A Journey to Crete, Costantinople, Naples and Florence: Three Months Abroad

moved me to tears. Splendidly did she pronounce her detestation of the licentious book that had wrought Francesca’s fall, when she said:—

“Galeotto fu il libro e chi lo scrisse,”

and then added with a shudder of horror that trembled in her voice:—

“Quel giorno più non vi leggemmo avante.”

Besides Madame Ristori, Sig. Salvini, Sig. Rossi, and Sig. Gottinelli, recited. They are considered the first actors in Italy, but I cannot say that they pleased me. Like those of Hamlet, “they imitated humanity so abominably.” Their countrymen however applauded them the more, the more they “overstepped the modesty of nature;” “strutted and bellowed, and sawed the air with their hands.” But the cheers which were so liberally bestowed upon these recitations, became most enthusiastic whenever the words could be interpreted so as to allude to the great political events and ideas of the day. At the words:—

“Infin che ’l Veltro,
Verrà, che la farà morir di doglia.”

    Infer. Canto 1.
And at those,

“Vieni a veder la tua Roma, che piagne,
Vedova, sola, e dì e notte chiama:
Cesare mio, perchè non m’accompagne?”

    Purg. Canto 6.
the audience forgot the “Divina Commedia” and the actors, and loudly cheered the King, who was present at the representation, and had been received with loud and continuous cheers when he entered his box.

But although the Dante festival is over, I cannot leave Florence without telling a little more about it, for the recollection of that charming town is one of the most pleasing of my journey.

Florence means, as everybody knows, the flowery, the blooming; but only those that have seen it in the month of May, can know how well it deserves so fair a name. The beautiful Tuscan valleys, in the most lovely of which Florence lies, may well be regarded as the garden of the temperate zone. It certainly seems to me the most perfect representation of it. Naples has a touch of the tropics; cacti, aloes, and palm trees, are not of our clime. We meet with nothing new or strange at Florence. We are quite at home, all among old friends, wearing a new and more beautiful dress than we were wont to see them in, and they please us more than ever.

The trees are not gigantic, but perfect in form and size. The meadows and fields, though a pleasant sight, are somewhat monotonous at home; here they have a perfectly different look. They are planted with rows of pretty young trees of all kinds, such as poplars, planes, may, mountain ashes, etc., which are not allowed to grow beyond the size of an ornamental garden tree, in order to prevent their giving too much shade. Round every stem twines a vine, that hangs gracefully from its supporting branches, and meets some other vine from a neighbouring tree, thus forming elegant festoons.

And how well the figures that animate this delightful landscape, harmonize with it. The women of Tuscany have not the stately beauty of the Roman matrons, nor the coquetish okay webster’s] grace of their sisters of Milan and Venice. Their eyes have not the fire that burns in those of the Neapolitan girls, nor is their skin so fair as that of the Genoese; but I do not know if, after all, they are not the best looking in Italy. Their eyes have a soft lustre, which is very charming; their features are regular and very pleasing.

We stayed a few days after the festival under the false pretence of resting ourselves, but who could rest when there was so much to be seen and enjoyed?

I spent one day in the famous Gallery of the Uffizi, saw a splendid marble copy of Laocoon, and knew then what I never understood before, why that group is so much admired; saw the eternal ideal of Beauty, in the Venus of Medicis, and those wonderful beings which the brush of Titian has immortalised. But how can I venture to attempt enumerating all that I saw there? Another day was spent in the Palazzo Pitti, where some of Raphael’s most charming works are treasured up. The “Madonna del Cardellino,” the “Madonna del Baldacchino,” which although very lovely, I hardly looked at, because I could not turn my eyes away from those two winged darlings that stand at her feet, and sing her praise; and there was above all my much beloved and revered “Madonna della Sedia.”

I visited of course the churches, the interiors of which are mostly of a sombre grey, that blends with a lighter shade of the same colour, and with white. It produces a simple and serious effect. In striking contrast to the simple grandeur of the interior of these churches, is the Medicean chapel, belonging to the Church of St. Lorenzo, which is gorgeous in the extreme, the walls being entirely covered with costly marbles, and precious stones; a fit monument of the overbearing pride and vanity of that famous family. It astonished me much, this monument of their untold wealth and great power; I could not help contrasting with it the comparative simplicity and modesty of the Mausoleums of the great Sovereigns of our time, and felt that the most powerful and ambitious of them, could not build one for himself like the chapel of the Medici. In the sacristia of the same church, I saw the monuments on the tombs of Lorenzo and Giugliano dei Medici, by Michael Angelo. Of the six figures that compose the two monuments, the one of Lorenzo, made the deepest impression upon me. The whole figure, especially the face, has an expression of deep inconsolable grief. He looks as if sorrowing for ever that he robbed a great and noble people of its liberty; as if come to a full knowledge of his guilt, and the sins and follies of his past life. I think some people say the expression of this sad, mournful figure sitting upon his own tomb, is one of meditation. Rogers writes “he scowls at us.” It did not seem to me that he looks at any thing present at all, he looks with a vacant stare, his sight is turned inwardly, lost in the contemplation of the past.

I went directly from those tombs to the one where the great master reposes. It is in the church of Santa Croce, that the dust of Michael Angelo mingles with that of Galileo, and of many other great men. The allegorical figure of Italy sorrowing over the grave of Alfieri, who also rests within the walls of this church, is by Canova, and is as beautiful a monument as any poet could wish to have erected over his grave.

With a feeling not free from regret, we left Florence early one morning, in a fragrant May shower, that cooled and refreshed the air, and made the garden-country all around look fresher and lovelier than ever. We travelled in the same carriage with the well known Padre Gavazzi, who was not satisfied with the festival, as according to his opinion, it had not been of a character sufficiently decided political and religious.

When changing our carriage at Bologna, I suddenly found myself face to face with Mdlle. S—, and her father, who had been among our travelling companions from Trieste to Smyrna, and who were returning from their pilgrimage to Jerusalem. Their journey may have been one of intense enjoyment, it certainly had been one of great fatigue. The poor girl looked thin and worn, and spoke to me of her adventures with a woeful countenance. The expression of her face was at the same time exceedingly comical, and I could not help laughing at her tale, a laugh in which the good natured girl heartily joined, although it was partly at her own expense. According to her account, and her wan cheeks, and dim, lustreless eyes, confirmed what she said, the fatigues and dangers of the excursion to the Holy Land, must have been very great indeed. The Germans are not an equestrian nation. Of the forty excursionists, not one was a very proficient rider; in fact few of them had ever been on horse or donkey-back before. The consequence was an uninterrupted series of accidents as soon as travelling on horseback became, as it is everywhere in the East, the only mode of transit.

The poor girl had slipped off her horse with saddle and all, at a most dangerous spot in going to the Dead Sea; she might have been seriously injured, as she could not extricate herself at once, and the horse was moving on. Fortunately the young Kentuckian, who, as I had observed on the steamboat, was always trying to be near that “nice German girl,” was close behind her. He jumped from his horse and caught hold of hers, so that she was able to get up, having sustained no great injury beyond the fright. She feelingly remarked, that fortunately her papa was far behind. He only heard of the accident, when the saddle and the young lady were safe again on the back of the steed. The poor man had been out of his saddle more than once, but without other injury than a sprain of his foot, which obliged him to lie down for a few days, and hurt him for many more.

Poor M. L—, a professor from Prague, did not escape so easily. In one of his falls he managed so badly that he hurt his leg seriously. Inflammation set in, and he had forty leeches applied to it. But what might have been the worst of all accidents, happened to Mme. de H—, the sister of the Archbishop. Horse and lady fell down together, and turned over and over before either got up again. The fair rider however escaped unhurt. I was sorry that there was no time for Mdlle. S. to tell me of all the accidents that befell these unlucky excursionists, for every one met with some mishap, either in Palestine or Egypt, with the exception of the four young Americans and old General T—. The latter seemed as much at home in Jerusalem and Cairo, as he had been on board the Neptune. He always ate with a tremendous appetite whatever the fare might be, and slept like a bear on whatever couch he rested.

The guard, who called out that the train for Milan was going to start, interrupted our conversation. Mdlle. S— took up a little box, which she had set down near her, and which contained a small tortoise, which poked its head through a hole in the lid. This and a shell, which she wore as a sign of her pilgrimage on her little hat, was, as far as I could see, all she had to recompense her for the endless troubles and fatigues of her journey.

And now I will hasten to conclude mine; for after we left Florence the journey no longer offered any great attractions. The places I saw now, I had already seen before, nor could they vie with those I had so lately visited. Now I was with heart and soul already in England, at home with my children. Oh, how slowly the express train travels! How long is a night in a railway carriage! Shall we rest a day at Paris? No, I am not tired. I cross the Channel as in a dream. There are the white cliffs of Dover, I am in old England! Fly away train, rush along, take me home, home!

At last the train stops, a few minutes bring me to our garden gate. I fly through the garden, the door opens. Yes, there they are all, and all well! My baby climbs up a chair, and clings round my neck; the boys make a deafening noise, and I believe the mamma is almost as noisy.

And now I leave them, though for a few minutes only. I sit down in my own room, on my own chair, and all at once I feel I am tired. I shut my eyes, out of which tears steal, and my full heart thanks Him, who gave me the joys of the journey, who brought me safely home to my children and who watched over them, and preserved them while I was away.

THE END

notes

1

16° Reaumur equal to 36° of Fahrenheit.

2

22½ F.

3

Seraglio means a palace. Harem means sacred, and is that part of the Seraglio which is assigned to the women.

4

“Oranges, lemons, pomegranates, and all other fruits, are produced in the greatest abundance, and sold at the vilest prices. The gardens are rich and beautiful, and adorned with many plants unknown in other countries.”—History of Candia, published in 1550.

5

The Turks count their hours from sunset, which is always 12 o’clock; when the next day begins.

6

It is with great diffidence that I print this chapter, as I am conscious that so short a stay in a place so strange, and to strangers, in part so little accessible as Constantinople, could not enable me to form any competent judgment of the people that inhabit it. I intended, therefore, to confine myself merely to a description of their outward appearance and manners without drawing any conclusions or forming any judgment. I find, however, that I have not been able to keep my good intention. May the reader take these remarks for what they are worth, and pardon the errors into which I have surely fallen.

7

Thy glory will end, when the human race shall have ceased to see the sun, and to inhabit the earth.

8

You that walk in the path of love, cast a look upon these walls, where in April 1266, was born Beatrice Portinari, etc.

9

You taught me how a man becomes immortal.

10

Rome, that turned once the world to good
Was wont to boast two suns, whose several beams
Cast light in either way; the world’s and God’s.