphael's school. The poetry andsentiment are genuinely Lombard. None of Raphael's pupils could havecarried out his design with a delicacy of emotion and a technical skillin coloring so consummate. What, we think, as we gaze upward, would themaster have given for such a craftsman? The hardness, coarseness, andanimal crudity of the Roman school are absent; so also is their vigor. But where the grace of form and color is so soft and sweet, where thehigh-bred calm of good company is so sympathetically rendered, wherethe atmosphere of amorous languor and of melody is so artisticallydiffused, we cannot miss the powerful modelling and rather vulgar _toursde force_ of Giulio Romano. The scala of tone is silvery golden. Thereare no hard blues, no coarse red flesh-tints, no black shadows. Mellowlights, the morning hues of primrose or of palest amber, pervade thewhole society. It is a court of gentle and harmonious souls; and thoughthis style of beauty might cloy, at first sight there is somethingravishing in those yellow-haired, white-limbed, blooming deities. Nomovement of lascivious grace as in Correggio, no perturbation of thesenses, as in some of the Venetians, disturbs the rhythm of their music;nor is the pleasure of the flesh, though felt by the painter andcommunicated to the spectator, an interruption to their divine calm. Thewhite, saffron-haired goddesses are grouped together like stars seen inthe topaz light of evening, like daffodils half smothered in snow-drops, and among them Diana, with the crescent on her forehead, is the fairest. Her dream-like beauty need fear no comparison with the Diana of theCamera di S. Paolo. Apollo and Bacchus are scarcely less lovely in theirbloom of earliest manhood; honey-pale, as Greeks would say; like statuesof living electron; realizing Simætha's picture of her lover and hisfriend:

 +tois d' ên xanthotera men helichrysoio geneias, stêthea de stilbonta poly pleon ê ty Selana. +

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

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

Yet the painter of this hall--whether we are to call him Lanini oranother--was not a composer. Where he has not robbed the motives and thedistribution of the figures from Raphael, he has nothing left but graceof detail. The intellectual feebleness of his style may be seen in manyfigures of women playing upon instruments of music, ranged around thewalls. One girl at the organ is graceful; another with a tambourine hasa sort of Bassarid beauty. But the group of Apollo, Pegasus, and a Museupon Parnassus is a failure in its meaningless frigidity, while few ofthese subordinate compositions show power of conception or vigor ofdesign. 

Lanini, like Sodoma, was a native of Vercelli; and though he wasFerrari's pupil, there is more in him of Luini or of Sodoma than of hismaster. He does not rise at any point to the height of these three greatmasters, but he shares some of Luini's and Sodoma's fine qualities, without having any of Ferrari's force. A visit to the mangled remnantsof his frescos in S. Caterina will repay the student of art. This wasonce, apparently, a double church with the hall and chapel of a_confraternità_ appended to it. One portion of the building was paintedwith the history of the saint; and very lovely must this work have been, to judge by the fragments which have recently been rescued fromwhitewash, damp, and ruthless mutilation. What wonderful Lombard faces, half obliterated on the broken wall and mouldering plaster, smile uponus like drowned memories swimming up from the depths of oblivion!Wherever three or four are grouped together, we find an exquisite littlepicture--an old woman and two young women in a doorway, for example, telling no story, but touching us with simple harmony of form. Nothingfurther is needed to render their grace intelligible. Indeed, knowingthe faults of the school, we may seek some consolation by tellingourselves that these incomplete fragments yield Lanini's best. In thecoved compartments of the roof, above the windows, ran a row of dancingboys; and these are still most beautifully modelled, though the pallorof recent whitewash is upon them. All the boys have blonde hair. Theyare naked, with scrolls or ribbons wreathed round them, adding to theairiness of their continual dance. Some of the loveliest are in a roomused to stow away the lumber of the church--old boards and curtains, broken lanterns, candle-ends in tin sconces, the musty apparatus offestival adornments, and in the midst of all a battered, weather-beatenbier. 

THE PIAZZA OF PIACENZA. 

The great feature of Piacenza is its famous piazza--a romantically, picturesquely perfect square, surpassing the most daring attempts of thescene-painter, and realizing a poet's dreams. The space isconsiderable, and many streets converge upon it at irregular angles. Itsfinest architectural feature is the antique Palace of the Commune:Gothic arcades of stone below, surmounted by a brick building withwonderfully delicate and varied terra-cotta work in the round-archedwindows. Before this façade, on the marble pavement, prance the bronzeequestrian statues of two Farnesi--insignificant men, exaggeratedhorses, flying drapery--as _barocco_ as it is possible to be in style, but so splendidly toned with verdigris, so superb in their _bravura_attitude, and so happily placed in the line of two streets lending farvistas from the square into the town beyond, that it is difficult tocriticise them seriously. They form, indeed, an important element in thepictorial effect, and enhance the terra-cotta work of the façade, by thecontrast of their color. 

The time to see this square is in evening twilight--that wonderful hourafter sunset--when the people are strolling on the pavement, polished toa mirror by the pacing of successive centuries, and when the cavalrysoldiers group themselves at the angles under the lamp-posts or beneaththe dimly lighted Gothic arches of the palace. This is the magicalmellow hour to be sought by lovers of the picturesque in all the townsof Italy, the hour which, by its tender blendings of sallow westernlights with glimmering lamps, casts the veil of half-shadow over anycrudeness and restores the injuries of time; the hour when all the tintsof these old buildings are intensified, etherealized, and harmonized byone pervasive glow. When I last saw Piacenza, it had been raining allday; and ere sun-down a clearing had come from the Alps, followed byfresh threatenings of thunderstorms. The air was very liquid. There wasa tract of yellow sunset sky to westward, a faint new moon half swathedin mist above, and over all the north a huge towered thunder-cloud keptflashing distant lightnings. The pallid primrose of the West, forceddown and reflected back from the vast bank of tempest, gave unearthlybeauty to the hues of church and palace--tender half-tones of violet andrusset paling into grays and yellows on what in daylight seemed but dullred brick. Even the uncompromising façade of St. Francesco helped; andthe dukes were like statues of the "Gran Commendatore, " waiting for DonGiovanni's invitation. 

MASOLINO AT CASTIGLIONE D'OLONA. 

Through the loveliest Arcadian scenery of woods and fields and rushingwaters the road leads downward from Varese to Castiglione. TheCollegiate Church stands on a leafy hill above the town, with fairprospect over groves and waterfalls and distant mountains. Here in thechoir is a series of frescos by Masolino da Panicale, the master ofMasaccio, who painted them about the year 1428. "Masolinus de Florentiapinxit" decides their authorship. The histories of the Virgin, St. Stephen, and St. Lawrence are represented; but the injuries of time andneglect have been so great that it is difficult to judge them fairly. All we feel for certain is that Masolino had not yet escaped from thetraditional Giottesque mannerism. Only a group of Jews stoning Stephenand Lawrence before the tribunal remind us by dramatic energy of theBrancacci chapel. 

The baptistery frescos, dealing with the legend of St. John, show aremarkable advance; and they are luckily in better preservation. Asoldier lifting his two-handed sword to strike off the Baptist's head isa vigorous figure full of Florentine realism. Also in the Baptism inJordan we are reminded of Masaccio by an excellent group of bathers--oneman taking off his hose, another putting them on again, a third standingnaked with his back turned, and a fourth shivering half-dressed with alook of curious sadness on his face. The nude has been carefully studiedand well realized. The finest composition of this series is a largepanel representing a double action--Salome at Herod's table begging forthe Baptist's head, and then presenting it to her mother Herodias. Thecostumes are _quattrocento_ Florentine, exactly rendered. Salome is agraceful, slender creature; the two women who regard her offering toHerodias with mingled curiosity and horror are well conceived. Thebackground consists of a mountain landscape in Masaccio's simple manner, a rich Renaissance villa, and an open loggia. The architectureperspective is scientifically accurate, and a frieze of boys withgarlands on the villa is in the best manner of Florentine sculpture. Onthe mountain-side, diminished in scale, is a group of elders burying thebody of St. John. These are massed together and robed in the style ofMasaccio, and have his virile dignity of form and action. Indeed, thisinteresting wall-painting furnishes an epitome of Florentine art, in itsintentions and achievements, during the first half of the fifteenthcentury. The color is strong and brilliant, and the execution solid. 

The margin of the Salome panel has been used for scratching thechronicle of Castiglione. I read one date, 1568, several of the nextcentury, the record of a duel between two gentlemen, and manyinscriptions to this effect "Erodiana Regina, " "Omnia prætereunt, " etc. A dirty, one-eyed fellow keeps the place. In my presence he swept thefrescos over with a scratchy broom, flaying their upper surface inprofound unconsciousness of mischief. The armor of the executioner hashad its steel colors almost rubbed off by this infernal process. Dampand cobwebs are far kinder. 

THE CERTOSA. 

The Certosa of Pavia leaves upon the mind an impression of bewilderingsumptuousness: nowhere else are costly materials so combined with alavish expenditure of the rarest art. Those who have only once beendriven round together with the crew of sight-seers can carry little awaybut the memory of lapis-lazuli and bronze-work, inlaid agates andlabyrinthine sculpture, cloisters tenantless in silence, fair paintedfaces smiling from dark corners on the senseless crowd, trim gardenswith rows of pink primroses in spring and of begonia in autumn, bloomingbeneath colonnades of glowing terra-cotta. The striking contrast betweenthe Gothic of the interior and the Renaissance façade, each in its ownkind perfect, will also be remembered; and thoughts of the two greathouses, Visconti and Sforza, to whose pride of power it is a monument, may be blended with the recollection of art-treasures alien to theirspirit. 

Two great artists, Ambrogio Borgognone and Antonio Amadeo, are thepresiding genii of the Certosa. To minute criticism, based upon theaccurate investigation of records and the comparison of styles, must beleft the task of separating their work from that of numerouscollaborators. But it is none the less certain that the keynote of thewhole music is struck by them. Amadeo, the master of the Colleoni chapelat Bergamo, was both sculptor and architect. If the façade of theCertosa be not absolutely his creation, he had a hand in thedistribution of its masses and the detail of its ornaments. The onlyfault in this otherwise faultless product of the purest quattrocentoinspiration is that the façade is a frontispiece, with hardly anystructural relation to the church it masks; and this, though seriousfrom the point of view of architecture, is no abatement of itssculpturesque and picturesque refinement. At first sight it seems awilderness of loveliest reliefs and statues--of angel faces, flutteringraiment, flowing hair, love-laden youths, and stationary figures ofgrave saints, mid wayward tangles of acanthus and wild vine andcupid-laden foliage; but the subordination of these decorative detailsto the main design--clear, rhythmical, and lucid, like a chant ofPergolese or Stradella--will enrapture one who has the sense for unityevoked from divers elements, for thought subduing all caprices to theharmony of beauty. It is not possible elsewhere in Italy to find theinstinct of the earlier Renaissance, so amorous in its expenditure ofrare material, so lavish in its bestowal of the costliest workmanshipon ornamental episodes, brought into truer keeping with a pure andsimple structural effect. 

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

To Borgognone is assigned the painting of the roof in nave andchoir--exceeding rich, varied, and withal in sympathy with statelyGothic style. Borgognone, again, is said to have designed the saints andmartyrs worked in _tarsia_ for the choir-stalls. His frescos are in someparts well preserved, as in the lovely little Madonna at the end of thesouth chapel, while the great fresco above the window in the southtransept has an historical value that renders it interesting in spite ofpartial decay. Borgognone's oil-pictures throughout the church prove, ifsuch proof were needed after inspection of the altar-piece in ourNational Gallery, that he was one of the most powerful and originalpainters of Italy, blending the repose of the earlier masters and theirconsummate workmanship with a profound sensibility to the finest shadesof feeling and the rarest forms of natural beauty. He selected anexquisite type of face for his young men and women; on his old men hebestowed singular gravity and dignity. His saints are a society ofstrong, pure, restful, earnest souls, in whom the passion of deepestemotion is transfigured by habitual calm. The brown and golden harmonieshe loved are gained without sacrifice of lustre: there is aself-restraint in his coloring which corresponds to the reserve of hisemotion; and though a regret sometimes rises in our mind that he shouldhave modelled the light and shade upon his faces with a brusque, unpleasing hardness, their pallor dwells within our memory as somethingdelicately sought if not consummately attained. In a word, Borgognonewas a true Lombard of the best time. The very imperfection of hisflesh-painting repeats in color what the greatest Lombard sculptorssought in stone--a sharpness of relief that passes over into angularity. This brusqueness was the counter-poise to tenderness of feeling andintensity of fancy in these Northern artists. Of all Borgognone'spictures in the Certosa, I should select the altar-piece of St. Sirowith St. Lawrence and St. Stephen and two fathers of the Church, for itsfusion of this master's qualities. 

The Certosa is a wilderness of lovely workmanship. From Borgognone'smajesty we pass into the quiet region of Luini's Christian grace, ormark the influence of Leonardo on that rare Assumption of Madonna by hispupil, Andrea Solari. Like everything touched by the Leonardesquespirit, this great picture was left unfinished; yet Northern Italy hasnothing finer to show than the landscape, outspread in its immeasurablepurity of calm, behind the grouped Apostles and the ascendent Mother ofHeaven. The feeling of that happy region between the Alps and Lombardy, where there are many waters--_et tacitos sine labe lacus sine murmurerivos_--and where the last spurs of the mountains sink in undulationsto the plain, has passed into this azure vista, just as all Umbria issuggested in a twilight background of young Raphael or Perugino. 

The portraits of the dukes of Milan and their families carry us into avery different realm of feeling. Medallions above the doors of sacristyand chancel, stately figures reared aloft beneath gigantic canopies, menand women slumbering with folded hands upon their marble biers--we readin all those sculptured forms a strange record of human restlessnessresolved into the quiet of the tomb. The iniquities of Gian GaleazzoVisconti, _il gran Biscione_; the blood-thirst of Gian Maria; the darkdesigns of Filippo and his secret vices; Francesco Sforza's treason;Galeazzo Maria's vanities and lusts; their tyrants' dread of thunder andthe knife; their awful deaths by pestilence and the assassin's poniard;their selfishness, oppression, cruelty, and fraud; the murders of theirkinsmen; their labyrinthine plots and acts of broken faith--all istranquil now, and we can say to each what Bosola found for the Duchessof Malfi ere her execution:

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

Some of these faces are commonplace, with _bourgeois_ cunning written onthe heavy features; one is bluff, another stolid, a third bloated, afourth stately. The sculptors have dealt fairly with all, and not onehas the lineaments of utter baseness. To Cristoforo Solari's statues ofLodovico Sforza and his wife, Beatrice d'Este, the palm of excellencein art and of historical interest must be awarded. Sculpture has rarelybeen more dignified and true to life than here. The woman with her shortclustering curls, the man with his strong face, are resting after thatlong fever which brought woe to Italy, to Europe a new age, and to theboasted minion of fortune a slow death in the prison palace of Loches. Attired in ducal robes, they lie in state; and the sculptor has carvedthe lashes on their eyelids heavy with death's marmoreal sleep. He, atleast, has passed no judgment on their crimes. Let us, too, bow andleave their memories to the historian's pen, their spirits to God'smercy. 

After all wanderings in this temple of art, we return to Antonio Amadeo, to his long-haired seraphs playing on the lutes of Paradise, to hisangels of the Passion with their fluttering robes and arms outspread inagony, to his saints and satyrs mingled on pilasters of the marbledoorways, his delicate _Lavabo_ decorations, and his hymns of pietyexpressed in noble forms of weeping women and dead Christs. Wherever wemay pass, this master-spirit of the Lombard style enthralls attention. His curious treatment of drapery, as though it were made of crumpledpaper, and his trick of enhancing relief by sharp angles and attenuatedlimbs, do not detract from his peculiar charm. That is his way, verydifferent from Donatello's, of attaining to the maximum of life andlightness in the stubborn vehicle of stone. Nor do all the riches of thechoir--those multitudes of singing angels, those Ascensions andAssumptions, and innumerable bass-reliefs of gleaming marble mouldedinto softest wax by mastery of art--distract our eyes from the singleround medallion, not larger than a common plate, inscribed by him uponthe front of the high-altar. Perhaps, if one who loved Amadeo werebidden to point out his masterpiece, he would lead the way at once tothis. The space is small; yet it includes the whole tragedy of thePassion. Christ is lying dead among the women on his mother's lap, andthere are pitying angels in the air above. One woman lifts his arm, another makes her breast a pillow for his head. Their agony is hushed, but felt in every limb and feature; and the extremity of suffering isseen in each articulation of the worn and wounded form just taken fromthe cross. It would be too painful, were not the harmony of art so rare, the interlacing of those many figures in a simple round so exquisite. The noblest tranquillity and the most passionate emotion are here fusedin a manner of adorable naturalness. 

From the church it is delightful to escape into the cloisters, floodedwith sunlight, where the swallows skim and the brown hawks circle andthe mason-bees are at work upon their cells among the carvings. Thearcades of the two cloisters are the final triumph of Lombardterra-cotta. The memory fails before such infinite invention, suchfacility and felicity of execution. Wreaths of cupids gliding round thearches among grape-bunches and bird-haunted foliage of vine; rows ofangels, like rising and setting planets, some smiling and some grave, ascending and descending by the Gothic curves; saints stationary ontheir pedestals and faces leaning from the rounds above; crowds ofcherubs and courses of stars and acanthus-leaves in woven lines andribbons incessantly inscribed with Ave Maria! Then, over all, the richred light and purple shadows of the brick, than which no substancesympathizes more completely with the sky of solid blue above, the broadplain space of waving summer grass beneath our feet. 

It is now late afternoon, and when evening comes the train will take usback to Milan. There is yet a little while to rest tired eyes andstrained spirits among the willows and the poplars by the monasterywall. Through that gray-green leafage, young with early spring, thepinnacles of the Certosa leap like flames into the sky. The rice-fieldsare under water, far and wide, shining like burnished gold beneath thelevel light now near to sun-down. Frogs are croaking; those persistentfrogs whom the muses have ordained to sing for aye, in spite of Bion andall tuneful poets dead. We sit and watch the water-snakes, the busyrats, the hundred creatures swarming in the fat, well-watered soil. Nightingales here and there, new-comers, tune their timid April song. But, strangest of all sounds in such a place, my comrade from theGrisons jodels forth an Alpine cowherd's melody--_Auf den Alpen drobenist ein herrliches Leben!_

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

SAN MAURIZIO. 

The student of art in Italy, after mastering the characters of differentstyles and epochs, finds a final satisfaction in the contemplation ofbuildings designed and decorated by one master, or by groups of artistsinterpreting the spirit of a single period. Such supreme monuments ofthe national genius are not very common, and they are therefore the moreprecious. Giotto's chapel at Padua; the Villa Farnesina at Rome, builtby Peruzzi and painted in fresco by Raphael and Sodoma; the Palazzo delTe at Mantua, Giulio Romano's masterpiece; the Scuola di San Rocco, illustrating the Venetian Renaissance at its climax, might be citedamong the most splendid of these achievements. In the church of theMonastero Maggiore at Milan, dedicated to San Maurizio, Lombardarchitecture and fresco-painting may be studied in this rarecombination. The monastery itself, one of the oldest in Milan, formed aretreat for cloistered virgins following the rule of St. Benedict. Itmay have been founded as early as the tenth century; but its church wasrebuilt in the first two decades of the sixteenth, between 1503 and1519, and was immediately afterwards decorated with frescos by Luini andhis pupils. Gian Giacomo Dolcebono, architect and sculptor, called byhis fellow-craftsmen _magistro di taliare pietre_, gave the design, atonce simple and harmonious, which was carried out with hardly anydeviation from his plan. The church is a long parallelogram, dividedinto two unequal portions, the first and smaller for the public, thesecond for the nuns. The walls are pierced with rounded and pilasteredwindows, ten on each side, four of which belong to the outer and six tothe inner section. The dividing wall or septum rises to the point fromwhich the groinings of the roof spring; and round three sides of thewhole building, north, east, and south, runs a gallery for the use ofthe convent. The altars of the inner and outer church are placed againstthe septum, back to back, with certain differences of structure thatneed not be described. Simple and severe, San Maurizio owes itsarchitectural beauty wholly and entirely to purity of line andperfection of proportion. There is a prevailing spirit of repose, asense of space, fair, lightsome, and adapted to serene moods of themeditative fancy in this building which is singularly at variance withthe religious mysticism and imaginative grandeur of a Gothic edifice. The principal beauty of the church, however, is its tone of color. Everysquare inch is covered with fresco or rich wood-work mellowed by timeinto that harmony of tints which blends the work of greater and lesserartists in one golden hue of brown. Round the arcades of theconvent-loggia run delicate arabesques with faces of fair femalesaints--Catherine, Agnes, Lucy, Agatha--gem-like or star-like, gazingfrom their gallery upon the church below. The Luinesque smile is ontheir lips and in their eyes, quiet, refined, as though the emblems oftheir martyrdom brought back no thought of pain to break the Paradise ofrest in which they dwell. There are twenty-six in all--a sisterhood ofstainless souls, the lilies of Love's garden planted round Christ'sthrone. Soldier saints are mingled with them in still smaller roundsabove the windows, chosen to illustrate the virtues of an order whichrenounced the world. To decide whose hand produced these masterpieces ofLombard suavity and grace, or whether more than one, would not be easy. Near the altar we can perhaps trace the style of Bartolommeo Suardi inan Annunciation painted on the spandrils--that heroic style, large andnoble, known to us by the chivalrous St. Martin and the glorifiedMadonna of the Brera frescos. It is not impossible that the male saintsof the loggia may be also his, though a tenderer touch, a something morenearly Leonardesque in its quietude, must be discerned in Lucy and hersisters. The whole of the altar in this inner church belongs to Luini. Were it not for darkness and decay, we should pronounce this series ofthe Passion in nine great compositions, with saints and martyrs andtorch-bearing genii, to be one of his most ambitious and successfulefforts. As it is, we can but judge in part; the adolescent beauty ofSebastian, the grave compassion of St. Rocco, the classical perfectionof the cupid with lighted tapers, the gracious majesty of women smilingon us sideways from their Lombard eyelids--these remain to haunt ourmemory, emerging from the shadows of the vault above. 

The inner church, as is fitting, excludes all worldly elements. We arein the presence of Christ's agony, relieved and tempered by the sunlightof those beauteous female faces. All is solemn here, still as theconvent, pure as the meditations of a novice. We pass the septum, andfind ourselves in the outer church appropriated to the laity. Above thehigh-altar the whole wall is covered with Luini's loveliest work, inexcellent light and far from ill preserved. The space divides into eightcompartments. A Pietà, an Assumption, Saints and Founders of the church, group themselves under the influence of Luini's harmonizing color intoone symphonious whole. But the places of distinction are reserved fortwo great benefactors of the convent, Alessandro de' Bentivogli and hiswife, Ippolita Sforza. When the Bentivogli were expelled from Bologna bythe papal forces, Alessandro settled at Milan, where he dwelt, honoredby the Sforzas and allied to them by marriage, till his death in 1532. He was buried in the monastery by the side of his sister Alessandra, anun of the order. Luini has painted the illustrious exile in his habitas he lived. He is kneeling, as though in ever-during adoration of thealtar mystery, attired in a long black senatorial robe trimmed withfurs. In his left hand he holds a book; and above his pale, serenelynoble face is a little black berretta. Saints attend him, as thoughattesting to his act of faith. Opposite kneels Ippolita, his wife, thebrilliant queen of fashion, the witty leader of society, to whomBandello dedicated his Novelle, and whom he praised as both incomparablybeautiful and singularly learned. Her queenly form is clothed from headto foot in white brocade, slashed and trimmed with gold lace, and on herforehead is a golden circlet. She has the proud port of a princess, thebeauty of a woman past her prime, but stately, the indescribable dignityof attitude which no one but Luini could have rendered so majesticallysweet. In her hand is a book; and she, like Alessandro, has her saintlysponsors, Agnes and Catherine and St. Scolastica. 

Few pictures bring the splendid Milanese court so vividly before us asthese portraits of the Bentivogli: they are, moreover, very precious forthe light they throw on what Luini could achieve in the secular style sorarely touched by him. Great, however, as are these frescos, they arefar surpassed both in value and interest by his paintings in the sidechapel of St. Catherine. Here more than anywhere else, more even than atSaronno or Lugano, do we feel the true distinction of Luini--hisunrivalled excellence as a colourist, his power over pathos, therefinement of his feeling, and the peculiar beauty of his favoritetypes. The chapel was decorated at the expense of a Milanese advocate, Francesco Besozzi, who died in 1529. It is he who is kneeling, gray-haired and bare-headed, under the protection of St. Catherine ofAlexandria, intently gazing at Christ unbound from the scourging-pillar. On the other side stand St. Lawrence and St. Stephen, pointing to theChrist and looking at us, as though their lips were framed to say:"Behold and see if there be any sorrow like unto his sorrow. " Even thesoldiers who have done their cruel work seem softened. They untie thecords tenderly, and support the fainting form, too weak to stand alone. What sadness in the lovely faces of Sts. Catherine and Lawrence! Whatdivine anguish in the loosened limbs and bending body of Christ; whatpiety in the adoring old man! All the moods proper to this supremetragedy of the faith are touched as in some tenor song with lowaccompaniment of viols; for it was Luini's special province to feelprofoundly and to express musically. The very depth of the Passion isthere; and yet there is no discord. 

Just in proportion to this unique faculty for yielding a melodiousrepresentation of the most intense moments of stationary emotion was hisinability to deal with a dramatic subject. The first episode of St. Catherine's execution, when the wheel was broken and the executionersstruck by lightning, is painted in this chapel without energy and with alack of composition that betrays the master's indifference to hissubject. Far different is the second episode when Catherine is about tobe beheaded. The executioner has raised his sword to strike. She, robedin brocade of black and gold, so cut as to display the curve of neckand back, while the bosom is covered, leans her head above her prayinghands, and waits the blow in sweetest resignation. Two soldiers stand atsome distance in a landscape of hill and meadow; and far up are seen theangels carrying her body to its tomb upon Mount Sinai. I cannot findwords or summon courage to describe the beauty of this picture--itsatmosphere of holy peace, the dignity of its composition, the goldenrichness of its coloring. The most tragic situation has here again beenalchemized by Luini's magic into a pure idyl, without the loss of power, without the sacrifice of edification. 

St. Catherine, in this incomparable fresco, is a portrait, the historyof which so strikingly illustrates the relation of the arts to religionon the one hand, and to life on the other, in the age of theRenaissance, that it cannot be omitted. At the end of his fourthNovella, having related the life of the Contessa di Cellant, Bandellosays: "And so the poor woman was beheaded; such was the end of herunbridled desires; and he who would fain see her painted to the life, let him go to the Church of the Monastero Maggiore, and there will hebehold her portrait. " The Contessa di Cellant was the only child of arich usurer who lived at Casal Monferrato. Her mother was a Greek; andshe was a girl of such exquisite beauty that, in spite of her loworigin, she became the wife of the noble Ermes Visconti in her sixteenthyear. He took her to live with him at Milan, where she frequented thehouse of the Bentivogli, but none other. Her husband told Bandello thathe knew her temper better than to let her visit with the freedom of theMilanese ladies. Upon his death, while she was little more than twenty, she retired to Casale and led a gay life among many lovers. One ofthese, the Count of Cellant in the Val d'Aosta, became her secondhusband, conquered by her extraordinary loveliness. They could not, however, agree together. She left him, and established herself at Pavia. Rich with her father's wealth and still of most seductive beauty, shenow abandoned herself to a life of profligacy. Three among her loversmust be named: Ardizzino Valperga, Count of Masino; Roberto Sanseverino, of the princely Naples family; and Don Pietro di Cardona, a Sicilian. With each of the two first she quarrelled, and separately besought eachto murder the other. They were friends, and frustrated her plans bycommunicating them to one another. The third loved her with the insanepassion of a very young man. What she desired, he promised to doblindly; and she bade him murder his two predecessors in her favor. Atthis time she was living at Milan, where the Duke of Bourbon was actingas viceroy for the emperor. Don Pietro took twenty-five armed men of hishousehold and waylaid the Count of Masino as he was returning, with hisbrother and eight or nine servants, late one night from supper. Both thebrothers and the greater part of their suite were killed; but Don Pietrowas caught. He revealed the atrocity of his mistress; and she was sentto prison. Incapable of proving her innocence, and prevented fromescaping, in spite of fifteen thousand golden crowns with which shehoped to bribe her jailers, she was finally beheaded. Thus did a vulgarand infamous Messalina, distinguished only by rare beauty, furnish Luiniwith a St. Catherine for this masterpiece of pious art! The thing seemsscarcely credible. Yet Bandello lived in Milan while the Church of St. Maurizio was being painted; nor does he show the slightest sign ofdisgust at the discord between the Contessa's life and her artisticpresentation in the person of a royal martyr. 

A HUMANIST'S MONUMENT. 

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

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

"Look here on Virtue that knows naught of Death! Lancinus Curtius shalllive through all the centuries, and visit every shore on earth. Suchpower have the Muses. " The time-worn poet reclines, as though sleepingor resting, ready to be waked; his head is covered with flowing hair, and crowned with laurel; it leans upon his left hand. On either side ofhis couch stand cupids or genii with torches turned to earth. Above is agroup of the three Graces, flanked by winged Pegasi. Higher up arethroned two Victories with palms, and at the top a naked Fame. We neednot ask who was Lancinus Curtius. He is forgotten, and his virtue hasnot saved him from oblivion; though he strove in his lifetime, _provirili parte_, for the palm that Busti carved upon his grave. Yet hismonument teaches in short compass a deep lesson; and his epitaph sums upthe dream which lured the men of Italy in the Renaissance to their doom. We see before us sculptured in this marble the ideal of the humanisticpoet-scholar's life: Love, Grace, the Muse, and Nakedness, and Glory. There is not a single intrusive thought derived from Christianity. Theend for which the man lived was pagan. His hope was earthly fame. Yethis name survives, if this indeed be a survival, not in those wingedverses which were to carry him abroad across the earth, but in themarble of a cunning craftsman, scanned now and then by a wanderingscholar's eye in the half-darkness of a vault. 

THE MONUMENT OF GASTON DE FOIX IN THE BRERA. 

The hero of Ravenna lies stretched upon his back in the hollow of a biercovered with laced drapery; and his head rests on richly ornamentedcushions. These decorative accessories, together with the minute work ofhis scabbard, wrought in the fanciful mannerism of the _cinquecento_, serve to enhance the statuesque simplicity of the young soldier'seffigy. The contrast between so much of richness in the merelysubordinate details and this sublime severity of treatment in the personof the hero is truly and touchingly dramatic. There is a smile, as ofcontent in death, upon his face; and the features are exceedinglybeautiful--with the beauty of a boy, almost of a woman. The heavy haircut straight above the forehead and straight over the shoulders, fallingin massive clusters. A delicately sculptured laurel-branch is woven intoa victor's crown and laid lightly on the tresses it scarcely seems toclasp. So fragile is this wreath that it does not break the pure outlineof the boy-conqueror's head. The armor is quite plain. So is thesurcoat. Upon the swelling bust, that seems fit harbor for a hero'sheart, there lies the collar of an order composed of cockle-shells; andthis is all the ornament given to the figure. The hands are claspedacross a sword laid flat upon the breast, and placed between the legs. Upon the chin is a little tuft of hair, parted, and curling either way;for the victor of Ravenna like the Hermes of Homer, was +prôtonhypênêtês+, "a youth of princely blood, whose beard hath just begun togrow, for whom the season of bloom is in its prime of grace. " The wholestatue is the idealization of _virtù_--that quality so highly prized bythe Italians and the ancients, so well fitted for commemoration in thearts. It is the apotheosis of human life resolved into undying memorybecause of one great deed. It is the supreme portrait in modern times ofa young hero, chiselled by artists belonging to a race no longer heroic, but capable of comprehending and expressing the æsthetic charm ofheroism. Standing before it, we may say of Gaston what Arrian wrote toHadrian of Achilles: "That he was a hero, if hero ever lived, I cannotdoubt; for his birth and blood were noble, and he was beautiful, and hisspirit was mighty, and he passed in youth's prime away from men. "Italian sculpture, under the condition of the _cinquecento_, had indeedno more congenial theme than this of bravery and beauty, youth andfame, immortal honor and untimely death; nor could any sculptor of deathhave poetized the theme more thoroughly than Agostino Busti, whosesimple instinct, unlike that of Michael Angelo, led him to subordinatehis own imagination to the pathos of reality. 

SARONNO. 

The Church of Saronno is a pretty building with a Bramantesque cupola, standing among meadows at some distance from the little town. It is theobject of a special cult, which draws pilgrims from the neighboringcountry-side; but the concourse is not large enough to load thesanctuary with unnecessary wealth. Everything is very quiet in the holyplace, and the offerings of the pious seem to have been only just enoughto keep the building and its treasures of art in repair. The churchconsists of a nave, a central cupola, a vestibule leading to the choir, the choir itself, and a small tribune behind the choir. No other singlebuilding in North Italy can boast so much that is first-rate of the workof Luini and Gaudenzio Ferrari. 

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

The dome itself is crowded with a host of angels singing and playingupon instruments of music. At each of the twelve angles of the drumstands a coryphæus of this celestial choir, full length, with wavingdrapery. Higher up, the golden-haired, broad-winged divine creatures aremassed together, filling every square inch of the vault with color. Yetthere is no confusion. The simplicity of the selected motive and thenecessities of the place acted like a check on Ferrari, who, in spite ofhis dramatic impulse, could not tell a story coherently or fill a canvaswith harmonized variety. There is no trace of his violence here. Thoughthe motion of music runs through the whole multitude like a breeze, though the joy expressed is a real _tripudio celeste_, not one of allthese angels flings his arms abroad or makes a movement that disturbsthe rhythm. We feel that they are keeping time and resting quietly, eachin his appointed seat, as though the sphere was circling with them roundthe throne of God, who is their centre and their source of gladness. Unlike Correggio and his imitators, Ferrari has introduced no clouds, and has in no case made the legs of his angels prominent. It is a massof noble faces and voluminously robed figures, emerging each above theother like flowers in a vase. Each too has specific character, whileall are robust and full of life, intent upon the service set them. Theirinstruments of music are all lutes and viols, flutes, cymbals, drums, fifes, citherns, organs, and harps that Ferrari's day could show. Thescale of color, as usual with Ferrari, is a little heavy; nor are thetints satisfactorily harmonized. But the vigor and invention of thewhole work would atone for minor defects of far greater consequence. 

It is natural, beneath this dome, to turn aside and think one moment ofCorreggio at Parma. Before the _macchinisti_ of the seventeenth centuryhad vulgarized the motive, Correggio's bold attempt to paint heaven inflight from earth--earth left behind in the persons of the apostlesstanding round the empty tomb, heaven soaring upward with a spiralvortex into the abyss of light above--had an originality which set atnaught all criticism. There is such ecstasy of jubilation, suchrapturous rapidity of flight, that we who strain our eyes from belowfeel we are in the darkness of the grave which Mary left. A kind ofcontrolling rhythm for the composition is gained by placing Gabriel, Madonna, and Christ at three points in the swirl of angels. Nevertheless, composition--the presiding, all-controlling intellect--isjust what makes itself felt by absence; and Correggio's specialqualities of light and color have now so far vanished from the cupola ofthe Duomo that the constructive poverty is not disguised. Here, ifanywhere in painting, we may apply Goethe's words--_Gefühl ist Alles_. 

If, then, we return to Ferrari's angels at Saronno, we find that thepainter of Varallo chose a safer though a far more modest theme. Nor didhe expose himself to that most cruel of all degradations which theethereal genius of Correggio has suffered from incompetent imitators. Todaub a tawdry and superficial reproduction of these Parmese frescos, tofill the cupolas of Italy with veritable _guazzetti di rane_, wascomparatively easy; and between our intelligence and what remains ofthat stupendous masterpiece of boldness crowd a thousand memories ofsuch ineptitude. On the other hand, nothing but solid work andconscientious inspiration could enable any workman, however able, tofollow Ferrari in the path struck out by him at Saronno. His cupola hashad no imitator; and its only rival is the noble pendant painted atVarallo by his own hand, of angels in adoring anguish round the cross. 

In the ante-choir of the sanctuary are Luini's priceless frescos of the"Marriage of the Virgin" and the "Dispute with the Doctors. "[G] Theirexecution is flawless, and they are perfectly preserved. If criticismbefore such admirable examples of so excellent a master be permissible, it may be questioned whether the figures are not too crowded, whetherthe groups are sufficiently varied and connected by rhythmic lines. Yetthe concords of yellow and orange with blue in the "Sposalizio, " and theblendings of dull violet and red in the "Disputa, " make up for much ofstiffness. Here, as in the Chapel of St. Catherine at Milan, we feelthat Luini was the greatest colourist among _frescanti_. In the"Sposalizio" the female heads are singularly noble and idyllicallygraceful. Some of the young men too have Luini's special grace andabundance of golden hair. In the "Disputa" the gravity and dignity ofold men are above all things striking. 

Passing into the choir, we find on either hand the "Adoration of theMagi" and the "Purification of the Virgin, " two of Luini's divinestfrescos. Above them in lunettes are four Evangelists and four LatinFathers, with four Sibyls. Time and neglect have done no damage here;and here, again, perforce we notice perfect mastery of color in fresco. The blues detach themselves too much, perhaps, from the rest of thecoloring; and that is all a devil's advocate could say. It is possiblethat the absence of blue makes the St. Catherine frescos in theMonastero Maggiore at Milan surpass all other works of Luini. Butnowhere else has he shown more beauty and variety in detail than here. The group of women led by Joseph, the shepherd carrying the lamb uponhis shoulder, the girl with a basket of white doves, the child with anapple on the altar-steps, the lovely youth in the foreground heedless ofthe scene; all these are idyllic incidents treated with the purest, theserenest, the most spontaneous, the truest, most instinctive sense ofbeauty. The landscape includes a view of Saronno, and an episodicalpicture of the "Flight into Egypt, " where a white-robed angel leads theway. All these lovely things are in the "Purification, " which is dated_Bernardinus Lovinus pinxit_, MDXXV. 

The fresco of the "Magi" is less notable in detail, and in generaleffect is more spoiled by obtrusive blues. There is, however, one youngman of wholly Leonardesque loveliness, whose divine innocence ofadolescence, unalloyed by serious thought, unstirred by passions, almostforces a comparison with Sodoma. The only painter who approaches Luiniin what may be called the Lombard, to distinguish it from the Venetianidyl, is Sodoma; and the work of his which comes nearest to Luini'smasterpieces is the legend of St. Benedict, at Monte Oliveto, nearSiena. Yet Sodoma had not all Luini's innocence or _naïveté_. If headded something slightly humorous which has an indefinite charm, helacked that freshness, as of "cool, meek-blooded flowers" and boyishvoices, which fascinates us in Luini. Sodoma was closer to the earth, and feared not to impregnate what he saw of beauty with the fiercerpassions of his nature. If Luini had felt passion who shall say? Itappears nowhere in his work, where life is toned to a religiousjoyousness. When Shelley compared the poetry of the Theocriteanamourists to the perfume of the tuberose, and that of the earlier Greekpoets to "a meadow-gale of June, which mingles the fragrance of all theflowers of the field, " he supplied us with critical images which may notunfairly be used to point the distinction between Sodoma at MonteOliveto and Luini at Saronno. 

THE CASTELLO OF FERRARA. 

Is it possible that the patron saints of cities should mould the temperof the people to their own likeness? St. George, the chivalrous, ischampion of Ferrara. His is the marble group above the cathedral porch, so feudal in its mediæval pomp. He and St. Michael are painted in frescoover the south portcullis of the castle. His lustrous armor gleams withGiorgionesque brilliancy from Dossi's masterpiece in the Pinacoteca. That Ferrara, the only place in Italy where chivalry struck any root, should have had St. George for patron, is at any rate significant. 

The best-preserved relic of princely feudal life in Italy is thisCastello of the Este family, with its sombre moat, chained draw-bridges, doleful dungeons, and unnumbered tragedies, each one of which may becompared with Parisina's history. I do not want to dwell on these thingsnow. It is enough to remember the Castello, built of ruddiest brick, time-mellowed with how many centuries of sun and soft sea-air, as itappeared upon the close of one tempestuous day. Just before evening therain-clouds parted and the sun flamed out across the misty Lombardplain. The Castello burned like a hero's funeral pyre, and round itshigh-built turrets swallows circled in the warm blue air. On the moatslept shadows, mixed with flowers of sunset, tossed from pinnacle andgable. Then the sky changed. A roof of thunder-cloud spread overheadwith the rapidity of tempest. The dying sun gathered his last strengthagainst it, fretting those steel-blue arches with crimson; and all thefierce light, thrown from vault to vault of cloud, was reflected back asfrom a shield, and cast in blots and patches on the buildings. TheCastle towered up rosy-red and shadowy sombre, enshrined, embosomed inthose purple clouds; and momently ran lightning-forks like rapiersthrough the growing mass. Everything around, meanwhile, was quiet in thegrass-grown streets. The only sound was a high, clear boy's voicechanting an opera-tune. 

PETRARCH'S TOMB AT ARQUA. 

The drive from Este along the skirts of the Euganean Hills to Arquatakes one through a country which is tenderly beautiful, because of itscontrast between little peaked mountains and the plain. It is not agrand landscape. It lacks all that makes the skirts of Alps andApennines sublime. Its charm is a certain mystery and repose--anundefined sense of the neighboring Adriatic, a pervading consciousnessof Venice unseen but felt from far away. From the terraces of Arqua theeye ranges across olive-trees, laurels, and pomegranates on the southernslopes to the misty level land that melts into the sea, with churchesand tall campanili like gigantic galleys setting sail for fairyland over"the foam of perilous seas forlorn. " Let a blue-black shadow from athunder-cloud be cast upon this plain, and let one ray of sunlightstrike a solitary bell-tower: it burns with palest flame of rose againstthe steely dark, and in its slender shaft and shell-like tint of pinkall Venice is foreseen. 

The village church of Arqua stands upon one of these terraces, with afull stream of clearest water flowing by. On the little square beforethe church-door, where the peasants congregate at mass-time--open to theskies with all their stars and storms, girdled by the hills, and withinhearing of the vocal stream--is Petrarch's sepulchre. Fit resting-placefor what remains to earth of such a poet's clay! It is as thougharchangels, flying, had carried the marble chest and set it down here onthe hill-side, to be a sign and sanctuary for after-men. A simplerectilinear coffin, of smooth Verona _mandorlato_, raised on four thickcolumns, and closed by a heavy cippus-cover. Without emblems, allegories, or lamenting genii, this tomb of the great poet, the greatawakener of Europe from mental lethargy, encircled by the hills beneaththe canopy of heaven, is impressive beyond the power of words. Bendinghere, we feel that Petrarch's own winged thoughts and fancies, eternaland aërial, "forms more real than living man, nurslings of immortality, "have congregated to be the ever-ministering and irremovable attendantson the shrine of one who, while he lived, was purest spirit in a veil offlesh. 

ON A MOUNTAIN. 

Milan is shining in sunset on those purple fields; and a score of citiesflash back the last red light, which shows each inequality andundulation of Lombardy outspread four thousand feet beneath. Bothranges, Alps and Apennines, are clear to view; and all the silvery lakesare over-canopied and brought into one picture by flame-litten mists. Monte Rosa lifts her crown of peaks above a belt of clouds into light ofliving fire. The Mischabelhörner and the Dom rest stationary angel-wingsupon the rampart, which at this moment is the wall of heaven. Thepyramid of distant Monte Viso burns like solid amethyst far, far away. Mont Cervin beckons to his brother, the gigantic Finsteraarhorn, acrosstracts of liquid ether. Bells are rising from the villages, now wrappedin gloom, between me and the glimmering lake. A hush of evening silencefalls upon the ridges, cliffs, and forests of this billowy hill, ascending into wave-like crests, and toppling with awful chasms over thedark waters of Lugano. It is good to be alone here at this hour. Yet Imust rise and go--passing through meadows where white lilies sleep insilvery drifts, and asphodel is pale with spires of faintest rose, andnarcissus dreams of his own beauty, loading the air with fragrance sweetas some love-music of Mozart. These fields want only the white figure ofPersephone to make them poems; and in this twilight one might fancy thatthe queen had left her throne by Pluto's side to mourn for her deadyouth among the flowers uplifted between earth and heaven. Nay, they arepoems now, these fields; with that unchanging background of history, romance, and human life--the Lombard plain, against whose violet breadththe blossoms bend their faint heads to the evening air. Downward wehurry, on pathways where the beeches meet, by silent farms, by meadowshoney-scented, deep in dew. The columbine stands tall and still on thosegreen slopes of shadowy grass. The nightingale sings now, and now ishushed again. Streams murmur through the darkness, where the growth oftrees, heavy with honeysuckle and wild rose, is thickest. Firefliesbegin to flit above the growing corn. At last the plain is reached, andall the skies are tremulous with starlight. Alas, that we should vibrateso obscurely to these harmonies of earth and heaven! The inner finersense of them seems somehow unattainable--that spiritual touch of soulevoking soul from nature, which should transfigure our dull mood of selfinto impersonal delight. Man needs to be a mytho-poet at some moments, or, better still, to be a mystic steeped through half-unconsciousness inthe vast wonder of the world. Cold and untouched to poetry or piety byscenes that ought to blend the spirit in ourselves with spirit in theworld without, we can but wonder how this phantom show of mystery andbeauty will pass away from us--how soon--and we be where, see what, useall our sensibilities on aught or naught?

SIC GENIUS. 

In the picture-gallery at Modena there is a masterpiece of Dosso Dossi. The frame is old and richly carved; and the painting, bordered by itsbeautiful dull gold, shines with the lustre of an emerald. In his happymoods Dosso set color upon canvas as no other painter out of Venice everdid; and here he is at his happiest. The picture is the portrait of ajester, dressed in courtly clothes and with a feathered cap upon hishead. He holds a lamb in his arms, and carries the legend, _Sic Genius_. Behind him is a landscape of exquisite brilliancy and depth. His face isyoung and handsome. Dosso has made it one most wonderful laugh. Even soperhaps laughed Yorick. Nowhere else have I seen a laugh thus painted:not violent, not loud, although the lips are opened to show teeth ofdazzling whiteness; but fine and delicate, playing over the whole facelike a ripple sent up from the depths of the soul within? Who was he?What does the lamb mean? How should the legend be interpreted? We cannotanswer these questions. He may have been the court-fool of Ferrara; andhis genius, the spiritual essence of the man, may have inclined him tolaugh at all things. That at least is the value he now has for us. Heis the portrait of perpetual irony, the spirit of the golden sixteenthcentury which delicately laughed at the whole world of thoughts andthings, the quintessence of the poetry of Ariosto, the wit of Berni, allcondensed into one incarnation and immortalized by truthfullest art. With the Gaul, the Spaniard, and the German at her gates, and in hercities, and encamped upon her fields, Italy still laughed; and when thevoice of conscience sounding through Savonarola asked her why, she onlysmiled--_Sic Genius_. 

One evening in May we rowed from Venice to Torcello, and at sunset brokebread and drank wine together among the rank grasses just outside thatancient church. It was pleasant to sit in the so-called chair of Attilaand feel the placid stillness of the place. Then there came lounging bya sturdy young fellow in brown country clothes, with a marvellous oldwide-awake upon his head, and across his shoulders a bunch of massivechurch-keys. In strange contrast to his uncouth garb he flirted a pinkJapanese fan, gracefully disposing it to cool his sun-burned olivecheeks. This made us look at him. He was not ugly. Nay, there wassomething of attractive in his face--the smooth-curved chin, the shrewdyet sleepy eyes, and finely-cut thin lips--a curious mixture of audacityand meekness blended upon his features. Yet this impression was but theprelude to his smile. When that first dawned, some breath of humorseeming to stir in him unbidden, the true meaning was given to his face. Each feature helped to make a smile that was the very soul's life of theman expressed. It broadened, showing brilliant teeth, and grew into anoiseless laugh; and then I saw before me Dosso's jester, the type ofShakespeare's fools, the life of that wild irony, now rude, now fine, which once delighted courts. The laughter of the whole world and of allthe centuries was silent in his face. What he said need not be repeated. The charm was less in his words than in his personality; forMomus-philosophy lay deep in every look and gesture of the man. Theplace lent itself to irony; parties of Americans and English parsons, the former agape for any rubbishy old things, the latter learned in thelore of obsolete church-furniture, had thronged Torcello; and now theywere all gone, and the sun had set behind the Alps, while an irreverentstranger drank his wine in Attila's chair, and nature's jestersmiled--_Sic Genius_. 

When I slept that night I dreamed of an altar-piece in the Temple ofFolly. The goddess sat enthroned beneath a canopy hung with bells andcorals. On her lap was a beautiful winged smiling genius, who flourishedtwo bright torches. On her left hand stood the man of Modena with hiswhite lamb, a new St. John. On her right stood the man of Torcello withhis keys, a new St. Peter. Both were laughing after their all-absorbent, divine, noiseless fashion; and under both was written, _Sic Genius_. Arenot all things, even profanity, permissible in dreams?

FOOTNOTES:

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

[F] Thy tresses have I oftentimes compared to Ceres' yellow autumnsheaves, wreathed in curled bands around thy head. 

[G] Both these and the large frescos in the choir have beenchromo-lithographed by the Arundel Society. 

THE END. 

 +-----------------------------------------------+ | Transcriber's Note: | | | | + sign denotes Greek transliteration | | | | Typographical errors corrected in text: | | | | Page 15 loggie changed to logge | | Page 18 Apennine changed to Apennines | | Page 21 pleasaunce changed to pleasance | | Page 27 obligato changed to obbligato | | Page 29 dedicate changed to dedicated | | Page 37 ome changed to some | | Page 45 Heny changed to Henry | | Page 47 Bernard changed to Bernardo | | Page 69 led changed to del | | Page 82 beretta changed to berretta | | Page 91 intensily changed to intensely | | Page 111 word "a" added | | Page 128 Porsenna changed to Porsena | | Page 147 loggie changed to logge | | Page 149 Apeninnes changed to Apennines | | Page 173 potect changed to protect | | Page 173 Vernice changed to Venice | | Page 178 aad changed to and | | Page 180 ruining changed to running | | Page 183 Bachus changed to Bacchus | | Page 192 Signiory changed to Signory | | Page 224 maccaroon changed to macaroon | | Page 242 wagon changed to waggon | | Page 273 piazetta changed to piazzetta | | Page 298 sensibilty changed to sensibility | | Page 304 colorist changed to colourist | | Page 309 Monistero changed to Monastero | | Page 317 colorist changed to colourist | | | +-----------------------------------------------+