NOTES
IN
ENGLAND AND ITALY.

[title page recto image]
[title page verso image]

I THINK it necessary to say that these "Notes," written twelve years ago, were never meant for publication; but solely for my own reference, and for a means of recalling to my friends what had especially interested me abroad. Many of these friends have repeatedly urged me to print them, from a too partial estimate of their value; and I have steadily resisted the suggestion, until now, when I reluctantly yield. If, however, they will aid any one in the least to enjoy, as I have enjoyed, the illustrious works of the Great Masters in Architecture, Sculpture, and Painting, I shall be well repaid for the pain it has cost me to appear before the public,

S. H.

DRESDEN, August, 1869.

CONTENTS.

7

NOTES IN ENGLAND.

I.
SKIPTON CASTLE.--BOLTON PRIORY.

SKIPTON, YORKSHIRE, April 10th.

* * * * As we approached Yorkshire, we found stone walls for the first time in England, instead of green hedges. But they were nice and pretty stone walls, and not such rude structures as ours in America. The stones were as smooth and even as those of a house, and battlemented along the top. After the low sandhills of Southport, it was truly refreshing to see the Yorkshire Wolds. (Wolds is the Yorkshire name for hills.)

We saw some very ugly, small, manufacturing towns in Lancashire, in which I do not understand how any one can consent to live. In one was at monument that seemed to be erected to the honor of the Smoke-Demon,--a lofty, symmetrical stone column, resting on a square base, not near any manufactory; and close against the sky a long; plume of black smoke continually floated from its summit, like the incense of a bad heart. Dear me! at what a cost come forth, so clean and splendid, all our pretty prints, and silks, and velvets! How is it that the grimness of the workmen and of the atmosphere never sullies them? They look as if the tidiest

8 NOTES IN ENGLAND.

of fairies fashioned them in ivory palaces, where there is never a stain in the air.

We crossed the river Darwen twice, and arrived at Skipton soon after five. It proves a larger town than I thought, and is beautifully situated in a hollow between thrice three hills. We found a tolerably pretentious station, and a nice man, who politely attended us to what he called "a 'Bus," which he said belonged to the first hotel in town, called "The Devonshire Arms." So hither we drove. It was what J---- considered "a jolly little 'Bus," being only as large as a cab, yet the seats arranged like those of omnibuses. The landlady, glorious in cherry ribbons, received us at the door, and ushered us up into a front sitting-room, comfortable with a lounge, and a large fireplace, in which the maid soon kindled a blazing fire.

We were all so restored by our refection, that we concluded to take a walk. I asked the maid whether there were any pleasant places, and she said, "Skipton Woods is very pleasant, and not far off." So we went toward Skipton Woods; but met a fine old castle on the way. A stout John Bull, with a rubicund visage, who was piously pushing his child about in a perambulator, on his leisure Good Friday, I took the liberty to accost. I asked him whether we could see the castle; and he was very smiling and kind, and replied, "Yes; as it was Good Friday, he thought we could: that the family was not there, but the housekeeper was."

SKIPTON CASTLE. 9

So we entered the grand, towered gateway, with "DÉSORMAIS" sculptured in open stone-work on the top, flanked by a donjon-keep on each side, and found ourselves in a fine park, within the walls--a small park, perhaps a garden rather. A group of girls, keeping holiday, emerged from an arch, and I asked them where we could find the housekeeper. One said that I "must go into a door by the bushy trees." These "bushy trees" were mammoth box-trees, more than six feet high, and of great circumference, cut in the shape of globes. Lawn and flower-clumps, with gravel walks, filled the enclosure, and the perpetual ivy climbed the inner surface of the high walls. It looked very inhabitable, and not vast, like the environments of many castles we have seen, and, though stately, not a kingdom, as is Knowesly.* We found a low-arched door, leading through the thickness of the castle, and out upon a staircase on the other side, high above a moat. Looking over, we saw a waterfall and a stream and clustering trees, far down beneath. But, alas! this was not one of Nature's waterfalls, but what the housekeeper called "a wash" only, which now turns a mill. The sound of rushing water, however, was just the same, and very refreshing. We ascended the staircase, and at my knock, a neat, florid, thin woman opened the door, and civilly acceded to my request to be shown the castle. The first room was

* The Earl of Derby's domain.

10 NOTES IN ENGLAND.

the housekeeper's kitchen, as clean and bright as possible. Whatever speck of dust might have had the rashness to think of settling on any part of that immaculate kitchen, must at once have hidden its diminished head, after peeping in. It was scrubbed and whitewashed into snow. We followed the dame first into the dining-room. I ought to tell you, however, that this castle was built in 1100, and for five hundred years was possessed by the Cliffords. It was erected, boon after the Norman Conquest, by Robert de Romeli, and was the birthplace of the celebrated Anne Clifford, Countess of Dorset, of Pembroke, and of Montgomery, the lady having married three earls successively with these titles. Cromwell battered it with his guns, when it was garrisoned for Charles I., and we saw the hill where he established these guns. The Countess's last descendant was the Earl of Thanet; and the present possessor is Sir Richard Tufton, who represents the last earl. One portion only is made habitable. The dining-room was lighted at one end by a bow-window, set with small panes. It was hung with crimson and white, and had tables and sideboards of oak, and the ceiling was frescoed in arabesque patterns. From the dining-room we went up a broad staircase into the drawing-room. This was the size of the whole round tower. It was hung with gobelin tapestry, worked by the ladies of the Clifford family. Over the fireplace was a portrait of Oliver Cromwell, in early manhood, a much fairer

SKIPTON CASTLE. 11

and handsomer face of him than I had seen before.

Two portraits of the renowned Countess, one in perfect womanhood and one in old age, also adorned the walls. Opposite the fireplace was a large family picture of the Duke of Cumberland and his Duchess and two sons. These were the father and mother and brothers of the famous Countess. The Duke was in armor, and just taking leave for a battle; and his wife stands pointing to her children, as much as to say, "What will they do without their father?" From the very broad windows of this drawing-room are beautiful views of the hills and country. From the drawing-room we ascended to the state bedchamber. This was quite in disarray. There were some tall folding-doors, leaning against the walls, which once adorned the dining-room, and upon them the. Countess was again painted in full length; and round her, in small size, hung her three husbands. Here also was a little child's portrait, in what looked to have been once a gorgeous dress, holding an apple in his hand. The housekeeper said that his lordship had choked himself to death with that apple; and then she remarked, "He was not very wise!" and soon she added, "He was an idiot." These walls also were hung with gobelin tapestry, representing the various tortures of the Inquisition! What a subject for art! Crowds of monks and nuns were present, the monks and familiars administering the various tortures, and the

12 NOTES IN ENGLAND.

nuns looking on! These tapestries were wrought by nuns. In this room stood a chair of state, a sort of throne once belonging to Mary, Queen of Scots, and so we sat down on it. It was superb once with richly gilded leather and crimson cloth. Two bedsteads, without furniture, stood on one side, and the housekeeper said they were memorable for some-, thing, but she did not know what. No doubt some royal personages had occupied them aforetime. On the floor, against the wall, stood the portrait of a young girl, a sister of Cromwell. We do not know why Cromwell seems to prevail in the castle. Sir Richard Tufton resides mostly in Paris, and is seldom here except for a few days at a time. We then passed through another bedchamber, furnished as if it could be slept in, and with no legend to it; and after a short sojourn again in the dining-room, we proceeded to the more ancient, or rather unmodernized, parts of the castle;--to the guard-room, kitchens, apartments with no distinctive name, and to the vast judgment-hall, where now, once a year, the tenants dine. The fireplace is enormous, and along the entire length was a row of chandeliers to light the revellers. We crept up a narrow, dark stairway to the roof of one tower, and had a splendid view of the whole country. Skipton is in quite a hollow--in an amphitheatre of high hills. From the battlements J---- stooped, and plucked a branch of a tall, old yew-tree (a bit of which I enclose). It is eight hundred years old.

SKIPTON CASTLE. 13

P. S.--It is noon of Saturday the 11th. We have just returned from Bolton Abbey, and are on the wing for York. We passed through an inner court of Skipton Castle, in the centre of which the great ancient yew-tree stands. By the side of it is a very old stone font. Over the pointed arched doors are the escutcheons of the Cliffords and of the Earl of Thanet, carved in stone. Green, damp moss covers the stones of the pavement and the old, old walls. One grander arched doorway opens from what was once the chief entrance, now closed up. We peeped! down the dungeons, but did not descend into them. The castle is lower than any other I have seen, only three stories high!

So we returned to our hotel, and found a glorious fire, and an extraordinary bookcase of books; for these books are choice. There is Pickering's beautiful edition of Spenser, a grand volume of all Scott's poems, including our long-sought Bridal of Triermain; many old standard English works, Sterne,, etc.; American novels too, "The Wide, Wide World," and "Queechy," ah me! and every variety--science, poetry, romance, essays. Good-bye.

14 NOTES IN ENGLAND.

LEEDS, April 11th.

MY DEAR ----:

We arrived at this unlovely town at three, and we have lunched and walked out a few moments, and we have seen a statue of Sir Robert Peel. Everything is grimy in Leeds, and poor Sir Robert looks like a collier. We did not know which way to turn, nothing looking inviting, and so I thought I would write to you, sitting at a very big table, in a very big ladies' saloon. It was a pleasant country from Skipton to Leeds, through the valley of the Aire, a narrow river, which serpentines about so much that we crossed it five or six times. All around are high hills, one of them a picturesque crag, which I thought to be a castle, but found it was only a group of rocks called the Druids' Altar. No more time.

YORK.--The Black-Swan Hotel--8 o'clock, evening. Here we are, then, safe and comfortable in this oldest of cities--rather, this exceeding old city--this walled Roman town, with its glorious Minster, and on the eve of Easter Sunday. We have had "the Queen's weather"* all the time, and the sun shone cheerfully as we drove beneath the great arch under the walls. But now I must go back to Bolton Abbey. We stepped into our barouche at ten. J-----

* As Her Majesty usually has fine weather when she travels or appears on any great day, a fair day is called "the Queen's weather."

THE PRIORY. 15

begged to mount the box with the coachman, so I wrapped him in papa's great gray shawl, and the white horses started on our winding way. We drove by Skipton Castle's strong walls, and I observed the lower part of a tower, with its buttresses at one angle; but the upper portion has fallen. The Yorkshire wolds looked bare and hard after the lovely, soft forms of the southern countries; but they are mostly cultivated, and present delicious, green tints of that golden, sunny shade which we so often see in English lawns.

The orderly stone-walls help to give a hard expression to the country. I hoped there were no such things in England. They look unsympathizing and surly, and as if they bruised nature's fair face. The roads were so up-and-down-wise, that the coachman was perpetually putting on and taking off the drag.

At last we approached the Priory. First we saw an old inn, apparently very old, and called "Devonshire Arms;" but we did not stop there. It was but six miles that we had come, and the horses could perfectly well take us to the Abbey before resting. Therefore we went on, and drew up at the "Hole-in-the-wall." Through this Hole--a rough gateway--we entered the enchanting valley of the Wharfe. It is said to be the loveliest situation, as regards natural beauty, without help from art, which is to be seen in England. It is indeed of wonderful beauty Soft, velvet, rolling lawns, round three parts of

16 NOTES IN ENGLAND.

which flows the Wharfe, quite a broad, clear river. Its banks are high, and on the side opposite the lawns rise into lofty hills, and down one of these a silver waterfall made delicious music. As in all these monastic retreats, we seemed, after entering the gates, in a safe paradise, with the world shut out, and the peace of heaven around us. No sound but of silver waterfalls and songs of birds. How well the old abbots and priors knew where to crystallize their magnificent ideas of state, repose, and worship into stone! Thomas à Kempis might here have written his divine sentences, each one so like a translucent drop of that singing, shining fall--including also the infinite serenity of the lawns, and the slumbering sunshine's dim gold. These lawns went waving far away, till they were lost in a broad gleam of the river, toward the west; and again beyond the river rose the hills, so as to shut all in securely from earthly confusion. The ruins are at the eastern extremity of the site. Of the Abbey, in which the priors and monks lived, not an atom, not a crumb remains standing, except one mighty chimney, with its fireplace. All alone and apart it stands, the hearth-stone even gone.

April 12th.--I did not bring my sketch-book; and, to be sure, if I had, there would not have been time to accomplish anything with the pencil, but yet it seemed impossible to leave the spot without some record. I should like to have drawn each transept, and the beautiful chancel, with its superb, arched

BOLTON PRIORY. 17

window, yet not to be compared to that of Furness Abbey. One or two lovely pinnacles were left in this part, from which the ivy hung in wreaths, with a marvellous grace.

We went to the edge of the banks of the Wharfe to look at the whole effect of the church, and we found the banks delightfully steep, and the river of really good width--a fresh, clear, enchanting river. It is a favorite place for anglers, for of course the monks wished for nice fish for Fridays and Lent, and selected their dwelling-place accordingly. We saw some of the world's young men enter by the "Hole-in-the-wall," with basket and line, and disappear among the rich undulations of the lawn toward the west, while we stood by the church. After examining the ruined chancel and transepts, we found a man to open for us the porch and nave. The nave is still used for services. I saw the most ancient of men, with another more modern-looking person, digging in a small enclosure, and I asked for a showman. The ancient, who was a bundle of wrinkles, held together by a velvet jacket and small-clothes, rested on his spade, and gazed at me out of his queer little eyes, but spoke never a word. He resembled one of the gothic gurgoyles which are carved on the cloisters and at the springing of the arches of cathedrals. A very cheerful, jolly verger came, with his key, from a house quite near the ruin, and a great blemish to the scene. We entered the nave, which is entirely

18 NOTES IN ENGLAND.

peculiar in my experience; for it has columns only on one side, heavy, vast columns,--and but three, supporting almost round arches, so that to me it looked like half a nave, or a church cut down the middle and half gone. Five or six tall windows, filled with brilliantly painted glass, were opposite the columns. The roof was of unceiled, dark oak, with carved, heraldic devices at the crossings of the vaulted arches. Over the altar was an oil-painting of Christ bearing the cross, very poor; and upon the altar hung a heavy, crimson velvet cloth, just like a pall. On one side of the altar was a small chapel, under which bodies were found buried upright. Wordsworth probably referred to this when he sung,

"Look down and see a grisly sight--
A vault, where the corpses are buried upright;
There, face by face, and hand to hand,
The Claphams and Mauleverers stand.
And there, in his place, betwixt son and sire,
Stands John de Clapham, that fierce Esquire,
A valiant man and a man of dread,
In the ruthless wars of the White and Red;
Who dragged Earl Pembroke from Banbury church,
And smote off his head on the stones of the porch."

No other chapel is left entire. There is a part of a piscina remaining in that one. After we had seen everything else, the verger went mysteriously into a private nook, and with tender care brought out two pieces of ancient, painted glass. On one was a lamb, and on the other a dragon. The colors were

BOLTON PRIORY. 19

of wonderful richness, especially the greens, like the soul of an emerald. There was one stain of ruby-red, also very gorgeous, and a yellow, like sunshine. I wish I could have taken at least the lamb; but, dear me! I might as well have laid my head on the block at once. It seems papa was in fear that I would drop this lamb on the stone pavement, at which catastrophe he looked to have the great nave explode, and blow us all into fragments. But both bits were safely restored to their hiding-places, and then we were invited into a tiny vestry, and requested to record our names. The man, with great pride, exhibited to me, in a former volume of names, that of the late queen Adelaide. I asked where Victoria's was, but he said Her Majesty had never been there. In the porch lay several finely sculptured bits of stone, and one of them was beautified with moss in a marvellous manner.

Certainly beauty seems to haunt these old abbeys, and to place her magic finger, in especial love, where decay encroaches. My earnest hope always is that all may remain as now. This church and property, for six miles, belongs to the Duke of Devonshire, and it is a perpetual curacy. He skilfully restores a little at times to keep it extant, and if he would only raze the house I mentioned as being a blemish, and would kindly demolish the modern part of his own hunting-lodge, I could ask no more of him. The centre of this hunting-lodge is the very grand old gateway of the Priory, which

20 NOTES IN ENGLAND.

would look altogether magnificent if it stood alone, as it ought. But the duke has built two wings of apartments, of no particular order of architecture, and of a most impertinent, brave newness. How his grace could be so wanting in taste and sense of fitness, I cannot imagine. If I had been a fairy, with a wand, not one moment longer would those intrusive, yellow wings have spread themselves out on either side the stately gateway, as if to fly away with it. It should again become the entrance to the grounds; and after that were accomplished, my wand should annihilate every trace of the dwelling-house. It was the greatest pity in the world, that we had not time to go to the Strid, a narrow passage rent by the river Wharfe through a bed of solid rock. It was there that the boy Egremont was drowned, of whom Wordsworth speaks in the poem called "The White Doe of Eylstone." Also he has written a poem, "The Force of Prayer; or, the Founding of Bolton Priory," in which is the story of this disaster.

"Young Romilly through Borden Woods
Is ranging high and low;
And holds a greyhound in a leash
To let slip upon buck or doe.
 
"The pair have reached that fearful chasm,
How tempting to bestride!
The lordly Wharfe is there pent in
With rocks on either side.
 
"The Striding-place is called THE STRID,
A name which it took of yore:

BOLTON PRIORY. 21

A thousand years has it borne that name,
And shall a thousand more.
 
"And hither is young Romilly come;
And what may now forbid
That he, perhaps for the hundredth tune,
Shall bound across THE STRID?
 
"He sprang in glee, for what cared he
That the river was strong, and the rocks were steep?
--But the greyhound in the leash hung back,
And checked him in his leap.
 
"The boy is in the arms of Wharfe,
And strangled by a merciless force;
For never more was young Romilly seen
Till he rose a lifeless corse."

And so his mother founded this Priory in memory of her sorrow. The Strid was but a mile from the Abbey, but our hour was spent, and we were obliged to lose it, as well as a ruined fortress of the Cliffords, near by.

Thus we left this paradise through the "Hole-in-the-wall;" and as our barouche had not come, we walked on, and sent J---- to order it to be in readiness at the inn upon our arrival there.

There was a thousand-year-old yew-tree in the. road, with enormous gnarled trunk; and on one side the head of a great lion has grown out--a very perfect head, viewed from one side. The mouth is open, and some wag has put between its gaping jaws a large, flat, oval paving-stone, to represent a tongue. It would be better away, for doubtless the old lion is roaring, and there is no occasion for a

22 NOTES IN ENGLAND

tongue lopping out, like that of a thirsty dog. It looks as if it were cut by art, it is so expressive, and a sort of yellow moss represents the mane.

The carriage met us before we arrived at the inn, and just before a few diamond drops fell through the sunshine. Our carriage was filled up from Skipton to Castlefort. At Castlefort several persons alighted, and at another station we took in a man who told us a great deal. He pointed out to us the beautiful ruins of Kirkstall Abbey, this side of Leeds, very near the railway track. If it ever had seclusion, it is open to the tumult, noise, and grimness of the world now, just on the wayside. What an object was Leeds! Thousands of monumental chimneys belching the blackest, foulest smoke--the atmosphere laden with abominations--multitudes of churches, endeavoring to shoot up their spires and tower above defilement--endless rows of ugly houses for the work-people--not a handsome house for anybody--piles of manufactories, heaps of coal and brick and rubbish of all kinds--and a hopeless look of there being no end to it, and that nothing could ever be clean any more. This was Leeds, as we saw it, till we rushed into an enormous station, and could see nothing else for the present.

Five minutes after four, we came on to York. The country grew very much flatter as we approached the city. Vast plains stretched out on every side, so unvarying, that I began to read the "Illustrated Times." Before this, however, I observed that the

YORK--THE CATHEDRAL. 23

birch-trees had put forth their pale, lovely, green leaves, which rejoiced my heart. I read till I was summoned to see the walls of York, and immediately the train was swallowed up in a station three times as large as that at Leeds. We entered through the Tudor arch. A cabman, with a face exactly like dough just beginning to become bread, still quite white, took us to the "Black Swan," which he affirmed was one of the best York hotels. The Black Swan arches its dusky neck over the door, and the landlady, in trailing black-silk robes, enacted the Black Swan in the hall, and consigned us to a maid, who was to show us our rooms. We had a nice large parlor, with a bow-window; and two chambers contiguous, and a good little dressing-room with a fireplace.

April 13th.--We ordered a sort of dinner-tea, and then walked out on Saturday evening to look at the Cathedral--outside, at least. It is quite near the Black Swan. I was at first disappointed that it was not in the midst of a vast close, like Salisbury Cathedral, because it was nearly impossible to get a complete view of it all at once. It is mighty in size, and needs a respectful distance from which to view it; and I had an idea that its spires pierced the stars, and found that they seemed low in proportion to the extent of the building. Here my growling ends. It is sufficiently magnificent to satisfy any reasonable mortal. York should not have crowded round it so intrusively. On one side only is there

24 NOTES IN ENGLAND

any space, and therein stand the houses of the Dean and of the resident Canon, one of them quite palatial. I think it was the Dean who cleared away this breathing-place, thanks be to his memory. It is wonderful how much these stupendous works owe to individuals. The exterior is all incrusted with sculptures, gurgoyles, and statues. Yet there are innumerable niches and stalls with no statues. Some may have fallen, but some were never filled. I hope a future Archbishop or Dean may fill them all, because it would make it so gorgeously rich. Fretted pinnacles rise from every part, and borders of foliage and arabesque mouldings, and very singular projecting figures--animals and human half-forms, rushing out horizontally like waterspouts. An old man accosted us before the south entrance, and asked us if we had ever seen their fiddler. Thinking he must mean some poor ancient, still alive, we told him we had not time to see him now, it was so late in the evening. "Oh, but you must look at him," he urged, hobbling along before us; and when we were at the right spot, he turned and pointed to the highest pinnacle over the marigold window. There, to be sure, in remote solitude, stood the fiddler, with his fiddle snug under his left ear, and the bow in his right hand. I do not know how many feet he really measures, but he looks about eighteen inches high. "Many a person comes to York," said the old man, "who never sees the fiddler."

So, then, we came home to dinner, and were served

YORK MINSTER. 25

by a grave butler, instead of by a maid as at Skipton; having been received at the door, also, by a youthful waiter with immaculate neck-tie, shining hair, and spotless black body-coat.

The Black Swan haunts the hall and staircases, and whenever I meet her she says some polite thing; but she is not lovely, and I think she makes even the grave butler hop and run sometimes; for she is evidently a fierce swan, beneath her folding shawl and and long train.

We were requested, of course, to write our names in a book; and behold, we found the names of two or three hundred Americans in it;--the Nortons of Cambridge, the Quincys and Wares and Waterstons, Mr. Frank Peabody of Salem, and multitudes of New York people, and others. Finally, we found that it was a book for American names only, and no English ones at all were admitted.

On Easter Sunday, then, we went to York Minster at half-past ten. I had time hardly to cast a hurried glance before a verger took possession of us, and asked if we wished to attend the services. As this was what we came all the way to York to do, we said "Yes," and he took us into the choir, beneath the superb stone screen, over which is the grand organ.

But now we are off for Manchester, where I will write you the rest of our experiences.

2

26 NOTES IN ENGLAND.

MANCHESTER, April 13th. PALATINE HOTEL.

WE arrived in this great emporium of soot and mire at a quarter to eight. It is after nine now, and we have taken tea, and J---- has retired, "twice homesick," as he said. I suppose he meant, once after his anemones, and once after you and baby. This is a giant hotel, so far as I could see in the dusk, and there was a perfect bouquet of waiters, in white cravats, blooming in the lobby and hall as we entered. But I must return to the choir of York Minster, where I left you this morning.

The old verger said I must go one way and papa another, and he proceeded to put- me into a nice, cushioned seat, close by the choristers. But I told him I had a very noisy cough, and preferred not to sit where I might disturb the dignitaries and worshippers; so he allowed me to go my own way, which was far along toward the high altar, where I sat down in full view of the whole assembly, and in a much better position to hear the music. I did not see what was done with papa for a great while. It was fifteen minutes before the sermon began, and so I had time to gaze about me. The choir is very beautiful--the tabernacle-work and stalls of richly-carved oak, but modern, because the ancient choir was burnt in 1829. It is not to be compared now to the tabernacle-work of the choir of Chester Cathedral. That came out of the love and souls of the carvers, who made it an act of devotion. Still, ex-

YORK MINSTER. 27

ceedingly beautiful, however, looking like climbing flames, as it always does. The organ, exactly opposite me, was one large cluster of aspiring pinnacles, of the same rich oak as the stalls, and of the same design. There is no appearance of an organist, or of human agency about that instrument. I did see a man hover for a moment in a gallery on one side of it, but he was instantly swallowed up in the blazing spires. It is much better so, than to see any one laboring away to produce the sound of soft recorders, or of jubilee or thunder, as the case may be. Every finely-sculptured point of the thousand ascending upward, seemed to quiver with praise and thanksgiving. The cathedral itself burst forth in anthems.

Not quite half-way between us and the organ were, on one side, the pulpit where the Canon preaches, and on the other, the archbishop's throne. It is St. Peter's church, and on the crimson velvet drapery of the pulpit the keys were embroidered in gold. The pulpit and throne were of carved oak, of the same tabernacle-work, as light and airy as fire. A screen, of the same delicately-sculptured oak, shut in the whole central aisle of the choir from the side aisles, the pointed, narrow arches being filled with the finest plate-glass, so that when the heavy crimson-cloth curtain fell, like a portcullis, from the upper groove of the entrance, a really comprehensible space was enclosed, provided one did not look upward; for then the lofty vaulting,

28 NOTES IN ENGLAND.

higher even than that of the nave, suggested ideas of the incomprehensible infinite, dissipating the sense of snugness forever. Directly behind the altar, a stone screen completed the enclosure, and also obstructed the view of the east window. But with that I had nothing to do then.

At last the intoning of the usual service began, and the young choristers mingled their clear, airy voices. I do not know as I can give you any idea of the effect of the echoes in those spaces. Every tone was, as it were, the root or stem of a mighty tree of multitudinous branches of sound, which, as it issued from the lips, was taken up by the vast arches and lofty vaultings, as the tree expands into the heavens, and the echoes of the echoes were like a thousand birds singing on the branches. In the branches, musical winds mingled with the bird-songs, making soft thunder of the leaves, rising, falling, spreading, intervolving, receding, and again returning in full, broad diapason. I had no book with which to follow the clergyman and people, and perhaps it was better so. The majestic minster was "instant in prayer," and jubilant with praise. Man did a little, but the cathedral effected far more. The chanting of young boys is unlike any other sound in the world. It is not at all like women's voices, though sweet and delicate like their sweetest and most delicate tones. It is that and something more. I always wonder if it is not like angels' voices. The anthems of joy for the resurrection

YORK MINSTER. 29

were most glorious. All at once one of the vergers came from the choir, with a silver mace on his shoulder, preceding a personage whom I supposed to be the Archbishop, for, as it was Easter Sunday, he must be there. This priest had a Roman profile,--was tall, and dressed in white, with the black mantle, or, I should say, in a dalmatica and stole. Two others followed him in the same costume. They came toward the altar, and passed me as they went to the communion-table.

The verger saw I had no book, and gave me one; and a portion of the Holy Communion service was read by the tall and reverend person, whom I took for the Secundate of all England (the Archbishop of Canterbury being the Primate). His voice was not good; but the echoes took the words, as always, and glorified the intonations. Another, perhaps the Dean, now repeated a prayer, and his accents were nobler, and produced a grander reverberation. When he had finished, another anthem burst forth, and this was the most wonderful of all. It was a wailing of plaintive sorrow, as if expressing the Passion of Christ; and when he "gave up the ghost," the cathedral was filled with thunder,--rolling from the organ as from a cloud, and then caught up and repeated, folding and unfolding afar off--scarcely dying away before another peal from the organ again rolled forth. So with soft, pathetic plainings, and deep, thunderous moans, his passion, crucifixion, and death were sung; but when he rose! the

30 NOTES IN ENGLAND.

whole power of joy and triumph was expressed by voice and instrument. The magnificent, painted windows blazed anew with their rainbow colors, and it was all light, splendor, hope, and joy. This should have closed the services, for there was nothing more appropriately to be done. But now the verger attended the Archbishop to the pulpit, and he began to preach! And since he presumed to speak, one would think that on such a day, in such a cathedral, exalted by such music, he might have spoken inspired words. But, alas! it was the emptiest, flattest, stupidest sermon that ever was pronounced, though the theme, of course, was the Resurrection. This heavy exordium lasted about twenty minutes. Any one of the glorious windows, full of saints and prophets in crimson and gold and emerald, preached a more edifying sermon, and I endeavored to get what good I. could from those I could see; but the discourse came to an end, and we came forth into the nave, and met papa, who had been put into one of the prebend's stalls.

We could not be shown the cathedral on Sunday, and therefore we came home. I ought to say that the Archbishop of York, I find, was not there, and that it was a Canon who addressed the people, and had the Roman profile.

LINCOLN CATHEDRAL. 31

May 22d.

HERE we are, safely arrived in this old cathedral city, after about seven hours' rush from your presence at the Southport station. Fancy how beautiful it was the moment we left the frowsy sand-hills of our seaside, and found ourselves in the verdant country, in this first bloom of its spring. The wonderful variety of the tints of green is always most apparent when the leaves first unfold. To say that the fields and trees were green, gives no idea of the endless shades of color, from the yellowish, callow tint, which seems to imprison the sunbeams, deepening through emerald, up to the solemn cypress hue of the spruces and pines, with all the possible cadences from first to last. The late rains have freshened the fields and meadows and hillsides into utmost perfection. The dry, old sand vanished away entirely; and I was just thinking that there was no color so grateful and lovely as green, when a flush of purple suddenly spread over the face of the land from tens of thousands of wild hyacinths, on both sides the railway-track, ringing out perfume with all their bells.

What delicious fragrance must have filled the air around them! but we poor prisoners of steam and

32 NOTES IN ENGLAND.

cinders, could have no benefit of hyacinthine odors. Very soon the golden gorse began to glow over the banks, and a red flower, whose name I do not know, while daisies faithfully starred the earth on every side, with our dear old dandelion and wild pink, to remind me of the Wayside and America. Presently we coursed along by a canal, the Leeds and Liverpool Canal, pretty and picturesque now, because winding between trees and flowers, and once in a while passing beneath a perfect little stone bridge, of one symmetrical arch, so forever beautiful, that every time I see one of the hundreds that span the narrow rivers and canals of England, I am in a new delight.

We were delayed in a very tiresome way just before entering Manchester, and feared we should lose the train for Lincoln. The railroad directors announced that they would never promise to arrive at appointed times, nor to be responsible for any accident or loss.

We at last dawdled along to the station, and when the carriages fairly stopped, we rushed into a fly and dashed off to the London depot.

LINCOLN--May 23d.--In all the great cities of England, Saturday evening is a kind of festival, and so it is here. The shops are brilliantly lighted, and the street is thronged with the poorer classes, going to buy their next week's groceries and provisions, and all talking together. Each one has a basket,

LINCOLN CATHEDRAL. 33

and not only the sidewalks, but the middle of the street, are crowded with human beings. There is a particular Saturday evening market in Lincoln, besides that the shops keep open late. Out of the line of my vision, but within hearing, as I sat, a violin and fife struck up a prelude, and then a fine, manly voice sang several songs very well.

Just now a band of music came up, and we ran to the window, thinking we might see a military company; but it was only the brass-instrument-players, and they stopped just opposite us, and performed two pieces of music, one of them an andante of Beethoven. The crowd grew dense around them instantly, and I think it was for the entertainment of the crowd that they were playing. It was most refreshing and delicious to me, always so starved for music, and to hear a strain of Beethoven was a boon I did not look for.

Soon after the band went away, a street-preacher or a madman began to hold forth, and then the musicians returned with a triumphal march, and passed off toward the cathedral. It is of the cathedral I must now tell you. It rained this morning, and there was a dreary east wind, and so we ordered a fly to take us up the steep hill, to visit the interior of the magnificent fane.

The coachman drove us up a winding way instead of the perpendicular road. Unlike all the other cathedrals we have visited, every gate was locked, so that we could not even go into the nave without

2*

34 NOTES IN ENGLAND.

an attendant. A girl came at last and unfastened a door, and we followed her into the southern aisle of the west front.

The width of the west front is 174 feet, covered with arched and pointed doorways, arcades, canopies, niches, mullioned windows, architrave mouldings, and foliage. On each side of the two smaller entrance doors, in niches, are sculptures of Saxon times. One represents the Angel expelling Adam and Eve from Paradise--another, the spirits of the just going up to heaven, and the unjust led by Cerberus to the Styx, with friars and nuns and monsters. Something like Noah's Ark is in one; and in another, Daniel in the lions' den.

We entered the right-hand smaller door. Alas! what can poor mortals say or do, when they enter one of these sublime cathedrals? To be silent seems the only appropriate part, yet I must try to give you an idea, as you are not here to see and be silent with me. Twelve clustered columns bear up the roof of stone, six on each side--no--sixteen; eight on each side--for I should count the two which support the middle Hood-tower. They are unfortunately covered with a kind of plaster and yellow wash, but are really made of Purbeck marble, like those columns and pediments of the beautiful church of the Temple in London. It is composed of shells, and the tint is mixed; but the effect is a purplish, pinkish, rich brown, capable of the highest polish. We did not think of the detail, however, at first, or how

LINCOLN CATHEDRAL. 35

gorgeous it once was in color. Those vast spaces satisfy, with the gothic forms--the trefoil-headed arches on the walls of the side-aisles, arches beyond and above arches, some pointed like a flame, others rounded for variety--just as in nature no two leaves or flowers are precisely alike. Gothic sculpture and architecture, I think, represent and reproduce Nature, and Grecian architecture seems to be Art. One is Love, Passion, and Aspiration, and the other Intellect, Thought, and also Beauty--for by both forms we arrive at Beauty. The Gothic is affectional and struggling, and the Grecian is philosophic and reposeful. But I must hasten after my verger. He did not allow us to dream in the nave. He first discoursed about the tabernacle-work in the choir. He said each stall was different from all the others in its canopy, and there are sixty-two! They are of dark oak, and every imaginable leaf and flower are interwoven in the tracery. The seats of the vicara are more superb still, having kings carved on them, and angels, with dulcimers, harps, and viols. The bishop's throne is a very simple matter, less stately than any ecclesiastical throne I have seen. The chancel is beautiful, with an extraordinary double-arched gallery, involved in a bewildering harmony, like different tones in music mingled together. I wish I could have had time to sketch it, as it is considered the greatest beauty of the cathedral. In the spandrels of the arches are thirty statues, many of them with musical instruments--the harp, rebeck.

36 NOTES IN ENGLAND.

cithern, tabor, pipe, and trumpet; and the verger said they were called the choir of angels. On one side of the altar is the tomb of the monk Remegius, who founded the minster. He was a Norman, and a man remarkable for piety, charity, and intellect. It was consecrated "to the Virgin of Virgins," in the twelfth century, time of William Rufus, who, you know, succeeded William the Conqueror. A Druidical temple stood on the site in the early British era, and afterward a Roman temple, when the Romans occupied the hill as a military station. It was called the Roman Lindum. Near Remegius is also the cenotaph of Bloet, who stands blowing a trumpet on one of the pinnacles of the west front, and there are three or four fine figures of soldiers guarding the sepulchre. The verger said that Flaxman very much liked these watching figures. Opposite are the tombs of Katharine de Swinford, wife of John of Gaunt, and sister of the poet Chaucer, and at her feet is the sarcophagus of her daughter Joan, Countess of Westmoreland. In the aisle, on the southern side, is an illuminated window, containing the names of all the Chancellors from 1092 to 1728; and beneath is a little chapel, called St. Katharine's, founded by Bishop Longland, and containing his buried heart.

The cathedral is rich in little chapels, which give great variety to the exterior of the edifice. Henry of Huntingdon, the historian, is interred near Katharine de Swinford. Before Bishop Heming's

LINCOLN CATHEDRAL. 37

chapel, opposite the presbytery, is a sculptured figure of Death, lying in a shroud, which the Bishop put there to remind him of mortality, when he went to his private devotions. It is said also to commemorate his fast; for he tried to fast forty days and nights, and died in the effort. Inside is his tomb, and his figure, sculptured in his pontifical robes. He was the founder of Lincoln College, Oxford. The great East window is of modern-painted glass, with altogether too much blue in_it, I think. It represents the prophesied advent, and the life of Christ. The Lady-chapel is beneath it, and here we saw a rich stone, elaborately-carved shrine, upon which once stood "the Virgin of Virgins," holding the infant Saviour; and just before it, a deep place is worn in the stone pavement, by the motion of the foot in making obeisance for ages. The statue is gone, the worship of "Our Lady" has almost passed away from the land; but the deep print of homage is left indelible.

In this sacred place was great spoil for Henry the Eighth. Tens of thousands of ounces of gold and silver were taken from this spot, and diamonds and other precious stones, which had been brought as offerings to the Virgin. And first Henry, and then Cromwell, struck off the heads of the statues, after quite demolishing Mary; and one poor knight is cut exactly in halves, besides being decapitated. Bitterly did the verger speak of the Lord Protector. He believed the soldiers were paid for every statue

38 NOTES IN ENGLAND.

they destroyed, until this was found too costly a bargain, and so ruin ceased to get a premium. Cromwell had a particular fancy for stabling his horses in the naves of cathedrals; and here they stamped on the splendid brass tablets which paved the whole broad floor; and then he took possession of all the brasses. So that the present pavement is of plain stone, and modern. I cannot forgive Cromwell for such stupid destruction. But he thought he was obeying the command, "Thou shalt have no graven images," and in this spirit, it was perhaps proper to demolish the Virgin; not, however, the lords, and knights, and gentlemen, who slept quietly in stone on their monuments, and whom no one dreamed of worshipping.

In Our Lady's Chapel are buried, singularly enough, the viscera of Queen Eleanor, the beloved wife of Edward I., and Edward built the chapel. On the tomb of one Bishop Burghersh are carved very graceful, but now headless, male and female figures, in alto-relievo. The attitudes and drapery are studies, and I wish I could have copied even one. Its date is 1340. There were sometimes shrines of pure gold for canonized saints, and St. Hugh's was one of these. It went into King Henry's coffers, and only his stone shrine remains, which is that upon which once stood the Virgin. In passing along the aisles, the verger called our attention to the lovely carvings in unexpected places,--carvings in the solid stone walls. Sometimes it would be of

LINCOLN CATHEDRAL. 39

the hawthorn, with a blossom in the centre of four leaves; sometimes it was the oak and acorn. Some monk of a sculptor, while walking along in meditative mood, would seem to have pulled out his chisel, and commenced and finished cutting an interwoven wreath of plant and bloom, in such entire relief, that the whole group merely touches in pin-points the wall of which it was just now a solid portion, without life or grace. And these are formed into arches, and often a cluster of perfect forms suddenly blossoms at the springing of an arch, where you are looking for 'no such delight; for there really seems only individual will in each of the productions. I can imagine these often idle and cultivated and fanciful priests, dreaming with the chisel wherever in the vast spaces they chose to use it, just to fill the time and keep out of mischief. What lovely and immortal play!

In Mary Magdalene's Chapel is the very ancient font, so large that the infant could have been immersed in it. Outside are griffins and birds--and the outer basin is square; but a round scoop is made inside, and it stands on four columns. It was in the original church of St. Remegius, and once stood in the south aisle of the nave.

We now left the chancel, and went into the cloisters. They are in good preservation; and whose tomb do you think we saw on the pavement? It was that of Elizabeth Penrose--your good friend, Mrs. Markham. J---- was astonished, not only to

40 NOTES IN ENGLAND.

stand on her grave, but to find that Mrs. Markham's real name was Elizabeth Penrose.

The symmetry of the quadrangle is spoiled by two things. One is an innovation of Sir Christopher Wren, who built the cathedral library on one side, and encroached on the lawn. How he could have done it, or how he could have been allowed to do it, I cannot conjecture. So perfect and grand is the general harmony that a dissonance positively tortures one. But underneath this library is one of the finest views of the exterior of the whole structure. From that point it is not possible to see any end or beginning to the enormous fabric, and it does indeed look like a city, with its pinnacles and towers, and chapels and buttresses, rising on every side. The other blemish is the ugliest possible little shanty of brick and stone in one corner of the lawn. The verger unlocked it, and we entered. There, to be sure, was the famous Roman pavement, supposed to be the floor of a bath. It is exceedingly curious and interesting, but not beautiful. It is made of innumerable little cylinders of variously colored clay, laid in patterns; and from the gallery over which we leaned to look at it, it had the appearance of the painting upon oil-cloth carpets. There was a dressing-room as well as a bathing-room. The Romans were established on the hill, which commands a fine view of the city and Lincolnshire. So, then, without any manner of doubt,

LINCOLN CATHEDRAL. 41

we examined an old Roman construction of at least two thousand years ago.

I could have stood all day, and many days, gazing from that sheltered quadrangle upon the glorious cathedral. It is so delightfully lawless and unreckonable in its forms. It is something like a sudden upleaping of numberless fountains, each reaching a different height, full of flowers, saints, and all kind of cunning devices, crystallized in mid-air by the wand of a magician, dripping solid splendor on every side. And I was only looking at the northern part, which by no means resembled the others.

From the cloisters we went into the chapter-house. Like the restored chapter-house of Salisbury, it is supported by one column of clustered shafts, throwing out the roof like so many branches of a tree; but unlike that gorgeous restoration, there are no rainbow colors now. This cathedral was all jewelled with color in its first era, but either Henry or Cromwell daubed everything over with white or yellow wash. Where the wash is rubbed, it is easy to discover faint blue and red tints still. Once these temples must have seemed cleared "forests primeval," gemmed and laced with flowers. The verger said visitors sometimes expressed that they were glad the colors were gone. Those persons must be very cool philosophers, risen into the calm of thought. But while love exists I pray to have ruby red, heaven's blue, and golden yellow, with every intermediate

42 NOTES IN ENGLAND.

hue. I am a devoted lover of pure form, but these cathedrals have developed in me another taste, also legitimate; for flowers and rainbows are also parts of creation, and it is designed that we should enjoy them before we are angels. Yet the angels--does not St. John say that the walls of the new Jerusalem which "descended out of the heaven of God" were garnished with all manner of precious stones--jasper, sapphire, chalcedony, emerald, sardonyx, sardius, chrysolite, beryl, topaz, chrysoprase, jacinth, and amethyst, while the gates were of pearl. The angels, then, are not above color, though the gray-souled visitors to churches are.

The roof of the chapter-house is of stone, and every window was once filled with illuminated glass, but that is gone and plain is substituted. Lately this decagonal building has been strengthened, because the excessive weight of the roof was pushing out the sides. It is all in good repair.

I have forgotten to say that we saw a veritable Roman altar, with an inscription, inside the cathedral, as well as the shrine of little St. Hugh, a child said to have been crucified by the Jews in derision of the infant Christ, and afterward buried here as a martyr. A stone coffin, with a child's bones, was really found, as a verification of the legend.

But I must close this long story now, and commence again for another mail. We shall go to the original old Boston to-morrow.

LINCOLN CATHEDRAL. 43

May 24th.--I have not yet left the cathedral. I told you last of the Chapter-house. After seeing that, the verger brought us into the great transept. "This always points north and south, and the nave, choir, chancel (or presbytery), and Lady-chapel face east and west. Above the centre of the great transept rises the Rood tower (rood means cross), containing the famous Tom of Lincoln, the mighty bell. This tower is three hundred feet high, the highest without a spire in the kingdom, and its enormous weight is supported by four beautiful and very lofty arches. They have a slender elegance, which seems quite inadequate to so much effective effort. Yet there rises and rests the noble tower safe and serene.

Beneath the arch that opens upon the choir, (exactly opposite the west-entrance door,) is the organ, over the usual stone screen. This screen is unspeakably rich in sculpture, in high and low relief. I am sure these carvings must have been acts of devotion, but yet this workmanship is supposed to be that of professed artists, hired for the purpose. High up in the curve of the southern end of the transept is a rose-window. It is exceedingly large, and instead of haying sashes in a regular form, such as star-shaped, or tangents, or right-angles, or any other angles, some lover of what Ruskin calls "the immortal curve" designed the sashes in an arabesque or acanthus pattern, which I would have given the verger or my left hand to have had a

44 NOTES IN ENGLAND.

chance to sketch. Upon all the glass inserted in this wilderness of enchanting, waving, curling lines, contained within a perfect circle, are colors as fresh and gorgeous as if just born of prisms; and at first glance I thought they were flowers--of paradise, certainly--but flowers. Then they seemed to be saints--and saints may be called the flowers of holiness, perhaps; but the window was too high for me to decide, and the verger did not know. Each tint was a gem of purest ray, ruby, emerald, and all the royal fraternity. When dazzled with the splendor, one can follow the "immortal curves" of the sashes, and when weary of imagining whither, in infinity, the curves lead, there remains the circle enclosing all, the satisfying emblem of Eternity.

There is a tradition about this wonderful, celestial bouquet of either flowers or saints. It is that the master-artist undertook to produce the northern rose-window, while the apprentice was appointed to execute the southern one. Curtains hung before each, till both were finished. And when the southern rose was unveiled to the eyes of the master, in despair at its eminent superiority to his own, he threw himself upon the pavement beneath and died. A stain of blood is shown upon the stones. This is the same kind of story as that of the peerless column in Roslyn Chapel. But the master's window is also beautiful. It represents the Church on earth and the Church in heaven, and is said to be the most perfect work of the thirteenth century.

LINCOLN CATHEDRAL. 45

Almost all the old stained-glass of the cathedral was ignorantly destroyed at the Reformation, and during the civil wars, probably because of the saints pictured on them. But the verger said that it was now a decree of the Chapter, that no tributary monument should be henceforth erected to the dead, excepting emblematic, painted-glass windows. Is not this good? Four new ones are already put in, and slowly, I suppose, all will be accomplished. These four are in the southern aisle of the nave.

While we were in the Lady-chapel, Great Tom tolled twelve o'clock, with a grand, majestic, thunderous sound, solemn and slow too, and most tuneful as well. It is in the key A, and is a fit voice for the magnificent minster, and seems to thrill through every atom of its frame. Old Tom was considered finer in tone and more powerful even than this, and was dearly loved by Lincoln. But one morning the city was startled by a strange dissonance in its beloved bell. Upon examination, it was found to have a fissure on its rim. No patching would serve, so it was broken up, and six lady-bells were added to it, and new Tom was made of all, melted together.

The south end of the great transept has two aisles, and opening from the western aisle, which would be parallel to the west façade, is what is called a Galilee, a superb porch of very large size. It is not used now for its original purpose; but it was the place where penitents on trial stood, before being allowed to commune again with the church-

46 NOTES IN ENGLAND.

members--a kind of sinners' ante-room, which it was humiliating to pass through. Women were allowed there only to see the monks who were their relatives; and in some cathedrals females were not permitted to attend divine service except in the Galilee. This has been repaired lately, and is as rich as possible in pinnacles, arches, and flowers, outside. At the north end of the central transept, beneath the master's rose-window, is an arched door, which is the private entrance of the Dean. Two narrow, tall lights are over it, filled with old, stained glass. The Lord Bishop's entrance is through the southeast porch, on one side of the chancel. It is gorgeous in decoration. Over the door, Christ sits as judge, with his angels. Lovely garlands of flowers and leaves, and little statues, some still intact, others headless, cover the vaulted roof. The Virgin and Infant once stood on the middle pier, but that group is of course destroyed, and four bishops stand beheaded, without trial, at the entrance.

You perceive we have said farewell to the verger, and are looking at the exterior again now. The whole eastern side is of exquisite beauty, with its gables and double buttresses, filled with slender pillars and pointed arches and brackets, upon which statues stand and stood, with finely-wrought canopies overhead--the stone changed into airy lace. On the tips of the buttresses are pinnacles, octagons with spires, so you can imagine how it must flame. The stone is heavy nowhere. It is made light as

LINCOLN CATHEDRAL. 47

fire and air with cunning handiwork. I am afraid I have said "light as fire" once before, in describing York Minster, but I can think of no other simile that suits either case so well.

When we left this wonder of art, we walked about the high plain upon which it is erected, to see the castle and Roman arch and wall. The gateway of the castle, the keep, and part of the walls, are all that remain. The Conqueror built it. It was one of the four great castles he built when he first took possession. It must have been grand. The lower part of the huge keep stands crowned with ivy, with beautiful shrubbery and trees springing up round the base, and up the steep mound upon which it rests.

The castle entrance has a ruined look, for it was too well battered in Cromwell's wars, by the Earl of Manchester. John of Gaunt, "time-honored Lancaster," made it his winter residence; and the walls enclose nearly seven acres.

When William the Conqueror commenced this fortress, he also began the cathedral, and the cathedral alone seems to have been enclosed in walls; for several massive stone gates still stand, and one of them is exactly opposite the west front.

The Roman arch of which I just now spoke is considered the best relic of Roman work in England. It has already survived two thousand years or more, and looks as if it might last indefinitely. It is peculiar in having no key-stone.

48 NOTES IN ENGLAND.

There was once a great parallelogram of wall, of which this was one of the gates, but all the other gates are demolished, and the only bit of original wall left standing is in the middle of a garden, carefully palisaded round for safekeeping. This remnant is in a line with the foregoing archway that I have slightly sketched. Violence, and not time, has destroyed these stern and earnest fabrics. Roman streets, hard now as iron, have been discovered by digging down into the soil about Lincoln. I really believe that it is what there is Roman, stereotyped into the English, which makes them also build so strongly. We walked all round the castle, after faithfully examining the famous archway, and then J---- was hungry, and went into the funniest little old shop that ever was seen, kept by an ancient man, and bought some gingerbread, an acre of it, I should think, "and munched and munched," as Macbeth's witches say. I have no doubt that old shop was built of the wrecks of the Roman walls, and I am not sure that the old man was not himself an eternal old Roman.

The town of Lincoln lies in a great plain at the foot of the hill; but it was so misty that day that we could not see it well, and the wind was bitterly cold, so that I was obliged to come home.

We descended Steep-street into Guildhall, and came through Stone Bow, another solid arch at the head of High-street, and close by our hotel, the Saracen's Head. This was, probably, a work of the

LINCOLN CATHEDRAL. 49

Conqueror, and it may be Roman, for the Romans extended their city down into the plain.

This morning there was a pouring rain, but it cleared at noon, and at five we took our drive of two hours. We first mounted the storied hill, and slowly went round the cathedral, and round Colonel Sibthorpe's Bede-houses--charitable institutions for women--and along a road, from which we had a fine view of the city, and the country, to a far distance. Then we returned, and drove to the cemetery, and over the common, from which the hill made a stately picture, crowned with cathedral and castle. We also passed by John of Gaunt's stables, a very interesting ruin, with fine carved work.

Near this is the site of his summer palace. Then we drove to the race-course. The wind was west, and the green enchanting, and we enjoyed ourselves very much. Coming home, we passed a choice gem called now St. Mary's Conduit. It was once a shrine, and it is covered with delicate sculpture and canopies. It was so wonderfully beautiful that I wish I could have carefully drawn it. It was erected in the time of Edward I. by Ranulphus de Kyme. I will just give you an idea of its form, and end off Lincoln.

3

50

III
OLD BOSTON AND ST. BOTOLPH'S.

BOSTON, LINCOLNSHIRE, May 26th, 1857.

DOES not it look delightfully to see the name of that beloved city for my date? But this original old town is not in the least like our "Athens." It is perfectly flat, and boasts of but one single thing, but this is very handsome. It is the ancient church of St. Botolph. Botolph's town was the name now contracted into Boston. By pronouncing it very quickly, you can see how it might be, especially if you will recall the style in which the English guards announce names to us railroad travellers. Their idea seems to be to utter the word at high-pressure speed, in imitation of steam-rate of progress. But I must not arrive in Boston as if I were a pigeon. I must tell you how we came. One of the waiters at the Saracen's Head told us on Monday morning that there was a steamboat which went to Boston from Lincoln at ten o'clock, along the river Witham, and that it was a nice boat, and the scenery was very beautiful on the banks of the river. It was a fine morning, and we thought it would be a great relief from rail carriages to glide down a lovely river in the sunshine, even though it should take five hours, instead of one hour by rail. Before ten, we drove to the river-banks, and there were multitudes of boats moored, each one, as we passed, looking

OLD BOSTON AND ST. BOTOLPH'S. 51

too bad to enter. But at last the carriage stopped at a rather miserable craft, though with a better quarter-deck than the others possessed. It was a small steamer, and not nearly so large nor so good as the Mersey boats, in which we crossed to Liverpool from Rock Ferry. The sunshine, however, and the prospect of the enchanting scenes through which we were to pass, kept up our spirits and hopes. The waiter who tempted us to this excursion looked like Mr. F----, and so I gave him credit for taste and appreciation, and confided in him blindly and madly. We were about a year (spiritually) in getting off. There was but one other passenger besides ourselves on the first-class deck. It was a woman, but not a lady--a round, solid old body, of the middle order. Papa explored for a cabin in case it should rain, and reported that there was one, but he could not paint it in glowing colors, though he wished to be encouraging. Finally we commenced our voyage; but were immediately brought up by a lock, and locks kept recurring all along, the river being turned into a canal, for the sake of toll, I presume, or to try the patience of passengers. Each lock it took centuries to unlock, and the slowness of the descent of the water can be compared only to the motion of the fixed stars, at which we gaze, and perceive no motion. Meanwhile, no "plains of Shinar," no "gardens of the Lord," no Arcadys, nor lordly parks, nor cloud-capped Mount Idas with sad, wandering OEnones and gay deceiving Parises, met our waiting

52 NOTES IN ENGLAND.

eyes. The fens, the fens of Lincolnshire,--the flats, the flats, the flats, spread drearily, east, west, north, and south. The wind also blew a strong gale ahead, and finally, very soon after starting indeed, it began to rain. I immediately was obliged to go down into the Plutonic regions. I found there a woman, whose house seemed the boat, sewing busily, in the narrowest of cabins. If we had taken the rail, we should have arrived in Boston by that time, so I had plenty of food for long-suffering and patience. I had a chance to be good under difficulties. I talked to the woman, and asked her for a book, but she had none. I sat still awhile, and then tried to see our way from a wee window in the stern, netted over with iron. Still one dreary flat, on both sides, and before, stretched without end.

I ought to tell you that though around and before us was nothing but fens, yet behind us, for four hours, rose up Lincoln Cathedral, taking every form as we wound along, sometimes looking like a mighty castle, narrow and lofty. When an hour distant, it was exceedingly grand and beautiful as a cathedral, much the finest view we had had of it. Very well did the Cæsars of Rome know where to take a stand, and the Conqueror wisely followed their steps.

We passed the towns of Washingborough and Bardney. And we had one advantage by being in a quiet boat instead of in a noisy carriage, for we could hear the skylarks! These delicious little raptures condescended to rise from the fens, as well as

OLD BOSTON AND ST. BOTOLPH'S. 53

from lovelier fields and meadows, and they were indeed a solace.

We were excessively delayed by taking up passengers from the banks, for it was no small trouble to stop the steamer, and get near enough to the land. Once the captain was very wroth, Because a young clown was waiting on the margin, with a huge pile of broom to be taken in. I could not well understand why he gave himself the trouble, when it seemed so against his will. It was much against mine, for we were delayed half an hour by it; and our feelings were constantly aggravated by perceiving that the railroad, for the whole distance, ran close alongside the river, so that we could have seen the country as well in the carriages as on the water, and in one-seventh of the time, which would have been long enough, since there was nothing to see. The little birds alighted on the telegraph wires, which stretched all the way, and I wondered what effect their tiny feet might have on the messages that were shooting by. At last I saw a pretty tower of a church, and a very tall structure by it, and I asked the captain what town it was. It was Tattershall church, castle, and town. The castle was built by Sir Richard Cromwell. Tattershall Castle and a pretty bridge with three arches, called also Tattershall Bridge, were the only picturesque objects we saw. The castle was buried in trees, so that we could not see the base of it.

Whenever we went under a bridge, the captain

54 NOTES IN ENGLAND.

lowered his funnel,--not in the way of bowing civilly to the bridge, but jerking it backward, in an intractable, defying manner.

After six hours and a half, we beheld a wonderful tower in the distance, and simultaneously the captain came to take the fare. We were much diverted that he asked only four shillings for us three. The lofty tower proved to be that of St. Botolph's Church in Boston. Afar, it looks strangely out of proportion to the building, but the nearer we approached, the better it justified itself.

When we arrived in port, the captain sent for a fly, and a very nice one took us to the best hotel in town, called the Peacock, Market Square. The most solemn of all England's solemn butlers, or head-waiters, received us at the door. Papa called him a Puritan; and perhaps he is; but such an iron, utterly unmalleable grimness of soberness I never beheld on any face. All footmen and waiters are bound to solemnity; but generally one can discern the possibility of a smile, or even of a good laugh in the servants' hall or behind a napkin. But some terrific discipline has banished all tendency or desire for mirth from this man's soul. His mouth is drawn down with an everlasting resolution that he will not be glad, and it also declares that he cannot be jolly. I marvel at his inward history--what it can be. But perhaps he only sincerely believes that all men are condemned to eternal misery, except a few of the elect; and if a person can really

OLD BOSTON AND ST. BOTOLPH'S 55

think this, I do not wonder that he will never smile again. I am afraid he is very sorry for something.

He ushered us into a little parlor, like a closet, and I cried out against it emphatically, and told him we must have a larger room. He looked a look of ice and stone at me, and replied that there was no other disengaged. Not a ray of sympathy or concern lighted a line of his face. Finding me unmanageable, he said he would call the landlady.

Enter a jolly dame, all smiles, courtesies, and shining black eyes. She expressed regret, and thought we could have more spacious apartments after dinner. I found, however, I could see St. Botolph's Church from the window, and so we accepted our destiny with patience. After tea, we walked out all around it, and found it exceedingly beautiful, and were surprised by a kind of cathedral stateliness it has, yet it is not quite half as long as Lincoln or York Minsters. Lincoln is five hundred and twenty-four feet in length. The tower is three hundred feet high, and those slender pinnacles on the summit of the lantern are each as large as the parlor in which I sit. They are repairing a chapel, in which is to be placed the memorial to Mr. John Cotton, former Vicar of St. Botolph, who went to Boston, Massachusetts, because he dissented from his church, and died there, much beloved. Gentlemen of American Boston have contributed, with. English gentlemen, four hundred and fifty pounds toward the memorial, which is to be an illuminated

56 NOTES IN ENGLAND.

window. The exterior is in excellent preservation; and they are facing the buttresses anew with beautiful canopies and brackets, and perhaps the statues will stand in them again by and by.

Papa happened accidentally into a funny little bookstore, and found an antiquarian, an elderly man, to whom he gave his card, and who cordially invited him to fetch Mrs. ---- the next day, to see some rare treasures he possessed; and he could show all that was interesting in Boston. I should not be surprised if this Mr. P---- were one of the persons to whom Mr. B---- addressed one of his letters; and if he be, it is as good as a play that papa should alight upon him in one of his wild-bird passages. So yesterday morning we all went to see him. He is a perfect Englishman in appearance, comely, handsomely stout, tall enough, and with very deep wine-stains on each cheek, genial and cordial, and particularly glad to see us. His shop is about as big as one division of a walnut. We had scarcely time to look about us, before he requested us all to go up-stairs into another division of his nutshell. This was covered, all over the walls, tables, cabinets, and buffets, with every imaginable knick-knack and pictures. From this we entered a smaller nook, also filled with wonders. Here we sat down, careful not to push anything over in the minute space, and Mr. P---- went away to get something. And what do you fancy he brought to show us in that humble little house in old Boston? Why, noth-

OLD BOSTON AND ST. BOTOLPH'S. 57

ing less than a most royal treasure--a quilt, embroidered all over in white silk, with birds and arabesque patterns upon linen so fine as to be silky, and trimmed round with two rows of a very rare and curious knotted fringe. It seemed the work of a lifetime, and it was wrought by Mary Stuart, Queen of Scots, while she was imprisoned in Fotheringay Castle. The arabesque was worked in a kind of back-stitch, as fine as Aunt Louisa's fairiest efforts. The birds and flowers were done in chain-stitch. Once in a while, the Queen embroidered her cipher, not M. R., but M. S. This was also in chain-stitch. The knotted fringe was the work of her maidens, and it must have been the labor of years, as each small knot is fashioned with the fingers. The quilt was lined with pink, and quite heavy with the sewing-silk. I imagined the sad and weary thoughts she must have had as she sat over it. It is stained, and I wondered whether it were not with tears. I took off my glove, and touched it, for her beautiful hands had very long rested on it--most ill-fated of queens!

The next treasure Mr. P---- brought was a waistcoat of Lord Burleigh. "There," said he to J----, "there, young gentleman, you have to put on this vest," and so on it went. It was of pale green silk; trimmed round the pockets and edges with a delicate gold and silver pattern, not half an inch broad, but as brilliant and untarnished as if finished yesterday; yet, it is about three hundred and fifty years

3*

58 NOTES IN ENGLAND.

old. J---- had on his talma; but Lord Burleigh must have been slender, for J---- could not button it round his waist. Perhaps some of this illustrious counsellor's wisdom, in the form of Od, entered into J---- while wrapped in it.

Then came a wonderful bag, made of the Victoria Regia, by the Queen of Otaheite, and given to Captain Cook! It was sewed with smallest feathers, and the texture of the material was exquisite, like goldbeater's skin, and semi-transparent. It was once adorned at the opening edges with feather-fringe, but most of that was worn off.

Mr. P---- showed us also some shoes of past ages, of a queer shape with a singular heel. One was of white satin, with a flower embroidered upon it, and the other was black satin. He contrasted with them some slippers made by American Indians.

Some crystal goblets were beautiful, with St. Botolph's Church engraved on them, as well as other fine buildings, and cyphers also. He brought forth, too, an old rose noble (a gold coin) and a double sovereign and double guinea, both out of circulation, and an angel, now obsolete. Each dwelt in a wee chamois bag of its own, and was as bright as if just from the mint. After seeing these things, Mr. P---- allowed us to go into the other apartment. Very valuable old prints were framed on the walls, and a colored crayon head of Sterne, an invaluable picture, drawn from life, which has never been engraved. I dare say the British Museum, or

OLD BOSTON AND ST. BOTOLPH'S. 59

National Gallery, would give thousands of pounds for it. Also there was Sterne's wife--drawn in the same style--a proud, unamiable, high head-tossing lady, from whom, I do not wonder, Sterne wished to separate. A copy in water-colors of Murillo's flower-girl was of exquisite beauty; and at last the good gentleman, all crisp and sparkling with ecstasy at our enjoyment of his pets, opened the drawer of a cabinet, and took out--what? Fancy! No, you never can; for, actually, the enviable old antiquary exhibited original pen and pencil studies of Raphael, Rembrandt, Giordano, Benvenuto Cellini, Jordaens, Maratti, and many others. Yes, the very studies, with the growing idea traceable through the involved lines. As at Oxford, all those of Raphael were unmistakable, from the delicate grace and fastidiousness of the efforts, so very fine, and drawn with a sharply-pointed pencil, while many of the others were dashed off with pen and ink. One was a head, in brown ink, by Rembrandt, a hat over one eye, and a saucy expression, in shadow. Where could Mr. P---- have gained such inestimable jewels? When he is tired of hoarding them, he can make a fortune any day by selling them, I should suppose. And he ventures to keep them in a wooden cabinet, in that small old house,which might burn down any day! He ought to have an iron safe for the purpose, after the manner of Oxford, where all the pen and pencil sketches of the great masters are in a fire-proof apartment. Over the drawings I exhausted my

60 NOTES IN ENGLAND.

capacity for wonder and delight, and after this rich feast, we were taken down into a tiny sitting-room, and introduced to Mr. P----'s wife, a thin, pleasant person, whom, I trust, Mr. P---- considers his most precious treasure. A cabinet was opened in this room, and illuminated missals given us to see, and Roman medals, antique Latin bibles, printed in Antwerp--a secret book, or "Book of Secrets" of Queen Elizabeth, which I opened and read, among other receipts, "How to kill a fellow quickly." This struck me as very strange, and not very creditable to the Queen. But. behold! upon looking more carefully at the stained old type, I found that it was "fellon," not "fellow." The present way of spelling this word is with one l--felon--and so I easily mistook it. We laughed heartily at the mistake, it was such an off-hand, unfeeling way of putting such a serious matter--the word "fellow" giving such a scornful, indifferent tone. So there were all her majesty's favorite receipts and notions, very curious and entertaining. J---- was captivated by the glory of color in one of the missals--birds, flowers, and saints dazzled our eyes with splendor. We made Mr. P---- breathless by telling him of that missal we saw last summer at the Countess of Waldegrave's, illuminated by Raphael's own hand. The Countess was very uneasy while I looked at it, for it was really too invaluable to be left out of her own keeping. It was about three inches square, bound in velvet and solid gold. Her great blue eyes blazed

OLD BOSTON AND ST. BOTOLPH'S. 61

like a falcon's upon, me, till I returned it to her. I am afraid the antiquary broke the Tenth Commandment as he listened to us about it. I asked Mrs. P---- whether she were as much interested as her husband in these things, and she said she was not, but preferred to read. And then she remarked, pointing to a brilliant red-bird in a missal that I was turning over: "That bird is almost as red as the Scarlet Letter!" She said this in a private, confidential little way, and made no other allusion to the authorship. Finally, we proposed to come away, not having seen the hundredth part, though all the choicest morceaux; and the kind gentleman put on his hat, and went to show us a curious, old gabled house in a narrow alley, built in the French style. In the peak of the gable was a heraldic fleur-de-lis and the cypher E. R. The gable was trimmed with costly, stone Maltese lace, and carved and ornamented in various ways, and Mr. P---- evinced a pious horror at the insertion of a modern window-frame in another part of the house. He showed us also the site of Mr. John Cotton's house, and mourned over its demolition. He wished the spot to be enclosed, and a memorial built up in the centre, and said that Dr. Bigelow, of Boston, Massachusetts, told him, when here, that he believed the inhabitants of his own city would gladly contribute to its erection, if the land could be purchased and secured. Finally, we came to St. Botolph's, and the present Vicar, remote successor to Mr. Cotton, was standing in the

62 NOTES IN ENGLAND.

Close, talking with some one, and Mr. P---- brought him to us and introduced him, after having whispered who papa was. This vicar was not venerable, like the vicar of Wakefield, but a young man, of the most comfortable aspect you can conceive--soft, round, with a rather pale and comely, but full face, snowy, large, handsome teeth--spotless white cravat, fine black coat, and hands that looked like bishops--so plump, smooth, and fair. Really, the chief shepherds of this English fold are as well to do as the fleecy sheep and lambs I see grazing by hundreds in the meadows. They testify to sumptuous fare, and wear fine linen every day. With a refined and cultivated expression, they yet remind one of the jolly world and clay -- wine, oil, and easy-chairs. This Rev. G. P. S. Q. L. B---- (though I forget exactly how many names he has) politely received us, and invited us into his beautiful church, and Mr. P---- bade us farewell.----

Mr. B---- was so courteous that he showed us the church himself, instead of putting us under the guidance of a verger; and when he had gone quite round, and told us everything, he most considerately departed, and left us to enjoy ourselves as long as we pleased.

* * * * *

Just as we were entering the southern porch, the organ was sighing like an Eolian, with a wonderful effect of spirit-voices. The organist was practising. The impression which the whole interior made upon

OLD BOSTON AND ST. BOTOLPH'S. 63

me at once was of perfect and comprehensible beauty. It could all be included in a glance, though it measures two hundred and fifty feet from the west front to the chancel east window. The organ is most happily placed at the side, so that there is a clear sweep of view from one extremity to the other. What a pity that it is not so with the vast cathedrals! If I were Queen of England, I would have every organ moved from the arches of the choirs. At the western front, One enters the bell-tower--the grand tower, three hundred feet high, and seen at sea forty miles away. There is a stone roof, sculptured just beneath the lantern, in which hangs the bell. Standing beneath this lofty roof, we looked upon a space which may be called a lesser transept, before the columns of the nave begin, with a door right and left, south and north; and exactly in the centre of this space, stands a font of stone, richly sculptured, raised on a very broad pedestal of three wide, spreading steps. Over it hangs a coronal of gold and blue, a light, airy chandelier of fine tracery, in two or three concentric circles, climbing into a spiral form.

There are, I think, seven columns on each side of the nave, and above them fourteen windows in the clerestory, whose pointed arches are trefoil-headed. The roof of the aisles then slopes downward from the nave, and there are seven much larger and loftier windows, which pierce the sides north and south. The choir has some oak tabernacle-work, stalls, and

64 NOTES IN ENGLAND.

ancient carved seats, made very uncomfortable for monks, so that if they grew a little sleepy, and were not very watchful, they would be sure to tumble down with a crash. These seats are elaborately sculptured beneath, with droll devices. One is a group of naughty school-boys, driven by a master, with a whip. One is a bouquet of cats and monkeys playing together. Under some grins Apollyon. The backs of them and the terminals are carved with every variety of head, and flower, and animal,--no two alike. They often end in lovely quirls, or in angels or cherubim, mixing up heaven and hell in the strangest way. "Eat, drink, and be merry, for to-morrow we die," the monks seemed to say with their chisels. Sometimes the back of a stall endeavors to run off in this manner.

While I was sitting in the choir, papa and J---- mounted to the top of the grand tower, and a verger hovered round, who had previously been paid a shilling to let me alone. Presently the chief organist came in, and I told the verger I wished he would play; and he replied that he had come to give a lesson to the lady organist. But I saw him whisper to him, and while I was trying to sketch the eastern window, after the lesson was over, my musician kindly burst forth in a magnificent symphony, which made all the saints and apostles radiate brighter light, and live and breathe. The verger declared he was the best organist in the country, and I was not inclined to dispute it.

OLD BOSTON AND 8T. BOTOLPH'S. 65

The chancel is uncommonly beautiful. The east window is filled with painted glass, well designed, and of superb hues. The middle light represents first Jesse, in crimson and blue, sitting at the lowest point, as the root of David. Above him stands Mary, holding the infant Jesus, with Joseph at her side. Above is Christ upon the cross; and highest is Christ in glory, crowned and sceptred, as Judge and King. All the lights on each side are filled with apostles and saints, and also David. The pointed, trefoiled and quatrefoiled headed arch over all looks studded with jewels; but upon examination these are found to be the heavenly host, in the centre of whom stands the archangel Michael, trampling upon the Dragon. I do not know why the effect of the tints of this great window is golden, yet the choir glows with a sort of permanent sunshine, which is peculiar to St. Botolph's. Now I think of it, it may be that the windows on each side are filled with yellow stained-glass, and it is a lovely idea thus to make perpetual sunny radiance over the altar, whatever the weather may be.

The perpendicular lights contain Christ, Mary, and saints. The altar beneath the window is sumptuous with crimson velvet and gold, and a heavily carved oaken chair stands on each side of it. And before the chancel is a low screen of blue and gold, a kind of brass work, extremely light. Within are two candelabras of the same material and fairy workmanship, and others like them are placed all

66 NOTES IN ENGLAND.

about the church, and, with the coronal over the font, look wonderfully beautiful, when lighted. This delicate blue and gold also goes up the pulpit stairs and balusters, looking like a rich fringe with tassels; but upon approaching it, I found it was rigid metal.

There are two alabaster monuments, one supporting a knight spurred, with his helm under his head as a pillow, and the other his wife. The noses of these figures have been restored, and also their fingers, and the vicar has a great ambition to adorn his church, and intends to have all the windows refilled with painted glass. He is very young, and may live to see much accomplished. There is at the door a strong box, for the reception of a restoring fund, and I trust it will be a perpetual bank.

The nave is full of carved oaken seats, unlike cathedrals, and the pulpits are in the midst of them, instead of being in the choir. Botolph's town was so called from a monastery erected to that saint in 634, which the Danes destroyed in 870. On its site this church was built in 1309. Fox, who wrote the "Book of Martyrs," was born in Boston. We have the book, but it is too dreadful for you to read. We walked round the small chapel in which Cotton's memorial window is to be placed, but there is only one grave-stone in it, and that is upon the floor. It is in fine proportion, and has a noble western window. Papa and J---- were tired of waiting for me, and when I was ready to go out I found the gate of

OLD BOSTON AND ST. BOTOLPH'S. 67

the door locked fast! I was in a gorgeous cage, but felt very uncomfortable not to have my freedom, and stood shaking the bars till the clang roused the Verger who was outside, and he laughed merrily at having fastened me in. As he had been paid to let me alone, I suppose he did not dare tell me he must go away.

The organ was still murmuring melodiously as I left the southern porch, as if St. Botolph were singing Vespers.

On my walk home, I saw a lovely ruined Abbey at a printseller's, and bought it for you to copy some time. It is Crow] and Abbey, which I hope to visit, as it is near Peterboro, where we go next.

In the afternoon of Tuesday (26th) we walked out; but I felt tired, and after looking at the old Guildhall, an exceedingly interesting building, with a fine mullioned window, and three gurgoyles rushing tumultuously from each side and the point of the arch, I concluded to go back to the Peacock, and take an open barouche, to drive about with Julian. Papa, you know, hates to drive, and prefers to wander without purpose. We therefore returned, and I ordered a light phaeton, which proved delightfully easy, and I told the coachman to go round every part of Boston, and then into the suburbs. We had a charming excursion, and old Boston reminded one of the oldest parts of New Boston--those parts which are antique and tumble-down, at the North End. There is scarcely a handsome house in the

68 NOTES IN ENGLAND.

town, but many quaint ones, with overhanging brows; and in the suburbs we saw an enchanting House of Seven, Gables, which, being all covered with perennial ivy, looked as the one described in the book would look, if ascended into the heavenly Paradise. It was sumptuously rich and beautiful, and I wish I could have sketched it.

We passed the new cemetery, in which stood two strangely-shaped edifices, I suppose for the reading of the burial-service; but I can compare them to nothing but camelopards--giraffes.

* * * * *

"The Peacock" is such an aged bird, and really there is no end to its tail, though it is not quite so long as the neck of the Saracen's Head in Lincoln, which, you know, I told you was miles in length.

The solemn waiter has not smiled yet, because he never will nor can; but, despite his ungraciousness, I think we have felt particularly at home in Boston. We have had the Queen's weather, and all the ladies are in muslins.

69

IV.
PETERBORO CATHEDRAL.

PETERBORO, May 28th

WE left Boston at half-past twelve, and our route was through still a flat country, covered with lambs, buttercups, and white heifers. There is a great preponderance of white cows in this region, perfectly white, and the young heifers are beautiful. We passed through Kirton, and thereabouts was a storm of apple-blossoms, and the hawthorn trees and bushes, in great profusion, were in the fullest bloom. I never saw so much hawthorn bloom before in England. We saw very many of the prettiest little colts in the world, trotting gently beside their mothers, with a singularly modest air, as if they felt rather delicate about being seen on their new legs. There is always something very refined in the manner of a colt.

We stopped a moment at Sutterton and Surfleet, and crossed the river Glen, one of England's narrow ribbons of rivers, and then came to Pinchbeck, where I presume that the metal called pinchbeck-

70 NOTES IN ENGLAND.

gold was invented. We saw the outside of a fine old church, which I wish we could have entered. Indeed, I should dearly love to go into every one of these old village churches, for I have no doubt they are extremely interesting, and with strange histories and monuments. We passed one quite closely, and there were some funny gurgoyles upon it in the shape of imps, with elbows pressed on the buttresses (in default of sides), as if they said, "Now for it! off we go," in the act of springing; but yet forever held fast in stone. It is an extraordinary idea of these gothic architects to give this rushing-away, active expression to the centuries-enduring, fixed stone. I wonder if it is an image or emblem of the hopeless longing of the monks to escape from their thraldom. I have a singular desire to break the bonds of these headlong gurgoyles, and let them go. They have such an impetus in their motion, that it seems as they would shoot out of all human vision in a second, if they were freed. Did you ever observe those on the roof of Henry the Seventh's chapel in Westminster Abbey?

We now came to Deeping Fen, which perhaps means, the fenniest of fens. It was, however, adorned with a great deal of beautiful rose-hawthorn in perfect bloom. * * * England is just now in fullest blossom--fruit-trees, May-flowers, purple and white Persian lilacs, like plumes, so soft and delicate, and everywhere the graceful, yellow laburnum, dropping gold; also, of course, the greenest of

PETERBORO CATHEDRAL. 71

grass, as if it had been that moment washed in a shower--so that though the land was flat, there was much about it most grateful to the eyes. I observed that a great many lambs had been taken for a purpose I will not name, so that the darns had but one child apiece, instead of their rightful two. J---- undertook to wonder how each lamb could know its own mother!

When we arrived at Peakirk and Croyland, we regretted our. tickets were not for Croyland, for, in that case, we might have stayed there all night, and seen, the abbey. As it was, we kept on to Peterboro. The Railway Hotel being directly upon the station, we walked into it. I immediately looked out of the windows to find a glimpse of the cathedral, and I saw a portion of the western façade and pinnacles, and the top of a mighty arch.

After dinner we took a walk. Peterboro is a very small town gathered in front of its glorious minster. It is the cathedral, and nothing else. We soon came to the market-place, on one side of which is the Guildhall, now used for a butter-shop, beneath the lower pillars. Opposite to it is a stone gateway, which is the entrance to the Close. As we entered the Close, the world seemed shut out, as it always does inside these monastic retreats. Eternal peace is within their gates, and upon me the effect of the three vast arches of the western façade was more sublime and magnificent than that of any architecture I have yet seen in England. I was

72 NOTES IN ENGLAND.

wholly unprepared for the vastness and splendor of this church. No one had ever spoken of it to me, and I had never read about it. I believe there is no other façade like this in the country--the arches being much higher than that we so wondered at in Furness Abbey--three arches, perfectly uninjured. I did not know before what a grand power lay in a lofty curve, and words can never convey an idea of it. The first impression was that those arches had more to do with heaven than earth. Though the line returns again to the same level from which it rises, yet it seems to have been transfigured as it soared and sang in its circuit. They are the emblem of a saint's soul, whose visible form still exists. He stands on the earth, but his spirit has ascended into another world, and remains there, in truth, though he is yet with us in mortal guise. They are an image of endless aspiration in constant rest.

Between the gateway and the cathedral is a pointed entrance into the cloisters which were, for Cromwell's soldiers utterly demolished the cloisters, except the inner walls. On these inner walls are the remains of broken arches and shafts. The lawn is of the loveliest pale green velvet. On its south side are some beautiful high arches, dripping with wreaths of ivy. If you can recall the banqueting-hall of Conway Castle, with its lofty vaultings and mullioned windows hung thickly with enormous vines of ivy, you will be able to fancy how these appear. Entering from a corner, opening through

PETERBORO CATHEDRAL. 73

one of these garlanded arches from the cloisters, we were in the former refectory of the old Abbey, now roofed by the sky and floored with daisies and grass. Traces of the Abbey are all about this part--clustered pillars, broken arches,--and from these we went into the cathedral, by one of the southern doors. The service was not quite over, so we walked quietly up the stately aisle, with its fine, Norman, groined roof, nearly eighty feet high. We sat down upon a seat in front of the screen of the choir to wait for the end of the function, and had hardly time to glance at the glories around and above us, before a verger came from the dropped curtain beneath the organ, and invited us to go in. The prebends and choristers were chanting, and one lady and two gentlemen formed the audience! I was struck into amaze by the choir, its effect was so gorgeously rich, so loaded with ornament, and the chancel so singularly shaped in semicircles, with a solid wall nearly to the roof, and then broken into superb arches opening upon other arches beyond and behind, in the Lady-chapel, of which the ceiling was intricately sumptuous; while there were glimpses afar of rainbow-glass--mysteries, and fold within fold of beauty, revealing remoter beauty through the never-ending arcades. Ah me! what can poor mortals do with but two eyes to see out of, and so confined a space for the heart to expand in? I was glad when, after the chanting, the precentor said "Let us pray," and I closed my dazed orbs

4

74 NOTES IN ENGLAND.

upon all visible things. The "Amen" to the prayers was peculiarly beautiful--a fountain of sweet, young voices and organ music, rising with a full and expanding tone through the wilderness of spaces, and returning with a soft, closing cadence into silence again.

The chancel of this choir is called an apse, which means the rounded end of a church, opposite the nave. There is but one other of Norman date in England. Directly over the altar, on the roof, is a painting of Christ sitting, with all the apostles around him, involved in curling lines; and it is written on a scroll which encircles the whole, "I am the Vine, and ye are the branches;" and, "I am the Bright and Morning Star." The bishop's throne is here very superb,--a little cathedral in itself, of cunningly carved oak, flaming into pinnacles. All the arches of the apse are profusely decorated above the clustered shafts; and with the pierced, flying buttresses and tracery over the windows, and the arcades above and beyond one another, I received an impression of magnificence which no other choir has given me; though, on account of being smaller, it has not the grandeur of that of York Minster.

After the service was over, there was a great ceremony of waiting for a venerable old Canon to descend from his stall beneath the organ. All the choristers, prebends, minor canons, and the precentor arranged themselves in a reverent manner, while behind stood an ancient verger with a rod in his

PETERBORO CATHEDRAL. 75

hand. The venerable Canon was lame, which made his descent very slow; but when he came upon the level with his subordinates, he bowed graciously to them, and took the precedence in vanishing beneath the curtain. It was pleasant and grateful to see such deference to infirm age.

We left the choir on the south side to go and look at the altar, and we stepped from the door directly upon the stone beneath which Mary Queen of Scots was buried, after her execution at Fotheringay Castle, near Peterboro. Her son James afterward removed her body to Westminster Abbey, and you know we saw her sarcophagus there, and her lovely effigy upon it. In the aisle we met a young verger, who offered to show us the cathedral. First he told us about Queen Mary's grave, and then we followed him into the Lady-chapel. The ceiling of this chapel is a specimen of the fan-vaulting, of which I caught glimpses through the open arches" of the choir. What is called the perpendicular style is particularly famous for this fan-vaulting, which is "very splendid. Between the windows these superb fans curve over and meet in the centre of the roof, almost touching with their scolloped edges. It is all of stone. Beneath the thirteen windows is a great height before the pavement comes, and this space is filled on the east, north, and south sides with an arcade. There are seats in these arcades all round. The central window is filled with painted glass; but it is modern and not tasteful. There

76 NOTES IN ENGLAND.

are six windows over the altar, filled with what was saved of the superb, old colored glass from the destructive hands and guns of Cromwell's soldiers, who were in a particular rage, with this cathedral, because it had been considered the holiest ground in England, and kings and cardinals put off their shoes when entering its gates. There are but very few monuments left. One is very curious, and it is the oldest Christian monument now to be seen in the land. It is of the ninth century, and in memory of Abbot Hedda and his monks, who were killed by the Danes. It is very rude and worn, and the monks are the funniest old frights that were ever seen.

At the northern door of the choir, every one who goes in or comes out steps upon the slab Over the body of Catharine of Aragon, first wife of Henry Eighth. She died at Kimbolton Castle, in Huntingdonshire, and was buried here. When Henry was told that he should build some fair monument to her memory, he replied, "Yes, I will leave her one of the goodliest in the kingdom," and so he spared this superb cathedral; and no queen has such a mausoleum as she, and I hope her proud and injured spirit was somewhat appeased by it. It was late amends for the king to make, but it was right royal. There is a shrine near this, thought to be that of Saint Ibba, and from the Lady-chapel, all along the aisles to the west front, on the walls beneath the windows, are the intersected arches, which

PETERBORO CATHEDRAL. 77

first suggested the pointed arch. I took great pains to draw you some of them, to show you the transition steps from Norman to the early English or pointed style. The Norman arch is a perfect semi-circle, heavy and massive. Doors, windows, and arches were all rounded, and the pillars were very thick, and the sculptured ornaments bold and rude. By degrees the style was enriched with zigzag adornments and the chevron; and then came the intersected arch.

The verger then took us into an old chapel, where morning prayer was offered; and there is some tapestry on the eastern wall, worked by two sister nuns before the Reformation. There are two pictures; one of Peter and John curing the lame man at the gate of the Temple, and it seems to be from Raphael, though altered a little. The other is Peter's release from prison; and the angels who set him free have the most hideous faces imaginable. Instead of angels, I should call them devils. A Roman soldier sleeps, headless, on one side. This chapel is a very old place, with curiously-carved screens and doors of almost black oak, it is so time-worn. It was a grand coup d'oeil to look from the east end of the Lady-chapel to the western transept, all along the vaulted aisle, four hundred and twenty-two feet! more than twice as far as Bunker Hill monument is high. This image will help you to estimate the distance. The beautiful groined roof of the aisles makes an enchanting and noble perspec-

78 NOTES IN ENGLAND.

tive; only some foolish bishop or dean, whose heart must have been a whited sepulchre, and who is recorded as not liking rich colors, washed over the tinted barnack-stone, of which the cathedral is built, with a yellowish daub, throughout the inside. If Dante should award him his punishment, I think he would dip him in his lake of pitch of which he sings in the "Purgatorio." The verger said there were hopes that it would presently be all scraped off, and the primal hue restored.

So now we walked down the mighty nave, with its strange and unique roof of painted oak. It is marked in lozenge-shaped mosaic, and the interstices are filled with richly-colored figures and devices, kings and queens, bishops and abbots, and emblematical designs, in extraordinary preservation, considering its antiquity. The great transept, north and south, is very superb. Its roof is of the same character as that of the nave, but not so gorgeous in color and device. It is very lofty, and there are four stages. First is an arcade on slender piers, then a decorated string-course, then an arch, through which is seen a window; then again arches and windows to the top. One capital only of all the piers is an impish head, spitting out, as it were, the shaft from its mouth. Now just fancy this workman, busy with the rest, who were all producing plain capitals, and finally showing this funny head, not to be altered now. These stone jests are certainly very singular. How the sculptor must have

PETERBORO CATHEDRAL. 79

grinned to himself! The arches supporting the tower, which lead into the northern and southern parts of the great transept, are glorious in beauty and in size, and excel all others in England in these characteristics. They have the effect of those of the western front, and must have been designed by the same person. The screen is lovely, and I made a sketch which I will draw out for you. * * * The pavement of the whole cathedral is wonderfully joined, so as to look like one piece of stone. The columns that support the nave are thirty feet in circumference, clustered, with Norman arches.

* * * * * *

Coming out, we wandered round the Close. Two sculptured stone gates led to gardens on the northern side. We entered one, and it opened upon the burial-ground, which extended quite round to the cloisters again, north and east. Fine old trees and shrubberies adorned this cemetery, and opposite the gate by which we went in was another beautiful arch, giving a glimpse into some wonderful Arcadia, with a lawn of sunshine-green, a tree of rarest loveliness, branching out from the very velvet sward, so that the delicately-tinted leaves lay on the grass lightly, like the folds of a lady's airy dress; and it rose in perfect proportion, somewhat trained by art, into pyramidal tendency, but more flowing in outline than the geometrical figure. Papa was particularly transported with this tree, which I think was a beech. Behind it was a grand, dark cedar of Leb-

80 NOTES IN ENGLAND.

anon, as if set there for contrast and background to the beech.

The house of the secretary of the Bishop stood beyond the cedar--a picturesque building of fawn-colored stone, with blooming plants around it, and reaches of soft lawn leading to inviting shades farther on. An avenue of noble trees, each side of the smoothest gravel walk, at that moment made smoother by a huge stone-roller in the hands of two gardeners, led from another arch to the principal porch of the house. These trees met in fraternal communion overhead, arch within arch, and unbroken peace brooded over all. Peace, such as the world can never give, seemed established in this consecrated retreat. Behind the cemetery there was a rookery--for all abbeys have rookeries--and the rooks cawed incessantly; but they only made the peace and silence perceptible or sensible,--just as the cricket reveals how still the night is--just as the shadow makes salient the light.

This was originally a monastic church, founded in 665, and built of such heavy stones that sixteen oxen could hardly draw one. Penda was the Mercian king who commenced it. You know that the Mercian kingdom was the largest of the heptarchy, and this village, originally called Medesharnstead, from a deep gulf called Medes Well, famed for its very cold water, is in Northamptonshire. The monastery of Medeshamstead was afterward finished by King Wolfen, and dedicated to St. Peter, and then

PETERBORO CATHEDRAL. 81

the village began to be called Peter Burgh. When its abbot was Hedda (in 883), the Danes injured the church very much, and it was restored again by the Bishop of Winchester, assisted by King Edgar, 974. Successive abbots, before and after the Conquest, enlarged it; for these great Minsters grow from age to age, like flowers which it takes centuries to unfold. The name of the sublime architect who designed the west front arches is lost, unless some one succeeds in deciphering that vast hieroglyph of stone.

After gazing into the paradise of the Close awhile, we again looked at the few remains of the cloisters, once illustrious with painted glass in their mullioned windows, and walked through the refectory, with its majestic arches, festooned with ivy, once, no doubt, also radiant with saints and angels in rainbow colors, and passed through gothic doors into narrow lanes, with many ruins, on the way, of the former abbey--walls, tithing barns--until we came into paths leading by fishponds and streams, perfectly dark with overhanging trees, where the monks found their Friday dinners and Lenten feasts--until we wound our course out into the town, and came home.

May 28th.--This morning we went again to the cathedral. The service was over, and we walked into the open door beneath one of the western arches. There was no one in all the great temple.

4*

82 NOTES IN ENGLAND.

We found the door of the Lady-chapel unlocked, and every door open, in the most hospitable way--so unlike Lincoln. We wandered about at our own will and leisure, and there was no sound but of our echoing footsteps and the distant cawing of rooks.

I stood again upon Queen Catharine's grave. It is bare now, but once a superb canopy hung over it, a hearse and velvet pall--as well as over Queen Mary's; but the regiment of horse under Colonel Cromwell demolished them, though a part of the hearse is preserved somewhere. The painted glass was particularly rich at Peterboro, so that the soldiers were dazzled with its splendor, and they cried out the more furiously that it must be smashed, because the idols the monks worshipped were flaring on them in their gold and purple. So they stupidly shot at the saints and kings, until enough only was left to piece out a few windows in the choir, out of all the multitudes of windows full! The fan-vaulting was more beautiful to me to-day than before, and now I recognize of what it reminds me. Take one of the divisions by itself and it looks like a rocket falling in stars or flowers, the motion in rest everywhere suggested. In comparing Gothic with the Greek architecture, one is the clear, logical understanding, coming at truth mathematically by the way of reason; and all this range of truth stands beautiful and sure, on lovely, even pillars, surmounted with

PETERBORO CATHEDRAL. 83

square pediments, symmetrical and perfect to the eye. I think, too, of those lovely faces like A---- G----'s, with her brows in a straight line. And she is a person, of clear understanding. But the Gothic "is of Imagination all compact," "in a fine frenzy rolling," glancing from earth to heaven and heaven to earth--a crystallized poet, as it were, of endless variety, of scintillating fancy--soaring in "immortal curves," baffling geometric conclusions, setting known, established rules at defiance, wild beyond reach of recognized art, flaming like fire, glowing like flowers and rainbows, soaring like birds, struggling for freedom, and like the soul, never satisfied. A cathedral is really an image of the whole soul of man; and a Greek temple, of his understanding only--of just decisions, serene, finished postulates, settled axioms. We need both.

Most regretfully we left the mighty Minster, and took a last look at the Close. Near the gate leading into the secretary's Eden is another, opening upon another domain of a Canon or Dean. It had the same, but never-wearying sunny lawns, rich shrubbery and flowers, and birds in rapture, all embosomed in the pervading peace.

In one corner of the Close is Thomas a Becket's chapel and shrine, now the chapel-school; and boys with the square-topped Oxford cap, and an immaculate toilet, were standing near--some with books, studying. I wondered if they were conscious of the

84 NOTES IN ENGLAND.

place where they were standing, and of what was before them.

We went into a shop, and bought some engravings of the interior; but not a drawing that I saw gave at all the impression of the grandeur and size of the front arches, or of the nave.

* * * * * * *
Farewell.

85

V.
NEWSTEAD ABBEY.

NOTTINGHAM, May 29th.

WE left Peterboro yesterday, but I must not omit to tell you that J----- was made perfectly happy there by seeing some knights in armor, who had come from Astley's in London. They were careering through the market-place, and they brought back to him the days of chivalry and romance, and turned common life into poetry at once. * * *

We hissed away at about half-past two, and had gone but a few miles, when we passed a house covered with double roses, in full bloom--May-roses, of a lovely crimson, and giving an air of supreme elegance to the whole place. They were the first I had seen this season, and were the more precious for that, and I rendered due homage to the queen of flowers.

We were happy as usual in having the carriage to ourselves, and it has been almost invariably the case in all our travels. Once a gentleman came into our private boudoir, and after sitting a few minutes, seemed to be conscious of intruding into domestic

86 NOTES IN ENGLAND.

sanctities, and left us again, for which I was much obliged to him. This arrangement is very pleasant, and somewhat like posting. The great plate-glass windows are as good as the air to look through, and one can have the prospect without dust. We passed the town of Tallington, and the country began to be less flat, and rich and beautiful.

The hawthorn-trees hereabout were enormous--as large as the largest horse-chestnuts!--and so loaded with bloom, that each one seemed to have had a separate snow-storm upon it. There was a station at Bytham also; and near this the grounds of Lord Willoughby d'Eresby stretched down to the track, and were exceedingly stately, and most daintily cared for. Picturesque old villages abounded as we went on--clusters of ancient cottages, gathered lovingly about a pretty church, which was often a gem of beauty. No doubt many of these are of remote antiquity, and the cottages often looked to have grown around them, mossy and lichened, and not to have been built by man at all. At last we came to Grantham, and as we were to remain an hour, we left the carriage, and walked into the town, because Sir Isaac Newton want to the grammar-school there. There was an old market-cross, with several well-worn steps leading to it, which J---- ran up, in memory of Sir Isaac, for no doubt he had stood and played on them many a time. We wandered on to a church, which seemed beautiful afar off, and proved very much so near by. It had a

NEWSTEAD ABBEY. 87

lofty spire, two hundred and seventy-three feet high, and painted windows, of which I should have liked to see the right side; but we had not time to get admittance. It contains a curious font also. Grantham had a monastery once, and there are ruins of it, which I wish we could have searched out. The Angel Inn was a strange old place, approached by an arched entrance, and we should have enjoyed staying at it all night. The inns have singular names, and were all blue--the Blue Ham, the Blue Lion, the Blue Horse, the Blue Man, the Blue Cow, the Blue Bear--and so on through the animal kingdom, and I marvel it is not the Blue Angel as well.

Our way was over a sumptuous country now, and for a great many miles we saw afar, on a high hill, Belvoir Castle, the residence of the Duke of Rutland, a magnificent structure, and it must be of vast size, it looked so extensive at a distance. Towers and turrets were numerous enough to supply a small town. I wish his Grace could have received us; for he possesses one of the most valuable galleries of pictures in England.

On we hastened through Sedgebrook and Battisford, where was an exquisite little church,--then to Elton and Astlockton, where a gentleman intruded upon our family circle. He was a peculiar-looking man indeed, and as he sat directly opposite to me for many miles, I could not but see him well, so that his face was stereotyped upon my retina; his eyebrows were lifted into a high Norman arch, crump-

88 NOTES IN ENGLAND.

ling his forehead into ribs, like the sea-sand after the ebb of the tide. His collar was like a carving of marble, so stiff and polished, and his toilet was altogether elaborate and without fault; but frozen, like the wonder in his face. What could be his history? I was inclined to exclaim to this persistent, unmitigated look: "Really, my dear sir, it is not, I assure you, so very surprising. Pray compose your mind and smooth your brow, and regard the matter with a reasonable degree of indifference."

Meanwhile we steamed into Bingham, which possessed one of the prettiest of churches, and herds of perfectly white cows. And now we had left Leicestershire and entered Nottinghamshire, and so into Nottingham. We asked the guard which was the best hotel, and he strongly recommended the May-pole as "a hotel every one admired," so the driver was ordered to take us there. It was close by the market-place, through an alley, and did not look inviting at all. I feared it was a pot-house, and fortunately they had not room, so we drove to the George the Fourth, which the coachman said was the first in town. It has no show outside, but, like the "Clarendon" in London, it proves within the nicest one we have chanced upon. Our waiter is unexceptionable. He would on no account smile unseasonably, but it is very evident that he can smile in a decorous manner, at the right time. Everything is quiet and elegant, and the table perfect in style and quality.

NEWSTEAD ABBEY. 89

This morning we took a cabriolet, and drove to Newstead Abbey. It was a fair day, with dim sunshine and no wind. I had 'never associated Lord Byron with Nottingham, and yet I could think of no one else after I arrived here. No doubt he came here often, as it is the nearest town to the Abbey of any size. As we drove on toward Newstead, we had a view of Nottingham Castle, and nothing else of interest, till we got within the precincts of Sherwood Forest. This was poetical ground. Richard the Lion-hearted, jolly Friar Tuck, the king of outlaws, and all the merry-men were then in my mind's eye, though there are now no thickets or century-trees, but new growths of pine and beech. Newstead Abbey was once all surrounded with Sherwood Forest, and when we came within its boundaries, there were fine old trees left standing among the younger growth. Generally, the Newstead forests were exceedingly gloomy in aspect. There was a great-uncle of Lord Byron, called "the wicked Lord," who was the terror of the country, and it seemed as if his ruthless spirit darkened the woods, and as there was no subsequent light nor joy in the fortunes or character of the family, the heavy, motionless evergreens looked like stern frowns of doom, and fixed clouds of melancholy fate.

We drove ten miles, and then drew up at a small, nice-looking little inn, called "The Hut," and our coachman averred that he was not allowed to take us any farther into the private park. I supposed

90 NOTES IN ENGLAND.

we should have but a short walk to the Abbey, and so was nothing loth to leave the carriage. We unlatched the hospitable gate (Colonel Wildman being a very kind and open-handed gentleman), and wandered along the broad avenue, winding over undulating ground, at first through woodland scenery, floored with violets, which J---- began diligently to gather for memorials, and then to open hunting-grounds, covered with ferns,--coverts for small game; then again to woodlands. We went on and on, I looking, at first, to see the towers of the Abbey on some eminence, forgetting that religious houses were always hidden in vales,--indeed forgetting that Newstead Abbey ever was a religious house, till I was reminded. Presently a light gig came up behind us, with a lady and gentleman and little boy. We were astonished at this, because we had been led to suppose that no vehicle was allowed to approach in that way. They passed us; but stopped at an inner gate, which we now saw ahead, and the lady alighted, and the gentleman and boy returned. The lady climbed up a steep path on the left, evidently to obtain a view of the place, and we entered the gate, trusting now that we were near, for I was foot-weary.

Soon we saw a gleam of water, and a small flag flying from a tower. This is a sign always in England that the family is at home. When we arrived at the lawn before the front, I was surprised that the Abbey was not much larger. I had imagined a

NEWSTEAD ABBEY. 91

very extensive range of buildings, and a broad, glittering lake before them. But a wide lawn intervenes between the house and a small lake, near which are the stables, a row of low, stone, castellated edifices. On the lawn we met an old man, who said we had only to ring at the porch-bell, and some one would admit us. A small footman welcomed us with a smile and cordial "O yes" when we requested entrance, so that it was plain what the master's spirit was about receiving guests. We entered a low gallery, with a groined stone roof, rising from thick pillars, like the columns and arches of a crypt. There was a boat of light material and construction on the pavement, and I meant to ask what its history was, but entirely forgot it. Heavy oak-carved chairs stood against one side, and everything was scrupulously exact and ordered. After the boy left us, it was some time before we saw any one, but at last a highly respectable dame appeared, and after requesting us to write our names in the visitors' book, she preceded us up-stairs. And the very first room she ushered us into was Lord Byron's bedchamber, precisely as he left it, excepting that a table, and a huge ewer on a stand, have been added to the furniture. I do not know what some of our fashionable young men of fortune in America would say to the plain and simple arrangement and upholstery of the noble lord's private apartment. An oriel window, the only one, commanded the lawn, water, and woods beyond. Two large arm-chairs,

92 NOTES IN ENGLAND.

covered with embroidered silk, stood on each side, and I sat down in one; and I endeavored to believe that I was really there, sitting exactly where the poet sat, my eyes resting on the same landscape which his had so often dwelt upon. Over the mantelpiece was a looking-glass, into which I gazed, for it was the very same at which he dressed his hyacinthine locks, and met his own melancholy, defying eyes. Prints of the colleges of Cambridge hung on the walls. There was not a luxury nor an adornment of any kind to be seen in the room, and no attempt at any unusual comfort or ease; but it is just a chamber with bed, toilet, chairs, tables, washstand, in ordinary style, not even large. Next to it is a smaller room, where his lordship's page slept, and once there was no access to it, excepting from his own; but now Colonel Wildman has cut a door into it from the corridor. This page's apartment is the famous haunted one, where the ghost of a monk was often seen. It has a deep window, the thickness of the walls causing an embrasure of several feet; but otherwise there is nothing remarkable about it. It is left, like Lord Byron's, just as it was in his time. In the corridor, leading to these two chambers, hung two pictures,--one of Murray, the faithful, attached servant of his lordship, and the other of his fencing-master. The face of old Murray is very interesting; he looks good and loving, and it is an excellent painting. We lingered about this part a long time. An uneasy feeling of sadness was

NEWSTEAD ABBEY. 93

caused by the sense of his former presence; for there was no peace nor true happiness in him at any time, and so the mysterious Od left by his foot-steps, his touch, his glance, his life, must impart a sense of unrest and gloom. It was pleasant to see the kind face of the old servant, who loved him so devotedly that it proved a power in Byron of deeply attaching others to him, when in a simple relation to them. I doubt not he had a warm and fiery heart, wretchedly embittered by the circumstances of his early life, which only cultivated the evil in him, and by no chance unfolded and increased the good; and he died in early manhood, attempting to do a generous deed.

Leaving this most interesting part of the Abbey, the housekeeper led us into all the state chambers of the former Abbots, now most sumptuously restored, and made delightfully comfortable and habitable by Colonel Wildman. One is Charles the Second's chamber, another Henry the Seventh's, another Richard the Second's--either because these several kings had occupied them aforetime, or because their portraits are in them. There are fine portraits by Sir Peter Lely and Holbein of these kings and their queens, and of other remarkable persons of the age of those painters. I was particularly arrested by a portrait of Charles the Second, which was hung in his chamber. It was not the dark, animated, forceful face I have always seen and become acquainted with; but it was pale, haggard, thin, joyless, and

94 NOTES IN ENGLAND.

worn, as if he had exhausted all his human life, and saw no happy future before him of rest and blessedness. It also had, singularly, a more kingly look than any other, and resembled, more than any other, the right royal head and air of his unfortunate father. A portrait of Henry the Eighth, by Holbein, was unspeakably ugly and jolly, with eyes as small as a pig's, and with no better expression. He was unwise to sit for his portrait, when he had become so much swallowed up in his body that he could scarcely see out of it. I almost think that Herr Hans Holbein revenged himself at this sitting for having been obliged to paint the "Defender of the Faith" so many times, and hoped to cure his majesty of the desire to be repeated again. Artists have, to be sure, a terrible power in their hands. Richard. the Second looked like a fool in the picture, but it was not a master who executed that. In all these rooms were superbly carved cabinets, chairs, and tables; and in one was a cabinet, toilet, and looking-glass which belonged to Queen Elizabeth, very rich, with plate-glass mirrors all over them, mounted with gold. They were magnificent. Every fireplace, or rather all the woodwork over them, was cut into the most extraordinary heads, in high relief, and some half-figures seemed starting horizontally out of the wall, and both figures and heads were brilliantly colored and gilded. They were portraits generally, and were there in monkish days. The effect was gorgeous, but, upon examination, the

NEWSTEAD ABBEY. 95

work was not superior. Gobelin tapestry of the finest kind, beautiful and finished as paintings, covered the walls. One, tapestry face, in a little boudoir belonging to Henry the Seventh's chamber, was one of the loveliest I ever beheld anywhere. I have never before seen such Gobelin tapestry as that. One of the beds was hung with it, but wrought with silk, not wool. In every room was a centre-table, furnished with every convenience for sitting down to write,--so tempting, that one could hardly resist doing so.

While we were standing in Henry the Seventh's chamber, the housekeeper said that when Lady Lovelace, Lord Byron's daughter, came to Newstead, two years before her death, she slept in that room. She said Lady Lovelace asked of Colonel Wildman a great many questions about her father, and I wished to hear everything she could tell me; but she had not much to say. The lady stayed three days.

"Ada! sole daughter of my house and heart!

There were a great many corridors of polished oak, dangerous to walk over. These had richly-carved chairs, and couches, and cabinets, and one was adorned with two chairs and a sofa that had belonged to Charles the Second. They were of ebony, sculptured into flowers.

I think we next went into the library, a long, rather narrow, and charming apartment, with study tables dispersed through its whole length, delightful

96 NOTES IN ENGLAND.

lounges, and deep chairs to nestle into, with precious books; and above all the bookcases hung fine pictures by Sir Peter Lely. One was of Nelly Gwynn (a famous person in the time of Charles II.). She is exceedingly beautiful in this portrait, with small, graceful, head, and perfect features, a mouth pouting with lovely curves and coral red, and cheeks like roses, and every line of face and form delicate. There were also marble busts upon the bookcases, one of Lord Byron, and some of other poets and of philosophers. From all the windows of the state-chambers and library, the landscape was a picture not painted by human hand, combining wood, lawn, gardens, and water, in every variety of beauty. It was to the state dining-room we went next, formerly the dormitory of the Abbey. Now, it is a superb hall, panelled with rich oak--military weapons, corselets, helmets, stags' heads disposed around--a, vast chandelier in the centre, and gauntleted hands and arms thrusting themselves out on every side, each one grasping a vase-shaped, ground-glass socket for holding a large wax-candle. In the upper portion of each arched window was painted glass, commemorative of Colonel Wildman's and his brother's war-triumphs. At one end of the hall stood a knight in complete armor. Opposite was a gallery for a music-band, sculptured in oak, with Gothic panels and a carved balustrade, making a magnificent effect. Lord Byron used this room for a shooting-gallery. The Colonel must have a fine per-

NEWSTEAD ABBEY. 97

ceptive taste and a vivid sense of fitness, for everything he has done seems to be the work of past ages, with a new polish on it. From this large and stately banqueting-hall, we went into Lord Byron's dining-room. It is exactly as he left it, one or two things added; but nothing taken away. There stands his very dining-table, rather low, but of tolerable size, where he sat and passed round the grim drinking-cup, made of a skull, and mounted with silver. There hangs the picture of his faithful dog Boatswain, one of the few friends who never disappointed him. The same chairs remain, and the wine-coolers and the sideboard; but over the sideboard, where, in Lord Byron's life, there was a door, a great mirror is now inserted in the wall, so as to brighten and reflect the room. The ceiling is heavy and lower than in other parts of the Abbey, and it is very plain and simple in its furniture and arrangement, and there is but one window. It must have been very gloomy, and the kind Colonel felt as if he must give it another bright spot. As the mirror is opposite the window, it repeats it, and gives unexpected light, besides making the room appear twice as large.

The drawing-room came next, and there hangs the famous and authentic portrait of the poet, very handsome, and yet not so handsome as my fine mezzo-tint makes him out to be. That shows a faultless head and face; but this true likeness, though intellectual, noble, proud, and sensitive, is not quite as

5

98 NOTES IN ENGLAND.

symmetrical and Olympian as my old print. The eyes are not so large, the mouth not so Apollo-like, the brow not so spacious and throne-like. This has the clustering hair and beautiful throat, however.

William of Orange and his Queen Mary also are there, and several portraits of the Wildman family, and full-lengths of the Duke of Sussex and of George III., and of a stern and fierce lord, with a child, whose pale, thin, gentle, sweet face, makes wonderful Contrast with that of his father. The father holds a stick over the head of the boy, and the housekeeper told us that with that stick he struck his child upon the head so violently, in a passion, that he became an idiot for the rest of his life. This seemed to me quite a fit picture for the Byron halls; for Lord Byron's mother was so passionate, that she would strike him with tongs, or shovel, or whatever she could find.

All kinds of rich and sumptuous furniture and ornaments were lavished about this vast drawing-room. Cabinets of turquoise-shell and ebony, and turquoise and silver; but nothing interesting as connected with Byron, excepting the far-famed skull cup. This skull Mrs. Shepherd took with great care out of a cabinet, and I held it in my hand a little while. A grim and ghastly goblet indeed it is.

Before this, we had been into the chapel, a very small, but lofty apartment, most comfortably arranged for the family. Up a few steps, on one side, is a thickly-carpeted dais or gallery, where Colonel

NEWSTEAD ABBEY. 99

Wildman sits with his relatives and friends. Even a fireplace is there, to make it entirely luxurious. Below sit the servants and tenants. I cannot reconcile myself into this division of human beings into high and low, rich and poor, noble and simple, in a house of prayer and worship of the one loving Father, who is no respecter of persons. In this the Catholics behave more like humble Christians than the Protestants.

This room was once the Abbot's Holy Place; but Lord Byron had used it for a dog-kennel, until Colonel Wildman restored it to its original purpose. There is now a dim, religious light in it, and a quiet which makes it seem like a sacred spot. Divine service is regularly performed there now.

The cloisters are all perfectly in repair and surround a quadrangle, which contains a fine stone fountain, that once stood in the gardens. Various strange and monstrous beasts are sculptured on it, and probably they once spouted water. It is a very ancient work, a memorial of the monks of past time, who were, perhaps, the artists, and they amused themselves with cutting out the most fantastic forms and heads. It was removed into this small, snug quadrangle to keep it safe. The utmost ruin prevailed when Colonel Wildman purchased the demesne; but now every mullion is restored, every broken stone replaced. One of his nephews is his heir, and will inherit all this. The present Lord Byron is a cousin of the poet, and belongs to Her

100 NOTES IN ENGLAND.

Majesty's household; but though he and other members of the family often Tisit Newstead, they no longer have any right to it.

* * * * * *

Now we were again in the crypt-like entrance-hall, and the housekeeper said that if we wished to see the gardens, we should gain admittance by ringing a bell, just round the tower. * * * We were first led over the grounds which Colonel Wildman has brought from a wilderness and pasture into lovely lawns, shrubberies and woodlands of all varieties of form.

In our way we came to a well, which the man called "the Soly Well," and at that moment appeared a little boy with a crystal cup, and he dipped up for us the pure cold water, and we drank of it. There were very aged yew-trees, also, and I asked a cutting from one of them for a memorial. The gardener said that the long, straight path near the pond was one of the monks' promenades. Turning to the right from this comparative wilderness, we went along an avenue of trees into a garden, called "the garden of the wicked Lord." In the centre of the principal walk were two statues, one of Pan, and the other the guide called, strangely enough, "Pandora after her fall." Pan looks very jolly, with his reed pipe, his hoofs and his horn, and "Pandora after her fall" responds with a broad grin and correspondent hoofs. These works of art are made of lead, and were brought from Italy by "the wicked

NEWSTEAD ABBEY. 101

Lord," and when they were seen by the people, they excited great horror and fear, for they believed them to be Mr. and Mrs. Satan, embodiments of the Lord's wickedness. The form of the fallen Pandora is very beautiful, and her hands exceedingly lady-like. But we were taken to this avenue especially to see the twin trees, upon one of which Byron cut his name when he was last at Newstead--his own name and that of his sister Augusta. This tree, so precious to all who value the poet, has withered from the root, I believe. At any rate, the trunk is sawed off a few inches above the inscription, and a bit of india-rubber cloth is carefully tied over the place. The twin tree flourishes finely, so that the doom of the race involves the other, with the illustrious name. Colonel Wildman thought once of putting the portion that has such a melancholy interest into a glass case, so as to preserve it more effectually; but the old gardener told him he had better let it stay in its original position; for it would be more valuable to all who came to see it, to stand on the spot his lordship stood upon when he carved it, and that it would certainly last as it is now during the Colonel's own life. So it remains. When Barnum, the American showman, came, he sent into the house to request Colonel Wildman to sell it to him for five hundred pounds! The gardener took the message, and the Colonel returned word that he would not take five thousand for it, and suggested that the man who proposed such a monstrous thing should be shot.

102 NOTES IN ENGLAND.

We then entered another garden, in which is an old clematis vine clinging round a tree, and the vine is as large in circumference as the trunk of a common tree, and seems all resolved into threads. But it is alive, and the gardener said no man living could tell its age.

Looking up from this endlessly old clematis, I saw at an oriel window of the Abbey, looking earnestly out, an elderly gentleman, and Mrs. Shepherd by his side. It was Colonel Wildman, trying to see his guest, whose name he had read in the visitors' book.

In an open lawn, near the house, stands the storied oak planted by Byron. It is trimmed bare, far out of reach of human hands; and when I asked the gardener for some leaves, he exclaimed, "Oh, I daren't." He was forbidden to touch it. We saw also the grave of his lordship's dog, Boatswain. There is a monument erected over it, consisting of a broad platform or pedestal of several steps, upon which is placed an urn upon a column, and on one side of the column is a long inscription. Byron intended that his sister, Augusta Leigh, old Murray, and himself, should be buried there with the dog, when he erected this mausoleum; but the dog remains alone, and Lord Byron's tomb is in Hucknall church.

The last thing the old gardener did was to lead us into a cellar-like apartment, containing a large stone piscina, where the monks used to wash their hands.

NEWSTEAD ABBEY. 103

It was a part of the church once; and from it we went into the nave, which now has the sky for its roof, and grass for its pavement. Choir, chancel, all is gone utterly, except the beautiful west front, which is in a line with the front of the Abbey, and has a noble arched window in the centre. Beneath it is the great door, and two smaller arched openings on each side, all richly hung and garlanded with ivy, springing from roots as large round as my arm, or even waist. I asked for a bit of this reverend vine, and had permission to take what I would. The effect of the ivy is lovely, as one stands before the façade, on the lawn. Fancy a decoration of deep lace around the edges of all the arches--a deep lace of green, for the wall inside is wholly covered with the rich foliage. I have never seen any print of this ruin that gave the least idea of its beauty, and I wished excessively to try to sketch it, but had no means. I did not wish to come away. There was a spell about the spot, very difficult to analyze; for I could not tell whether it were more pleasant or sad; but it was the spell of genius and beauty, at any rate. I felt a poignant sorrow when I thought of Byron, brought so near as he was by standing on his very homestead-ground--when I considered his ruined life and poisoned genius--his fiery heart, once innocent and true, turned to wormwood with hate and indignation, and the golden promise of his dawn darkening into a lurid storm before his noon--and no purple sunset when his mortal life sank into

104 NOTES IN ENGLAND.

the night of death. It is certainly one of the saddest of all histories. But his Father in heaven alone could know all his temptations and all the hindrances to the development of his better nature, and He only knew all the gracious aspirations and motions of his spirit, veiled from the world, which so sternly repelled and scorned him, and too savagely dishonored his remains, even when they were brought from Greece, where he endeavored to do a noble deed. I hope that those persons who rejected him were quite sure that they were holier than he. And it is just as well for him that his body lies in Hucknall church, instead of in the glorious old Westminster Abbey. I remembered the divine words, "He that is without sin among you, let him cast the first stone."

The gardener told us that our coachman might have driven us to the inner gate, and that the reason he did not was probably because he wished to have a jolly time at "The Hut." So when we arrived at the aforesaid inner gate I sat down, for I was weary, and obliged the man to meet us there, where he ought to have driven us.

After we had dined, our landlady came suddenly in upon me. She inquired kindly whether we had had a pleasant day at Newstead, and I civilly answered "Yes," and remained with suspended pen, that she might retire, as time is precious. She talked on, however, and presently asked if she might sit down. I was much annoyed, but, of course, I

NEWSTEAD ABBEY. 105

said "Yes"--yet I found she was a perfect mine of interesting facts about the Byrons. By degrees she informed me that she was Mrs. ----, and that her mother was very highly regarded by all the aristocracy , whom she was in the habit of entertaining. She was especially intimate with two of Lord Byron's aunts, who lived in Nottingham; and when Mrs. ---- was a young girl, she was often sent to them by her mother with messages. And once she was going through the Market-place, when she met a little sweep, upon whose bare black toes some one trod, just as she was near him, and the boy squealed out "Oh Lord!" when she heard a voice behind say, "Is it I you want?" Looking round, she saw Lord Byron, who had thus responded to the poor boy in very gentle, musical tones, with great kindness.

* * * * * *

Two years after Lady Lovelace's visit to Newstead, she died, and her body was brought to this house and lay in state in the great drawing-room, covered with a violet velvet pall, embroidered with silver; and twelve wax candles burned round it during the watch. She desired to be buried by the side of her father at Hucknall church; so there lies her body now.

NOTE.--It is perhaps superfluous to say here that this chapter was in type before the publication of Mrs. Stowe's article on Lady Byron.--Publisher.

106

VI.
ON THE WAY TO SCOTLAND.

CARLISLE, June 26th.

WE left the station at ten. Our particular porter was very attentive, and papa wished me to corrupt him with a shilling; but I would not, because I did not put him to any extra trouble. We again had a carriage to ourselves, and were extremely comfortable. The country was so flat and inexpressive, to Preston, that I ceased to look abroad after awhile, and read my books about Holyrood. We arrived at Preston at eleven, and there we were obliged to wait two hours, which was provoking and tiresome; for it was too hot to walk into the town, and there was nothing to see, if it had been cooler.

At one we started again. We found a woman in one corner of oar carriage,--a queer little old-fashioned woman, who was very nearsighted, very nice, and very sleepy, and her sleepiness and short sight together reduced her eyes to a geometrical line. We went to Preston on a Sunbeam, for that was the name of our engine; and at the station was a spir-

ON THE WAY TO SCOTLAND. 107

ited, comely-looking young woman, tastily dressed in a cloth jacket and hat, with two feathers, who went along by the carriages, calling out at each window, "Times, sir? Will you have the Times?" Dickens has memorialized her, somewhere, as a famous little person. At Bay Storse station were a great many large damask-roses, some quite faint with bloom. At Lancaster three interlopers crowded into the carriage (our old lady having left us)--two gentlemen and a woman. One seemed to be a solicitor, both from his looks, and from a paper parcel in his hand, directed to "Doctors' Commons." The solicitor remained till the end of our journey, and was so tired, and folded himself up in such a strange manner, that I thought once he was going to put himself into his pocket. As soon as we were confined for a few moments beneath a roofed station, we were of a light blaze instantly; but the flames were quenched when we issued again into outer spaces. The earth was covered with the white May-weed and buttercups, and the road bordered with alder-bushes, reminding me of American waysides. At one wee town, a bush of lovely dark-red roses shot new life into me, and I begged the guard for one. He plucked one for me, and its perfume was restoring. It was the crimson-velvet rose. The bush was nearly demolished during our halt. Papa solaced himself with his volatile salts, which once nearly cut open his head, with its penetrating, powerful scent.

108 NOTES IN ENGLAND.

After leaving Lancaster, where we peeped at the Castle, and thought of John of Gaunt, the country began to be picturesque and hilly, and soon, afar off, we saw the Scotch mountains on one side, and those of Westmoreland on the other--beautiful, pale outlines on the horizon, wrapped in a hot mist. We rushed for a long distance by a narrow, shallow, but clear stream, flowing over pebbles, at the foot of successive hills, which sometimes were very high. And there were many dry beds of torrents from the summits down to the narrow river. Often, for a good distance, the hills were quite bare, and one looked much like hoary old Nab Scar of English lake-memory. Then again, delicious, shady woodlands covered the slopes, and pretty little villages were embosomed within, on small plains. I saw very few cattle,--only one or two flocks of sheep, no longer shaggy with long locks, but running, comfortable, in sheared skins, enjoying the breezes. It was enchanting to see the mountains, after so much flat, and I only wished your eyes were resting on them as well as ours.

I was struck with a singular arrangement in some of the pastures. In each of the four corners of a square lot, trees were merrily flourishing in a triangular pound, exactly as if they had been caught straggling about as vagabonds, and fastened up in groups for safe-keeping, while not a shrub was to be seen on the whole pasture besides.

At Penrith we saw the ruins of a castle close by

ON THE WAY TO SCOTLAND. 109

the track, a very few remains of thick brick-walls and battlements. Some bits stood up miraculously--so narrow and unprotected that I should think a high wind would throw them over. They were of great depth, however.

We passed Milnthorpe, the town of roses, where, two years ago, we all stopped and took the stage for Windermere and Newby Bridge, as you will remember. And you remember my charming coachman, done up in drab, with a face like a mammoth peony, bursting out of his collar. Ah! the happy days of Windermere! But there were, no roses to be seen in Milnthorpe now, and we shot by in a few minutes. At five we arrived at Carlisle, and the guard said "The Bush" was the best hotel, so here we are. A grave, ministerial, dignified butler received us, and we found ourselves in a nice, pleasant parlor, looking upon the High Street (I suppose). At the end of double-twisted turns of corridors are our chambers, side by side. I hastened to mine; for with a hundred miles of soot and dust settled upon me, what must I have looked like? It seemed to me as if I had an entirely new face when it came out of the bath.

Carlisle is on the river Eden; and after dinner we walked out to a bridge over it, and the country beyond was beautiful. A pretty church lifted its spire from a mass of foliage on an eminence--Stanwix Church, in Stanwix. We were searching for the cathedral, and at last I asked a boy where it was,

110 NOTES IN ENGLAND

and found we had already passed the direct street leading to it. So we went to the castle. A wide walk surrounds it at the foot of the walls, and this walk commands an extensive and lovely scene of plain, river, woods, and, afar off, the mountains of Cumberland, Westmoreland, and Scotland. The walls are extremely high, and supported by enormous buttresses, very close together. On this walk we breathed the most delicious air. A stone bridge, with low arches and round Norman pillars, crossed the river Eden, and lambs grazed on the sunny green meadow, and we could see the high road to Scotland. On one side of our broad walk was a steep terrace, and then the strong, high walls; on the other, an abrupt descent of a hundred feet, covered with trees and shrubberies to the very edge of the smooth, fair meadow. So we circumambulated until we came to the castle entrance, where a soldier was sentinel at the outer postern. We passed him to the inner, and there a youthful artillery officer, with sword and cylinder fur-cap, took charge of us. Several men, striped with red and gold, and wretched in heavy cossack helms, lay about the settles. Queen Mary Stuart was confined in this castle. That hapless queen seems to have tried the prison-power of all the castles in the land. We saw the site of the tower she occupied, of which the staircase only remains, and looked at the terrace where she walked for exercise; and then we went round the battlements. There were three old-fash-

ON THE WAY TO SCOTLAND. 111

ioned iron guns, not used now, pointing to possible enemies on two sides. Across one opening, wide enough to admit a man, boards were nailed, because, as our young officer said, the sentinels had sometimes swung down from it, to go and have a merry revel for the night. It seemed much too high; but he said that when men were very tipsy, it did not hurt them to fall so far; and then he confessed he had dropped down himself, and knew well it could be done. But some legs had at last been broken, and one man had been killed, so now it was fastened up. The view was wonderfully beautiful from this height, which was the roof of the donjon-keep. We could look down upon Queen Mary's tower also; and on the steep ascent to this promenade, we were shown Queen Mary's well, which our guide said was the best water in Carlisle; but we had no cup for tasting it. This young soldier told us that life was very dull in the fortress; and he looked extremely joyless, with no ready smiles. He was handsome--his profile gem-like, really a Greek head and face, and he was doubtless as brave as handsome, for on his breast he wore a medal, which had Victory crowning a hero on one side, and her majesty, Victoria, on the other. He had been to the Crimea, and had not a sick day there, though he suffered on the voyage. Every one of the present garrison had been there also. When he took the medal from his breast to show us, he was just as joyless as before, and the memory of his brave deeds

112 NOTES IN ENGLAND.

gave him no animation. There were but twenty men in the castle, so that the duty was very heavy, he said, the turns about came so often, and he could sleep only three nights of the week. It is the monotony that seems to weigh upon him like a mill-stone, and crush the faculty and inclination to be gay out 6f his heart. These soldiers are condemned to celibacy, and lead prisoners' lives, in effect. Oh that the lion would make haste to lie down with the. lamb, and let the little child lead them!--so that free-born men should not have to live such unnatural lives, and suffer so much wrong and evil.

Carlisle is an old Roman station, and doubtless this castle was the site of one of their fastnesses. William the Conqueror rebuilt it, and William II. repaired it; and it was taken and lost by the Scots and English over and over again for very many years, and was like a ball tossed from the hands of the one to the hands of the other, in a game centuries long. It was the outpost of the English against the Scots, just over the Border. Mary Stuart's keeper, Lord Scrope, once restored its dilapidations; for the officer said it was exceeding old, built before the Christian era, two thousand years ago.

He took us into the prison-cells, in one of which he had himself been locked up for two nights in succession; and he spoke of being punished, with the same quiet manner and simplicity as he told us about his medal. There was no visible emotion in him, and it was heartrending to think of his object-

ON THE WAY TO SCOTLAND. 113

less life, so without interest, that it was all one to him whether he were a prisoner in a cell or an officer keeping guard--whether he wore a medal on his breast, or broke bounds and sprang down from the battlements.

He recounted a legend of Lady Scrope, who betrayed the castle for the love of Queen Mary, and who was shot, as she tried to escape through a door which he showed us, now forever closed. There is a deep moat on one side; and on the summit of a slope Queen Mary walked, and watched games of ball played by her suite. She also rode on the lovely meadow; but Sir Francis Knolles, who was appointed by Queen Elizabeth to guard her, and, though unwilling, was perfectly faithful, wrote to his royal mistress that he feared she might be rescued, and taken back to Scotland by some of her friends, if he allowed her so much freedom; and finally, she was removed, for greater safety, to Bolton Castle.

Until Scotland and England became one kingdom, Carlisle was the scene of perpetual victory and defeat; constantly destroyed, renewed, burnt, razed, and built up again, like a phoenix rising from its ashes. But now it grows yearly, and is what the old chroniclers would call a very fair town, and peace folds her wings over it. A very short time ago, the keep was an arsenal, and there were many arms there, which made a fine show; but they are all taken away now. One of the largest rooms in it was used last Christmas for a ball-room, and a hun-

114 NOTES IN ENGLAND.

dred and fifty people made merry in the grim old place. I was glad to see our sad attendant smile at the mention of this jolly dance. There was no more to see, and we bade farewell to the handsome, triste, and brave young sentinel, who had interested me very much, and depressed me too.

We now went in search of the cathedral, and, going through a deep arched gateway of stone, we entered a Close--another cathedral Close--but very small, and, instead of rooks cawing on lofty trees, we heard the twitting of innumerable sparrows. At Peterboro, the effect of the Minster and its environment was like a hymn of the gods: here it was a simple song. The building looked to have been repaired very thoroughly, and recently, all the corners and sculptures being crisp and unworn. The renewed part is of reddish stone, and the old Norman part is of gray stone, and it is renewed in the decorated English style, and some intermediate portions are early English. We admired greatly the south porch, with its lovely wreath of carved flowers and birds, and its fantastic corbels, and also two seraphim as corbels to the principal arch of the entrance. The east window is vast, with a heading of flowing lines, filled with painted glass, all the compartments adorned with cinquefoils and trefoils. Statues of saints stood on canopied brackets, and lovely little circular lights were placed here and there. We could find no grand portal. The western front, instead of a lofty door or window or tower, was a wall,

ON THE WAY TO SCOTLAND. 115

supported by the hugest buttresses. We could look through, the iron gate in the southern porch, but it was locked. Through it we could see the transepts. The clerestories (which are the upmost range of arched galleries and windows) were of Norman architecture, gray and ancient, and the rest looked new. There was no sign of a verger, and we thought it too late to go for one.

On one side of the Close was a very old building indeed, which I thought might be a part of the Abbey, and there were houses in this retreat, probably of the Dean and Canons. We could only conjecture of these things then, and left it till to-morrow.

June 27th.--J---- and I have been to the cathedral. * * * We tried to get there before the morning service, because we had so little time. We found a venerable man working in the grounds; and when he discovered we wished for the verger, he dropped his spade and went for him, and returned with him immediately. There was a mild, pensive, contemplative look in his face, and a patient quiet in his manner and figure very pleasant, and almost saint-like. Yet he was a homely, plain man, with no appearance of good fortune and good cheer, Like the ruddy, gentlemanly, well-informed verger of Lincoln. There was refinement, however, in my twilight verger, John Scott, which his shabby coat did not conceal. As soon as he began to talk, I found he was scholarly and cultivated, and that the cathedral was his

116 NOTES IN ENGLAND.

"great darling." He was perfectly delightful in his naturally poetic, dreamy way, and I found he had a fine perception of art. He told me that Cromwell had utterly destroyed the west end of the building. William Rufus founded the original conventual church, and Henry I. finished it in 1101, in the Norman style. After the injury of a great fire, it was repaired in the early English. As it was long in reconstruction, there are specimens of the geometrical and flowing lines; but all blend together wonderfully, just as variety of character makes a harmonious company, and two thousand different voices can blend into one mellifluous tone, as happens just now at the Crystal Palace. The aisles of the choir have been scraped of plaster and wash, and now look perfectly fresh, and the hue is pale porphyry, like the stone outside, and the groined arches are ever beautiful. The Lady-chapel was demolished as well as the west front, and the vast east window is new. It is to be entirely filled with painted glass, and the top is already full, as I perceived yesterday; and now that I saw it on the right side, I found it exceedingly rich. A Berlin sculptor was employed upon the carvings, and the verger said he was a man of extraordinary genius, and made sketches with no effort, and then cut the stone, or cut with no pattern at all. All the strange gurgoyles and corbels and bosses were his handiwork, and had in them the true spirit of the ancient conceptions. In the choir is one brass left upon the floor, of which

ON THE WAY TO SCOTLAND. 117

the verger has made a rubbing, by putting paper over it and using black-lead, so that the result is like an engraving or mezzotint. There were so many beautiful arches and circles of lights, that I had to pull out my pencil and go to sketching, and John Scott seemed well pleased that I cared to do so. One shrine was adorned with a carving of the badge of the Earl of Leicester--the ragged staff, at least. The tabernacle-work of the choir is quite black with eld, and a side screen between the stalls and the altar was of the same date, and covered with heads of saints, and every imaginable device of flower, bird, and beast. The verger showed me what looked like a brass tablet of a devout bishop, very delicately engraved, which he told me had recently been electroplated with gold, and that he had had an engraving taken of it. He was very proud of this.

But the hour for the service approached, and he had to leave us once in a while to ring the bell; and fearing to interrupt him, I reluctantly took leave of him and his "great darling," just as his Reverence the Dean issued from his house, in white linen robes, with a scarlet scapulaire and a square-topped cap, preceded by an official with a silver mace. As he appeared, a troop of young choristers ran down the steps of the old building I had supposed a remnant of the Abbey (and it was the former refectory of the Abbey), and followed him into the cathedral, when at once the organ rolled forth its thunder.

118

119

NOTES IN SCOTLAND.

I.
BURNS' REGION.
DUMFRIES,--MAUCHLINE:,--AYR,--BONNIE DOON.

DUMFRIES, June 27th.

HERE we are, in Burns' town, where he lived many years, and died, and was buried, and where the great mausoleum was built over his body.

MAUCHLINE, June 38th.

I COULD write no more at Dumfries than those few lines, and those were written in the station, while waiting for the train to fetch us here. We concluded to come to Mauchline, instead of going on rapidly to Glasgow, as we at first intended. * * * The weather has become cooler this afternoon. The comet has probably switched aside its fiery tail, and we are restored to England's customary, moderate heat. Our carriage from Carlisle was more luxurious than usual, and quite private to us. Indeed, there were no other first-class passengers. We passed the Annan river, which doubtless flows through Annandale. The country was very flat all

120 NOTES IN SCOTLAND.

about there, even to the horizon, with only occasional clumps of foliage. Very soon "we came to Gretna, and then to the famous Gretna Green. Gretna Green is on the very line of division between England and Scotland; and young people who resolved to be united whether their parents would let them or no, and who did not wish to have their bans published, went there to be married without benefit of clergy. I do not think the custom holds now--

but perhaps it does. I saw a lovely wood, where new brides and bridegrooms might wander at will,

and the country was all very pretty thereabout. Afar on the left was Solway Firth, to the shore of which, in Annandale, Burns went, for the sake of bathing in the sea, just before he died. He had rheumatism in his limbs, and the salt water relieved him for a little while.

After passing Gretna Green, we were refreshed by the looming up of a mountain on the left, and now we were in Scotland. It had a different aspect to England. It does not look so well brought up, so delicately nurtured and polished. Old Scotia seems not to have combed her hair--the grass looks rougher, and there is a wilder expression on the moors and hills.

We passed Cammertrees and Buthwell, and now the lovely wreaths of blooming sweetbrier began to beautify the hedge-rows; and soon the steep banks were covered with the yellow gorse in great profusion, and the wild pink and bowers of honeysuckle

BURNS' REGION. 121

(or "beesuckle," as R--- calls it). The foxglove also abounded, stiff and stately, holding all its cells open for the fairies to nestle in. We stopped at Thornhill, and mountain beyond mountain rose in the distance; but first we passed through Closeburn (no doubt named so from one of those shy little streams called "burns" by the Scotch), overshadowed by foliage, and closely folded in by narrow banks. After Carron Bridge we plunged into a tunnel, and were cool for the space of two minutes and a half; and issuing thence, J---- shouted, "A ruin! a ruin!" and on the left there stood a few shattered walls of a small castle--a border fortress, perhaps; but I do not know its story. At the Sanquhar station a little Scotch bairn called out "Glasgow Morning Times" in such broad accents, and so musical too, that we thought we would buy a paper of him--especially as he was the first who spoke Scotch to us on Scottish ground. Presently we saw "Bute" on an engine, which looked classical, and at last arrived at Dumfries, where we were to remain three or four hours. So our luggage was locked up, and we walked into the town, red-hot as it was, near noon of day. It is a large town, and we toiled along, and turned down Shakspeare Street, and by diligent inquiries arrived at Burns Street, and found Burns' house. It is a low house, of two stories, and we were admitted by a smiling maid, who put us into a small parlor, and went to call her mistress. The mistress was a loosely strung woman, with a

6

122 NOTES IN SCOTLAND.

pale, washy face; and she said this was Burns' parlor. So we looked earnestly at it, and tried to realize his existence there, till she took us up-stairs into the room in which he died. It was also small and low, and had a side closet, where, perhaps, he wrote and studied. The house is now an Industrial School. It is difficult to conceive how people can live in such small places. After lingering as long, as we liked to detain the woman, we left this scene of most melancholy days in the poet's life. He had no thrift nor prudence; and though he was an excise-man, and had a tolerable income, he yet spent so profusely that his family suffered from want, and sometimes did not feel sure of enough to eat. He had a wife and four children to maintain, and was wretchedly ill himself. In days of former despondency and gloom he had sung--

"I wish that I were dead, but I no am like to die."

Now he wished to live, but was daily like to die. The government, with singular meanness and cruelty, deprived him of part of his income when he was ill, though he already belonged to the kingdom through his genius. Genius and prudence seldom come together, especially when it is poetical genius; and he wrote most eloquently and pathetically to this effect himself. "There is not among all the martyrologies that were ever penned so rueful a narrative as the lives of the poets. In the comparative view of wretches, the criterion is not what

BURNS' REGION. 123

they are doomed to suffer, but what they are able to bear. Take a being of our kind: give him a stronger imagination, and a more delicate sensibility,--which, between them, will ever engender a more ungovernable set of passions than are the usual lot of man; implant in him an irresistible impulse to some idle vagary--such as arranging wild-flowers in fantastical nosegays--tracing the grasshopper to his haunt by his chirping song--watching the frisks of the little minnows in the sunny pool; in short, set him adrift after some pursuit which shall eternally mislead him from the paths of lucre, and yet curse him with a keener relish than any man living for the pleasures that lucre can purchase; fill up the measure of his woes by bestowing on him a spurning sense of his own dignity; and you have created a wight nearly as miserable as a [poor] poet."

In judging of these finely-strung, fiery-hearted beings, it would be well always to remember this plea of Burns. Ordinary mortals cannot estimate the dangers and temptations of those who are gifted, as Tennyson sings, with "the Love of love, the Hate of hate, and Scorn of scorn."

After leaving the house, we walked up the High Street to the Market-place, and into a hotel to lunch. This hotel was the one in which Prince Charles occupied a room; but we did not care to see it. It was far more interesting to look at the Globe Inn on the other side, which Burns used to frequent,--

124 NOTES IN SCOTLAND.

by how much a true poet is greater than an indifferent prince! Upon the windows of that inn Burns scribbled poetry with his diamond, which was a dangerous weapon in his hand--more fatal than a sword; for with it he often indelibly recorded his indignation, his satire, and his wondrous wit, much to the detriment of his fellow-men, if they had been guilty of a mean or hypocritical action.

After luncheon, we went to St. Michael's churchyard to see the mausoleum; and we were much annoyed, in our strolls through the town of Dumfries, with the noisome odors, giving us a sad fore-taste of the notorious uncleanness of Scotch towns generally. A grave-digger unlocked the door of the churchyard, and then resumed his grim occupation. We wandered on by ourselves, hoping we were to be free; but a woman with keys soon overtook us, and asked us if we wished to see the mausoleum. We found, therefore, that it was locked up. It is round, with a dome, and formerly was open to the air; but the marble was becoming excessively defaced, so that now the spaces between the pillars and arches are glazed. The sculpture is by Turnerelli, in very high relief. Burns stands with the plough, and Scotland's Muse hovers in the air, about to wrap him in her mantle. He is looking toward her with a surprised and animated air, and the face is said to be a perfect likeness. The figure is stout and well made, and the head large and compact, with clustering hair, large eyes and mouth, and the

BURNS' REGION. 125

whole expression pleasant. I thought the hovering figure pretty and graceful. Tablets of marble hang on the walls, commemorative of all the members of his family. He died on the 22d July, 1796, when but thirty-seven years old, sixty-one years ago; and in 1815, when his coffin was removed to its present abiding place, the clustering dark curls on the head were as glossy as in life. The woman who was our guide was remarkably intelligent and good-looking, and we thought she talked English wonderfully well; but it seems she was a Cumberland and not a Scotch person. There is a grand-daughter of Burns still at Dumfries, whom I wish we could have visited, but this we were not able to accomplish.

The tombstones in the cemetery were different to any I have ever seen. They were nearly all very high, a mere façade, with an inscription; and the trade or profession of the individual always put beside his name: i. e., "John Lookup, skinner"--(I cannot imagine what that trade can be, unless it was what Apollo practised in respect of Marsyas),--"Alexander Johnstone, painter." There were three ancient monuments, the oldest of 1529. Cromwell half pommelled them down, but the ruins remain, and it seems astonishing that some violent storm does not wholly overthrow them; but the guide averred that no wind could move a stone. She took us inside the church, to show us the marble figure of a little child, whose father is the sculptor, Dunbar. The original baby-form lay asleep, draped

126 NOTES IN SCOTLAND.

only in its beauty and innocence, and a lady who saw it was so much affected by its repose and loveliness, that she wished it for her own, and the father actually sold it for a hundred guineas, and carved this one in place of the other for himself. He has slightly draped this. It is a pity the first was sold, for it was doubtless far more beautiful,--cut "in love and terror,"--though this is also sweet and expressive of a living calm. We then went into Burns' pew, and I sat down where he used to sit,--a great pillar intervening between himself and the minister; "for he did not much like the ministers," said the woman. He may have had reason in this; but that he was deeply religions, no one can doubt who reads "The Cotter's Saturday Night." It was here that he sat, when he composed the poem upon the unspeakable creature upon a lady's bonnet. The lady so unfortunately immortalized was seated directly before him, in a more stylish pew than his, lined with cloth:

"Ha! whare ye gaun, ye crowlin' ferlie?
Your impudence protects you sairly:
I canna say but ye strunt rarely
    Owre gauze and lace;
Tho' faith, I fear ye dine but sparely
    On sic a place.
 
"Ye ugly, creepin', blastit wonner,
Detested, shunn'd by saunt an' sinner,
How dare you set your fit upon her,
    Sae fine a lady!
Gae somewhere else and seek your dinner,
    On some puir body."

BURNS' REGION. 127

We enjoyed much seeing the scene of this poem, and it was wholly unexpected. This was the end of our Dumfries excursion, and now we are at Mauchline.

Mauchline is the village close by Burns' farm of Mossgiel, where he lived several years with his mother and sister, and brother Gilbert. It was at Mossgiel where he disturbed the field-mouse and crushed the daisy, and composed his celebrated poems upon each. It was in Mauchline that Jane Armour, his wife, was born and bred, and where- he finally married her. An old inn in the village street was the scene of his cantata, "The Jolly Beggars." We are at Loudon Hotel, the principal one--a two-story, rather long house, with a look of newness and neatness. We were shown into a homely parlor, and the maid took me up into the chambers. One had two closed recesses containing beds, which is a Scotch style, and saves the expense of bedsteads, because a plain frame or box is merely nailed up to hold the bed, three sides being the walls of the room. Folding-doors are in front, which, when shut, turn the apartment into a parlor. * * * The house seems clean, and the landlady is a nice little woman, and the landlord a well-read man, if we may judge from his library in J----'s bedroom.

After tea we walked up the village street, and I found out which was "Posie Nancy's Inn," where "The Jolly Beggars" caroused and told their stories. There are but three or four streets.

128 NOTES IN SCOTLAND.

Just as the green country opens is a beautiful mansion where Lord Chief Justice Hope resides; and an avenue of stately trees, making a superb arched way, was very tempting to enter, but as it was private we did not like to go in, though the gardener thought his lordship would be very willing.

29th. Sunday.--This morning we went to kirk. It was sacrament day, and the services were four hours long, three of which we stayed, the last hour and a half much against my will and capabilities. The kirk is as plain and homely as a house can be made, with long, narrow, high pews on each side. I do not accede to these barn-like houses of worship, while close at hand such lordly dwellings are erected for man's residence--as that of the Lord Chief Justice, for instance. Why not render our best homage in art and architecture to our Supreme Father, as well as our best devotion? The cathedral builders were right, I think. Down the centre was a peculiar arrangement. A narrow table reached from the pulpit to the door of entrance, and on each side sat the communicants, as closely as they could crowd, at the Lord's table. It was a kind of interminable pew, for behind the seats was a back-piece, all the way up and down. The chief pulpit stood high, and beneath it was another one, very tiny, like a box, and ministers occupied both. First, the most exalted minister gave out a hymn, or rather a psalm, and then the lower clergyman began to sing alone,

BURNS' REGION. 129

in a loud key. Before he had finished the second line, a sweet female voice joined in, and before the end of the fourth line nearly every person in the whole congregation was in full unison. This had a very beautiful effect indeed. I can compare it only to the sun, rising over a river of closed lilies, as it used to do in Concord, and as the rays struck each lily, the chalices opened and gave out their incense. All around me this gradual waking into song was quite perceptible. There was no organ, dulcimer, or harp, but the human voices were the only instruments swelling into praise. An exceeding long prayer followed, not so edifying--another psalm, and then the sermon. My attention was now directed to the minister, and he was an extraordinary looking person. His round, swarthy face was set in a frame of black hair and whiskers; his brows were black and heavy; and when his face was still, cast a shadow with his eyelashes. But in speaking, he continually lifted these heavy eyebrows to their utmost possibility, so that the space between them and his eyes looked like a white desert; and as he kept up an incessant lifting, it had a ghastly effect, something like lightning. In addition to this hard working of the eyebrows, he twisted his mouth awry at every word, as if he had the St. Vitus' dance. His voice was naturally low, and through his long sermon he strained it up to a falsetto tone, and screamed; and I think that very likely this effort sent up his eyebrows. You may fancy the effect of

130 NOTES IN SCOTLAND.

all these manifestations. He spoke, besides, in such a broad, Scotch accent, that I could not catch an entire sentence from beginning to end of the discourse. His text was, "Simon, son of Jonas, lovest thou me?" When the sermon was over, he descended into a semicircular enclosure, and actually preached another long homily to the people about the qualifications for communicants; and when that was finished, he turned to the members of the church who were sitting at the table, and actually delivered a third sermon! Then the bread and wine were administered by five elders, while another psalm was sung; and when those then at the table had partaken, the minister--yes, truly, the minister--uttered a FOURTH address, to admonish them of their renewed obligations. It might have been short and impressive, but it was long, and too diffuse and wearisome. Finally, his scream ceased to torture my ear, and all who sat at the table rose and left the kirk. I was now sure that no more would be said, both because the poor man must be exhausted, and because enough, and far more than enough, had been already said. But as the table filled again with another company, a new minister, fresh and strong, took the former one's place, and commenced another exordium! This was the fifth. I began to grow so faint from the long confinement in the hot atmosphere, and from such a strain upon my attention and ear, that I feared some catastrophe, and wished to get out. But the pews were very narrow,

BURNS' REGION. 131

and six great women had crowded into mine after we had taken possession, and it was impossible to escape, unless they had all filed into the aisle first. This could not be done during such a solemn rite. I concluded that when this second group had received the communion, I would tell the women they must give place, and let us go. My despair grew to its height when the minister commenced the sixth sermon, and at its close, I seized a woman and opened my lips to cry out for deliverance, when, fortunately, they all started up and went to the table. I was nearly speechless with fatigue, and after dinner was obliged to lie down for a few minutes, but could not spend much time resting, as we were to drive to Mossgiel and Ballochmyle during the afternoon.

We ordered a carriage, the only one in Mauchline; and it proved a remarkably comfortable sort of chariot, and we drove to Burns' farm of Mossgiel, about a mile from the village. When we came to a very old hawthorn-tree on the side of the road, the coachman stopped, alighted, and opened the door, without a word from us, and I could not think what he meant. But he informed us that this old tree was Burns' "Lousy Thorn," and that pilgrims to Mossgiel had cut its twigs so constantly for memorials that it was nearly demolished, as, indeed, we could perceive. "Some of it has gone to France, and some to America," quoth he. So papa duly cut off a bit, out of love to the poet. Beggars used to

132 NOTES IN SCOTLAND.

rest under it on the highway, and Burns himself, from Mossgiel, often enjoyed its shade and met the beggars, and their deplorable squalor gave it its hardly-to-be-spoken name. How singular that a poet should have made that unmentionable insect classical!

We were now on high land. The difficulty with the farm used to be that it was too high and cold, so that it was only good for pasturage, and it still is famed for its excellent cheeses, as aforetime. Soon we turned into the field in which stands the homestead, and the cottage was entirely concealed by a hawthorn hedge, twelve or fifteen feet high! Passing through an opening in the hedge, we drove directly into the farm-yard, round three sides of which were thatched buildings of stone, plastered white. One was a cow-barn, another a storehouse, and one the human dwelling. But the human dwelling was not at all better than the barn. An incredibly dirty woman and dirtier children came out of the cottage to look at us, and the woman said the family had gone to sacrament. (If that were so, the sacrament lasted all the afternoon as well as all the morning.) She went into the storehouse, and the driver told us we could enter the cottage and look about, if we chose, and we did so. On the right hand of the narrow lobby was the kitchen, and a small girl tending a baby, with two other children, in the midst of the utmost defilement you can imagine. Indeed, you cannot imagine it. It exceeded anything to be

BURNS' REGION. 133

found in any land but Scotland. The girl who held the baby was pretty; but her face was so soiled that it was difficult to see through the grime; and she was shy, and did not know how old the baby might be, nor could she answer any question whatever. We looked at the kitchen in which Bums once had lived. On one side were two recesses--boxes, holding beds, and these beds were indescribable, and all tossed up. Though it was nearly six o'clock in the afternoon, not anything was put in order--no rag nor cloth was smooth on those horrible beds. I was afraid to stay long in such a place. We groped farther into the lobby, and found on the other side a room, where a youth sat, eating bread and cheese. He did not seem at all surprised to see us, and continued eating in great composure. There were two more box-beds, larger than those in the kitchen, though not in better order. We then went up the short staircase, and saw a small bedroom on each side. One contained two beds, and clothing thrown about, and I think was a degree worse in condition than the kitchen. The other was covered with nice-looking cheeses, and really clean,--the only clean spot in or around the house. It is infinitely melancholy to think of Burns,--a genius, a poet of fine perceptions, a being, as he says, "of a stronger imagination and more delicate sensibility" than common men--living in such a den. One other door opened into a store-closet, and this was the whole. I was exceedingly depressed at finding Burns' home

134 NOTES IN SCOTLAND.

so squalid. I only hope and believe that his mother, who was a woman of remarkable piety and sense, was also unusually neat for a Scotchwoman, and that she and her daughter kept everything clean, and sweet. This I will believe, though papa says he does not. We peeped into the barn and saw some goodly cows, and then walked down a path, and papa leaned on an old gate, upon which, no doubt, Burns often leaned, and looked off upon the far-distant hills and mountains, with smiling plains between. Near by were fine old trees; and presently the young man, who was so diligently eating bread and cheese, came forth and told us that beneath the finest and largest of these--a plane-tree--Burns composed a great many of his songs. Two children followed us about, staring unweariedly, and at last I asked one his name, and he replied that it was Johan Wiley (I think the people here pronounce John, Johan), and finally we mounted into our chariot, and drove across the very field--yes, the actual field where Burns disturbed the mouse and ploughed down the daisy--immortal mouse! immortal daisy! The field was thickly covered with daisies, as if they had come in crowds to thank him for his exquisite poem on their progenitor.

Papa sprang out and gathered a handful of the myriads of daisies, and I have pressed some for memory; but the houseless little mousie has utterly gone, leaving not even its wee tail behind, though he is safely embalmed in the poem--more safely

BURNS' REGION. 135

than any royal mummy, or, I might more aptly say, than any fly in amber; for amber better symbolizes this poetry than cotton cerements and gold-embroidered wrappings, steeped in spices.

So we left Mossgiel, and papa mounted the box of the barouche with the driver, to get a wider view of the country, and I was left to my meditations. I could not recover from the dirty cottage. I could not see how anything pure and high and heavenly could possibly grow and flourish in such a noisome atmosphere, with no space for decency, no leisure for order. But God's ways are not ours, and His thoughts are not as our thoughts, and doubtless He has his own shield to guard the innocent heart from wrong; and the soul is not necessarily soiled with the body.

The afternoon was delicious, for a cooler temperature was coming on, and the scenery was beautiful on every side. We now were in pursuit of Ballochmyle, where Burns met the lady upon whom he wrote the song--

"The bonnie lass o' Ballochmyle."

Ballochmyle is the estate of the Alexanders, and the "bonnie lass" was a Miss Alexander. We soon arrived there, and from one point we had a fine view of a new bridge of great beauty, with one mighty arch in the centre, and three small pointed arches' on each side. The central arch was the frame of a

136 NOTES IN SCOTLAND.

pretty picture of hill and wood and meadow in the distance, and the valley was full of rich foliage, that covered the lower portions of the piers.

Then we saw the very bridge on which the lady was musing. The road was deeply shaded on each side by thick woods for a short distance, and a fairy "bridge of iron spanned the road far over our heads, springing from the foliage-covered rocks on one side to the thickets on the other, and leading to enchanting recesses both ways. It was to some of these bosquets that the lady was wending when Burns saw her. It is certainly one of the most romantic spots in the world. The Ayr flows on the right, taking a bend just there, and a lofty cliff rises almost sheer from the stream, and the wildest, freshest charm pervades the whole environment. The waters are shallow, and the pebbles gleam distinctly through the pellucid ripples. On one side the perpendicular crag, on the other the meadow--not smooth and glossy like Genoa velvet, as an English meadow would be, however, but unkempt, because, as I said before, Old Scotia will not dress and smooth her tangled green hair. Dear me! It was a place to dream in--a place to fall in love--a place to sing such songs as Burns sang.

"Her look was like the morning's eye,
    Her air like Nature's vernal smile--
Perfection whispered, passing by,
    'Behold the lass o' Ballochmyle.'"

BURNS' REGION. 137

Most reluctantly we left the delicate bridge so "high uphung."

Soon we began to skirt the estate of Sir James Boswell, the biographer of Dr. Johnson. It was Auchinleck on the right, and Ballochmyle on the left. We then drove to Catrine, which is called "Scotland's clean town," as if there were but one. It was there that Burns first saw a Lord, the Lord Daer, a nobleman of the loveliest character, whom He afterward immortalized in a poem, beginning--

"This wot ye all whom it concerns,
I, Rhymer Robin, Robin Burns,
     October twenty-third,
A ne'er to be forgotten day--
Sae far I clambered up the brae--
     I dinnered wi' a Lord!"

Catrine was not a very pretty town. All the way back to Mauchline village "we constantly had on one side or the other the immense estate of Ballochmyle. As we came along the little old street in which this London hotel stands, I took a last look at "Posie Nancy's Inn," where the Jolly Beggars told their stories.

29th.--It rains hard, but we are going to Ayr at two o'clock to see Burns' birth-place, near "the banks and braes o' bonnie Doon." Good-bye!

138 NOTES IN SCOTLAND.

AYR, June 29th, 1857.

WE arrived at this fair town at four o'clock, in a dreary, cold rain, and I shall not be able to go out to see anything till to-morrow. Papa and J----, however, have been out, and walked over "the twa' brigs of Ayr."

We drove from the Loudon Hotel to the station in Mauchline in the rain, not having time to stay for fair weather; and while waiting for the carriages, we saw a venerable gentleman walking up and down, waiting, as we were. Looking at his portmanteau accidentally as I passed it, I saw the name "Alexander," and no doubt it was an Alexander of Ballochmyle, some cousin or brother of "the lovely lass o' Ballochmyle," whom Burns met. No, it could not have been a brother, but it might have been a nephew, perhaps. I glanced with interest at him, for the glamour of poetry enveloped him, so potent is genius to glorify every slightest thing it touches. Would not the lips of the lordly Alexanders have once curled in disdain at the suggestion that a ploughman could invest their race with a mysterious charm?

In due time we were safe in our carriage, and first stopped at Kilmarnock, and at Stuarton the towers of Eglinton Castle appeared afar off. At Dairy junction we changed, to part off from the Glasgow line. For if you will look on the map, you will see that we were obliged to come farther south again to

BURNS' REGION. 139

get to Ayr, which is almost in a line with Mauchline, to the west. Dairy is on the river Garnock, and next to it is Kilwinning, in which is the ruin of an abbey; but it is flat and sandy, and on our right we began to see gleams of the Firth of Clyde; and the Isle of Arran presently appeared. Ardrossan, a sea-bathing town, is situated beyond the sands, on the shores of the Firth of Clyde, and two fragments of the Castle of Ardrossan remain on a promontory. This castle was a scene of one of Wallace's exploits. I had a glimpse of a gable of the ruined abbey, which was once very grand, founded in 1140, in memory of St. Winning. John Knox knocked it to pieces, and "more's the pity." Kilwinning is a famous archery town, and here was a nearer view of Eglinton Castle. It is the residence of the Montgomeries, Earls of Eglinton, and I wish we could have gone to it, for the sake of seeing the enormous trees for which it is famous. Twenty years ago the present Earl, then a young man, held a tournament with all suitable accompaniments, in the true, olden style. Do not you wish we had been there? For five hundred years the Montgomeries have been lords of the demesne.

We now passed through Irvine, chiefly famous for being the place where Burns, when a youth, endeavored to learn to be a flax-dresser, his only attempt at a trade. The shop in which he was established burnt down soon after he began, and then he gave it up. All his pecuniary efforts failed.

140 NOTES IN SCOTLAND.

We next dashed into Troon, in fall view of the Isle of Arran, which looked very near, "and therefore foreboded rain," said a wight, who was our compagnon de voyage thus far. It was not necessary to say it "foreboded" rain, for it already rained, and when we brought up at Ayr, it still rained, and was dreary and sloppy and cold. We had to wait at the station interminably for a fly, and in the waiting-rooms there was never a seat, and they were very dirty and Scotchy. But the fly came after our patience had had its perfect work, and now we are quite nicely accommodated at the King's Arms. We have a large, handsome drawing-room, polished footmen and butlers, and a pleasant though wiry-faced landlady.

June 30th.--This morning I looked out of the window in the broad daylight at half-past three! and was thankful to see the streets perfectly dry. I asked for_no more; for this would do without sunshine, though the sunshine would have been most welcome. So, soon after ten, we ordered a fly, and drove out of Ayr to the cottage in which Burns was born. It is the lowest, humblest of thatched cottages, consisting of but two rooms. The kitchen remains exactly as it was originally, with its floor of smooth, large stones laid together, its small recess containing a bed, upon which the baby poet first opened his eyes to the light, and a funny old fireplace. The room is extremely small. It was now

BURNS' REGION. 141

however, perfectly clean. The sitting-room is plastered and floored with planks, but in the time of Burns was unceiled, and had a clay floor. The walls and furniture of this apartment are literally embroidered with names of visitors, cut with knives. There is scarcely an inch left anywhere, to put another name. Really it hardly seems possible to live in such a small space as those two wee rooms, and when I said so to the old woman, who showed us about, she replied, "Och, ma'am, it, is na wi' Scotch as wi' ither folk." The cottage has been built upon for an inn, and she took us along a corridor to a very large and pretty high saloon, which I think would have amazed Burns. There were other rooms besides, hung round with prints and paintings--all of the poet, or of scenes in his poems. The auld mither said that Burns was nine years old when his father removed from this cottage to Mount Oliphant. We then drove to the Monument, passing by Alloway Kirk, which is close to it. We alighted, and tried the bell at the gate opening upon the monument; but no one answered, and the driver was obliged to search after the old porter, who had gone to see a foundation-stone laid. The auld mon came, after weary waiting for him, and let us in; but said he must return and see "the stane laid." So he locked us up and went away, after informing us that every door was open inside, and that we could look by ourselves. The enclosure is a garden, entirely filled with every variety of flowers

142 NOTES IN SCOTLAND.

in the richest profusion and fullest bloom. Roses--sweetbrier and all kinds, heliotrope, rosemary, and other aromatic plants, among evergreen shrubs, offer up their incense to the memory of Burns, whose bust is enclosed in a Corinthian temple, raised on a high stone base, in the midst of the garden. It is surrounded by eight columns, and surmounted by the Highland-bonnet. Inside stands the marble head, and a glass case, containing the Bible he gave to his Highland Mary, and a lock of her fair hair. His own autograph is on a fly-leaf of the Bible. They stood each on opposite banks of the little river, holding that Bible between them, and promised eternal fidelity; and Burns had written on the fly-leaf a verse from it about not swearing falsely.

We went up on the roof, and there my longing eyes at last rested upon "the banks and braes o' bonnie Doon." And I saw "the little birds that wantoned through the flowery thorn;" and I saw the thorn, and heard the birds, as when they almost broke the heart of the poet. We then walked along every path, bordered thickly with flowers. A sun-dial, with a hedge of "flowery thorn," stands before the door of the temple. At the end of one path, we came upon a deeply sheltered edifice with open door, and we walked in, when, behold! there sat Tam o' Shanter and Souter Johnnie, forever jolly in stone, each holding a glass of ale--Tam laughing outright, and old Souter Johnnie with a happy, silly grin on his face. This group was cut by a self-taught artist

BURNS' REGION. 143

by the name of Thorn, and these identical figures, or exact copies of them, were once exhibited in Boston, America. It was curious to leave these animated images in eternal silence, and yet laughing so loud. And if Tam could have seen with his stone eyes, he might have looked upon the very Brig of Boon over which he rode so madly on that memorable night; for it is close by the little edifice in which he sits.

When the old porter had satisfied his curiosity about the foundation-stone, he returned to us, and gave me a sweetbrier-rose and some rosemary--

"That's for remembrance--"

and two damask-roses. I will enclose you one, because it smells so sweet. I have sealed up the eglantine and rosemary.

We then went to Alloway Kirk, which is now a ruin. The two gables remain, and the side-walls, but there is no roof. It is very small, and divided by a stone partition into two parts, and in each is a tomb, and it is surrounded by a graveyard. Papa found the window into which Tam peeped, and pulled out of the embrasure a little stone, as big as a pea, and gave it to me for a relic.

We wandered off from the Kirk to cross the old and new Brigs of Doon. The old is much the most beautiful: we walked quite over it, and returned to our fly the other way. "The banks and braes o' bonnie Doon" are pre-eminently lovely. The river

144 NOTES IN SCOTLAND.

is broad in many parts, and the trees stretch over and dip into it, and it flows with life and joy, as if it were happy in its poetic fame and memories. We enjoyed this excursion purely, deliciously; for though the sun did not shine, there was beauty enough without it, and the sweet song, and pathetic ode, and comic tale, all blended together in an enchanting effect impossible to describe.

We drove back to the hotel, and then walked out to see the town. I wished to go over the "twa brigs of Ayr" which had such a pleasant chat together. We first crossed the new one. The tide was low, and the river did not look pleasant; but it was one of the memorable "brigs," nevertheless, from which we observed it. We saw an old kirk up a street, but upon going to it, found there was no reason for investigating the inside, and we pursued our intention of returning by the "auld brig." It is very picturesque--covered with moss and lichens, and raised on high arches, with an exceedingly narrow carriage-way. A throng of country people was selling pigs and vegetables at one end, and we crowded through both piggies and folk. There were small shops part way over, and I looked into them all to find something for a memory.

I observe here in Ayr, as I did in Mauchline, that the women have a peculiar way of carrying about their babies. They wear a long shawl, which they wrap round their own shoulders and the child, and the result is that they look like a full-blown flower

BURNS' REGION. 145

and bud on the same stem. You see no arms, but only a large and a small head and the main body. I am surprised to find Ayr so large and fine a town. It is much handsomer than the lesser towns in England; and this hotel, the King's Arms, is uncommonly good--of the first class. The landlord, when we started for Alloway Kirk, put us carefully into the carriage, and brought one of his own plaids to fold about us. We find a great deal of this genial kindness in Scotland, and I think the charges are not so exorbitant as at English hotel.

Now we are for Glasgow.

7

146

June 30th, 1857.

* * * * * By the time we left Ayr, the sun glinted at us a little out of the clouds, and it was a very pleasant journey. The Firth of Clyde was now on our left hand, and the Isle of Arran lay half in mist, like some huge sea-horse, upon its surface. I had a glimpse of a ruin of a kirk near Prestwick, and when we arrived at Monktown we had a fine view of Ailsa Crag, rising a thousand feet from the level water, a mighty globular mass. At Irvine (Burns' flax-dressing town), an old gentleman got into our carriage. He was very kind, and told us all he could about the country, and in return I sketched his face. He had a good profile, and in his youth may have been handsome; but now he was too fat. The Scotch have far handsomer noses than the English. I suspect the English suffer from having been mixed up with Danes and Northmen so much, and all Northmen are liable to have potato noses, says Miss Bremer. I suppose the Scotch are a less mongrel race. Let this be as it may, their noses have a finer line.

GLASGOW. 147

Perhaps some Romans who strayed up here rectified their forms with their own classic contours.

As we passed through Kilwinning again, the gudeman lamented over Knox's senseless rage against innocent stone, when knocking down the magnificent abbey. We now kept crossing the river Garnock. Then we enter Beith, and skirt along by Kilburnie Loch, two miles long and half a mile broad, with pretty banks of clustering foliage; and on it is Kilburnie village, with its small, ancient kirk, full of interesting memorial tablets of the noble Crawford family. The ruins of their castle are at no great distance, covered with ivy. Soon we came to Loch Winnoch. The country all about these lochs is rich and picturesque, but still not carpeted with velvet of various shades, nor winnowed of every unsightly weed, nor bearing marks of the untiring hand of man, polishing and garnishing at every point. It has its own charm, however, though my eyes have become so accustomed to England's perfection of culture, that I do not quite like it, and I am all the time wishing I could clear up the landscape and make it nice.

But now the great town of Paisley comes to view, with its spires and towers and chimneys of manufacture. It is the shawl-town, and of remote antiquity. It has ruins of an abbey, where there is a sculptured figure of King Robert Bruce's daughter. Her husband, Walter Stuart, founded the abbey. I wish we could have visited it; but I should have

148 NOTES IN SCOTLAND.

preferred even to this a visit to Ellerslie House, upon the lands of which William Wallace was born. But all wishes were vain, for on we went to Glasgow, and drove to George's Square, George Hotel. At the station we were recommended to several hotels, and when I asked our old cabman whether the George was good, he replied with the broadest accent:

"They're a-a-a-a-a-ll gude," in the most Scotch and patriotic manner.

Immediately after arranging ourselves, we went out for sight-seeing, and turned into George Street. It is very long, and crossed first by Montrose Street and then by High Street. This is the ancient part of Glasgow, and, going to the end of it, we found the famous Cathedral. At the gate, just inside, is a small lodge, where tickets are sold for sixpence, and no other fee is allowed. This is a convenient arrangement, for it relieves visitors of the care and demands of vergers. The building is not of the largest size for a minster, but it is of fine and stately proportions. There is no peaceful and heavenly Close around it, but a graveyard; and high above and beyond its eastern end is the Necropolis, covered with obelisks and little temples and columns and sarcophagi.

We entered the Cathedral by the southern porch, as the door was open, and were directly under the spell of the arches and clustered pillars and groined ceilings of the nave. The choir and chancel were

GLASGOW. 149

filled with pews, kirk-fashion, all the (doubtless) beautiful stalls and tabernacle-work having been cleared away as rubbish by the Reformers. The pews were of oak, and where the high altar once stood stands now the pulpit--no bishop's throne nor canon's desk being left. But the rich upper border of the former screen remains, exceedingly splendid. The Chapter-house is at the side of the Lady-chapel, and its stone roof is supported by one of those grand fountain-columns which I have before described to you.

But we concluded to go down into the crypts before we looked any more at the upper regions. I was wholly unprepared for the wonderful and solemn grandeur of these crypts. Walter Scott speaks of them in "Rob Roy," and Rob Roy himself was concealed behind one of the massive pillars on a special occasion. How can I make you see with me these majestic sepulchres for the dead? There is nothing like them in the kingdom, and the verger (who cropped up in the Chapter-house), said that he believed there were none equal to them in Europe. The ground upon which the cathedral is built suddenly descends toward the east, and the glorious architects of those early days, instead of filling up the cavity with earth or other supports to the floor, conceived the idea of building these aisles, of the same superb style as those above, for the burial of saints and prelates. Beneath every column in the upper stands one in the under structure; but besides

150 NOTES IN SCOTLAND.

these, there are many more beneath those above, of every variety of shape and capital. There are three separate crypts. The largest, which is beneath the choir and chancel, is St. Joceline's, and his stone effigy lies in state in a shrine in the centre, of which the four columns have rich foliaged capitals. But the figure has been mutilated, and the lions broken. This shrine is the central object, with its four clustered shafts reaching to the ceiling.

Under the Lady-chapel the ground descends five feet lower, and therefore the piers are twenty feet high. And this ordered wilderness of stems bear up a marvellous intricacy of branches, which hold, as it were, in a thousand-in-one-united chalice, the gorgeous Victoria Regia of a cathedral. At every crossing of the groinings is a sculptured rose, or boss, and under the chancel fifteen at least meet in one great rose. Beneath the Lady-chapel are several small chapels of perfect beauty, each one containing the monument of some illustrious person. But in all these spaces the destructive Reformers have not left one single tomb, except that of St. Joceline. They cleared the crypt, and made it the place of worship of some parish until as late as 1803. It was called the Barony Parish; but after they ceased to worship there, they filled it with earth! and used it to inter their dead, and daubed the columns with black and white devices. Five years ago all these defilements were removed, and the soot and paint scraped off, and every part repaired and thoroughly

GLASGOW. 151

cleansed, so now it is just as when first made. It is delightful to see with what loving, faithful care each worn and broken stone has been replaced. There are some trefoiled pointed windows at the sides of one of the chapels which made me nearly distraught for want of power to express their enchanting grace; and the door that leads into Bishop Lander's Crypt is also confounding to poor limited mortals. It is a pointed arch, or rather a hundred arches, one within another. These grooves make the depth of the doorway, and there is one broad groove intricately and most richly carved. Upon examining it, I found that on one side saints, monks, and devils are sculptured, and on the other birds and animals. The arch runs up in saints and fiends, and runs down in beasts and reptiles. One old monk sits reading in ineffable repose, as if he had read undisturbedly from a past eternity, and purposed to read on to a future without end. Just above him is a saint in ecstasy, and at the lowest point sits an imp, or Auld Nickie Ben himself, pretending to be devout. At the end, on the other side, a reptile is wriggling out of the stone as fast as possible, as if he were going to scamper away with the whole string-course of figures, saints, devils, and all. The old painted glass is nearly gone; but one window in St. Joceline's crypt has been restored, and all is to be replaced in course of time. I was half frozen in the abysses at last, and obliged to go up-stairs. Grand, broad stair-

152 NOTES IN SCOTLAND.

ways led to the nave. But on the way to the tipper regions, I found still another crypt at the south,--Bishop Blackader's--oh, so stately and beautiful! Directly down the centre is a row of glorious clustered columns, with foliated capitals. It is fifty-nine feet long and thirty feet broad, and has a great deal of delicate sculpture. Papa confessed himself too cold to remain "in profundis" any longer, and so we went on to the nave. There sat the verger. I asked him where the organ was, and he exclaimed, "Oh, we have no kist of whistles here!" and then he laughed, and turned himself upside down in a great spasm. When he recovered his equilibrium, he began to tell me the Scottish Kirk's manner of singing--"mental music," he called it, but I assured him I knew all about it, for I had heard it at Mauchline, and liked it exceedingly. He thought it must be very coarse at such a wee place as Mauchline, but if I should hear it in the cathedral, where there were trained singers, who had the finest voices, I should then find that there was no organ music and no chanting like it. I defended the Mauchline people, and urged that they could have as sweet voices and as much devotion as Glasgow orchestras, and that I found it very inspiring. Oh, but, he said, the spaces, the arches give such a fine effect! The small-eyed verger seemed to have a misgiving that I was making fun of his "mental music," but I insisted that I was sincere, and that I was also a dissenter, and could sympa-

GLASGOW. 153

thize with his repugnance to empty forms. After laughing a great deal, and doubling himself up in and kicking out in his indescribable manner, he gave over about the music, and called my attention to one of the groups on the screen--a bonnie Scotch girl talking with an old monk--which still keeps its sharp lines and is full of life and good expression. A grotesque figure at the corner sent him off in to a new fit, and then he delivered a learned discourse about the top of the screen, and how feebly it had been imitated on the sides by modern artists. * * * * *

After bidding adieu to the cathedral, we looked over the graveyard and at the sky-high Necropolis, and then went to see the University. It has five courts or quadrangles, and the part of the building on the High Street is long and low, of antique appearance. We merely walked through the courts, and did not then go inside. The Molindinar burn flows behind. It was a college, founded in 1450 by a bull of Pope Nicolas V. We admired a fine old stone staircase, with a sculptured lion on one pedestal and a unicorn upon the other. We did not go anywhere else, except to the post-office for your letter.

In the centre of this beautiful George's Square is a garden, enclosed, as you often see in English and Scotch cities; and in the centre of the garden is a lofty column, eighty feet high, upon which stands a statue of Sir Walter Scott. It looks very like him, even so far off as it is. Other statues are at the

7*

154 NOTES IN SCOTLAND.

four corners. One is of Sir John Moore, by Flaxman, and one is of James Watt.

This morning we went out to find, if possible, the old Tolbooth (Scotch for prison), made famous by Walter Scott. We walked along Buchanan and Argyle Streets, and I think Glasgow a very splendid city, very far superior to Liverpool in every respect. The streets are broad, and the houses stately, and the shops superb. London hardly surpasses them, and a few are handsomer than any London shops. We went down the salt-market for the sake of Baillie Nicol Jarvie, who lived there, and I think I saw his house; for I saw a very ancient and funny one. Along this and High Street were throngs of dirty people, so thick that it was not agreeable to crowd past them. We persevered to the end, however, and came out upon the Glasgow Green, which is a hundred acres large. An obelisk to Nelson is erected there, and it was the first monument erected to him in this country. Fairs are held upon it, and we saw a movable theatre and an exhibition of wax-works. We stood on a bridge a little beyond the Green, and looked down into the River Clyde, and I made inquiries about the old Tolbooth of a man who seemed friendly. He assured me that it was close by, and pointed to a grand, stone, new building facing the Green. But we knew better than that it could be the old jail.

We then returned through the noisome salt-market, and crossed Trongate, where Sir John Moore

GLASGOW. 155

was born, and went into an archway beneath a high tower that seemed of the olden time, a hundred and twenty-six feet high, surmounted by a crown. Adjoining it is now a new building. We asked several policemen about it, and also the place where was the old historic Tolbooth; but no one knew anything. So I went into a shop near this cross (as the tower is called), and bought a little Falkirk mosaic quaigh, and afterward we proceeded to the college. At the High-street entrance we found three people, one of them looking like an official--an old man--and I was sure he could tell us about the Tolbooth. And so he could and did. The old Tolbooth, he said, was no more, and on its site had been built a new town-house; but that the ancient cross still remained, at the corner of the Trongate, and, behold! we had been standing beneath it; for it was the very one, surmounted by a crown, close by which I had bought my inlaid tub, and therefore we had already effected all that was possible concerning the memorable old prison.

156

III.
DUMBARTON

July 1st, 1857.

IT is quarter-past six, and we have just arrived here from Glasgow by a steamer that passes up and down the River Clyde. We are in "The Elephant," an unexpectedly nice hotel, considering what a small town is Dumbarton. Our butler is a venerable man with white hair; our maid is enthusiastic and obliging, and our landlady drops a courtesy at every turn, and is polite. I sit at a window that looks up a street of shops and people,.terminating in a kirk.

The first part of our course on the river was not interesting; but when we came to the country, with its trees and hills and meadows, it was refreshing indeed, and in an hour the Highlands began to show themselves in blue mist. The weather has been as superb as weather could possibly be, not too warm, and with a reviving air. In the boat we had Souter Johnnie and Tam O'Shanter, and they enjoyed each other prodigiously. Johnnie was mighty in girth and profuse in chin--or chins, for, he had a dozen of them; and Tam was bony and wiry, with a great

DUMBARTON. 157

tendency to excitement. Such good portraits I have seldom seen. Johnnie was sitting near me, with a good-natured lack-lustre in his fat face, when the tall form of his beloved compeer loomed up in the neighborhood, and Tam gave a friendly nod, and sat down opposite to us. Johnnie wriggled in his place for a few minutes, endeavoring to remain where he was; but Tam's magnetism proved too overwhelming, and so he got up, and squeezed his enormous rotundity into what seemed no space at all between his friend and another man. This other man was about being vexed, but meeting the jolly, kind glance of Johnnie, he made room for him directly, and Tam's wit immediately began to shake the mountain of materiality at his side into earthquakes. They talked with broad, Scotch accent, and, upon the whole, I have a suspicion that I saw the very originals of Burns' poem.

Presently the river Clyde came to have rural banks, green meadows, and villas in shaded woodlands; and strange-looking structures rose up upon every turn of the stream and every inequality of the shore. They were of great variety of form, and built of various substances--some of brick, some of stone, some of clay and earth, and some of coal-dust; and each one was surmounted with a cross, red, black, or white. They were warnings or beacons for steamers and row-boats that go up and down, to show where rocks and sand-banks are. From the fanciful shapes, one might suppose that the old Gothic dreamers had

158 NOTES IN SCOTLAND

been at work with their love of change; but they are modern, and the spirit of picturesqueness has descended from aforetime to the present generation.

During the last hour of our river journey, grand old Ben Lomond made the distance illustrious with giant head and shoulders, like Michel Angelo's Day, and like it, without distinct features,--the veiled prophet of this northern land. To-day his veil was blue tissue. Nearer at hand were the Roman fortress of Dunglass, and a bold headland called Dumbeck (hill of roes); and then came the twin crags upon which Dumbarton Castle is built, very abrupt and sheer from the river and plain, and from some points of view very sharp. We soon were safe in the bay, and a stout porter took the portmanteau in his hand and the trunk on his back, and, as there were no cabs, we followed him afoot to this only good hotel, close by the landing.

Eve.--We have climbed Dumbarton's craggy heights, and it was no small labor, for they are almost perpendicular, five hundred feet into the air,--reached partly by convenient natural inequalities in the rocks, and partly by stone stairs cut where it is steepest, and where the twins have a chasm between. We found a very intelligent, gentlemanly soldier of the garrison at the gate, who pioneered us about. I thought at first that I would not go to the very summit, but I was tempted higher and higher, till I stood on the topmost peak. The captain of the steamer had pointed out to me from the

DUMBARTON. 159

boat the crevice in the cliff up which Wallace climbed and killed the sentinel at the stone wall built on its verge. The soldier said there were two places up which he struggled, and at that time (in the 13th century) it was a daring and perilous feat. The soldier was, however, mistaken in thinking that Mary, Queen of Scots, was ever a prisoner here. He showed us the outside of what he believed her cell, at the same time saying that it was one of several very nice apartments, the best in the castle; but that now they were all shut up, and we could not go in.

The truth is, that Mary was there in the early part of her life, until she was six years old, and that then she went to France; and that, though after her return to Scotland she intended to visit Dumbarton, she never was in the castle again. But the noble Wallace was prisoner in it, betrayed by the base Sir John Menteith, who invited him as a friend to go there, and then thrust him into a dungeon, for the sake of a share in the three hundred merks [a merk is worth $3.22] which King Edward had set as a price upon his head. This mean, paltry knight is made forever hideous and absurd in stone, as a corbel, on the outer wall of one of the towers. Sir John was then governor of the castle. When Edward heard that Wallace was secured, he sent for him, and crowds followed him to London, where there was such deep sympathy expressed that the king did not venture to put him in the Tower. He

160 NOTES IN SCOTLAND.

therefore went to a private house, whence he was taken and tried, and then hanged ignominiously, being first treated with frightful cruelty. This happened in 1305. On the summit of the rock we saw the foundations of a very old round tower of the early British period; but the wind blew such a hurricane that I had much ado to keep myself steady and entire, and I could not examine it much.

We walked round the battlements. The view was very beautiful. The atmosphere was like diamonds and pale topaz; for it was near sunset, and the soldier said he had never seen the Highlands so clearly defined--Ben Lomond especially--as then. On the other side, the river Clyde, broad and winding, with its green meadows and wooded shores--the villas--the bold headland Dumbeck and the castle Dunglass--all combined to make a stately and lovely picture. Nothing remains of the ancient castle but one old bit of wall, entirely overhung with ivy, and doubtless upheld by it also. That was the part used as a dwelling, and called a palace when kings lived in it. There were sentry-boxes, like little towers, at the corners of the battlements, and J---- got into one, and then papa took his stand. I wondered why--but no longer, after papa told me that his beloved Dr. Johnson once took a fancy to thrust his large person through the door, and then found it nearly impossible to get out again! Would not it have been very funny if it had been necessary to demolish the tower for the sake of deliver-

DUMBARTON. 161

ing the big philosopher from his voluntary confinement? After seeing everything on the tip-top of the highest twin, we went to the lower, where the governor's house and officers' rooms are, and an armory. There were once fifteen hundred stands of arms there, which now are in the Tower of London. The officer gave us in charge to a little girl at the armory. She, with her key, came out of a door near by, and took us into a grim old place, where we saw only some pistols arranged in stars in that perfect order always enjoined in military affairs. But though the guns and muskets are all taken away, they have what is much more interesting and valuable--the sword of William Wallace. I took it in my hand, and it was pretty heavy. The point is broken off and it is very rusty and black. For five hundred and fifty-two years it has been rusting there, ever since it was treacherously taken from Wallace. * * * The girl also showed us many weapons that had been picked up on the field of Bannockburn, at which we looked with great interest. I thought this armory a gloomy, sad place, and was not a little surprised to observe in the windows pots of blooming roses! I told the girl she must give me one of the roses, which I wondered at for blooming in such a dark, dull old room; and she smiled and broke off the best and gave it me; but I had hardly stepped outside the door with it before its petals dropped off, every one. Its life was weak in that imprisonment, and it died at a touch of fresh

162 NOTES IN SCOTLAND.

air. It made me think of many a delicate, lender prisoner that had become pale and faint on a sudden exposure to the sun's rays.

Then we met again the soldier, and he guided us down the steep stone stairs in the very narrow gorge--down, down, down--oh, me! what a descent! But finally it was accomplished, and we came out into the lower courts. In one of these courts, cannon-balls of various sizes were laid in geometrical forms of great beauty. But as I looked out from the castle-gate upon the lovely, peaceful sunset scene, war seemed a myth and a phantom, and as if it had never been, and could never be--a fact. Earth, river, and sky, wrapped then in a glow of pale gold and purple, seemed echoing and emphasizing the simple, effectual law of Christ, scarcely heard yet by the world, but which if obeyed would make a heaven of this planet, and angels of men.

July 2d.--At two o'clock we leave Dumbarton for Loch Lomond. We still have splendid weather. I must tell you, as history, that we have found the people of this hotel quite literary and refined in comparison with English landlords and landladies. When we ask for a book here, we can get it, but except at Skipton, we never have been so fortunate in England. This class of people are doubtless better educated here than there.

163

IV. LOCH LOMOND AND THE BENS.

INVERANNAN, GLENFALLOCH, July 2d.

WE have just arrived at the head of Loch Lomond, and farther still into the depths of the Highlands, into Rob Roy's country, and scenes made classic by Walter Scott and Wordsworth. We thought we would come to the very end of the steamer's course, and therefore kept on to Inverannan, in Glenfalloch. The hotel is situated in a valley, which is a plain between lofty ranges of mountains--Ben Oss and Ben Douchray, Ben Crosh and Ben Eim, Ben Vain and Ben Voirlich, and above all, Ben Lomond. They have a bare, sterile aspect, but a grand outline and elevation. The air here is nectar. We have been obliged to walk two miles from the landing to the hotel; but the road was good and perfectly level, so that I held out bravely. There was no carriage to be found. Part of the way was lovely with thickets and roses, and how I wish I could enclose you an exquisite wild-rose which I plucked in passing, for it has the wonderful odor of the tea-rose.

164 NOTES IN SCOTLAND.

Evening--but not dusk by any means.--We left Dumbarton at noon, and came by rail to Balloch, and then took the steamer for Loch Lomond. In the railroad carriage, we skirted along the valley of the Leven, beautifully verdant, and saw constantly beyond the majestic Ben Lomond, towering grandly over all. After entering Kenton, Smollett's monument is seen on the right. He was born close by that spot, and wrote pretty poetry about the river Leven, which winds along the valley.

"On Leven's banks when free to rove,
And tune the rural pipe to love," &c.

At Balloch--no, we first passed through Alexandria and Bonhill, and then Balloch, and there I was delighted with a very graceful suspension bridge over the "soft river" (the meaning of Leven). It was built by Sir John Colquhoun, of Luss. At Balloch we embarked and were afloat on Loch Lomond, queen of Scottish lakes, thirty-two miles long. Castles and stately mansions, many of them full of historical and poetical interest, rose up on every side. Cameron House, where Alexander Smollett, a descendant of the novelist, resides, and Arden, in which is the original portrait of Rob Roy. I wish I could have seen the old feudal fortress of Bannachra, where the Colquhouns lived, with whom the Macgregors had deadly strife and won the victory, and slew two hundred Colquhouns. Now a large island

LOCH LOMOND AND THE BENS. 165

seemed nearly to cross the lake. It was beautifully green, of a bright sunny green, and contrasted wonderfully with the dark mountains above and beyond. Its name is Inch Murrain (Inch means island). It is the deer-park of the Duke of Montrose. On one end are the ruins of a castle of the Earls of Lenox. Near by, on the mainland, is a mansion where Walter Scott often visited. It is Boss Priory, the residence of Lady Leith Buchanan. In that house Sir Walter wrote the romance of Rob Roy! Then comes a sharply-pointed hill, call Duncruin--hill of witches--famous in legends; and Balmaha, the famous pass mentioned in the "Lady of the Lake," is a little way inland--

"So fierce, so tameless, and so fleet,
Sore did he cumber our retreat,
And kept our sternest kerns in awe
Even at the pass of Balmaha--"

Another lovely island now comes in sight round a curve, called Inch Cailliach (Isle of Women), where was once a nunnery, and where very ancient graves of chiefs are found. Five or six more Inches we pass, and so you see how studded with isles Loch Lomond is--all so lovely with copses and rocks, and each famous for something. And as we wound about them, the lordly ranges of mountains kept changing their relations to one another, as well as their lights and shadows,--rising also one beyond another, like an ever-heaving, mighty sea, rolling

166 NOTES IN SCOTLAND

sky-high, firmly fixed, yet seeming in constant motion. I quite agree with Ruskin about mountain scenery; like Gothic architecture it has the effect of aspiration, struggling upward.

Now we drew into the bay of Luss, where some of our passengers landed, and after resuming our way onward, we soon had on our right Robert de Brace's Isle of Yews--Inch Lonarg--upon which he planted yews for making bows. There is now a growth of yews upon it, dark and thick, children of those planted half a thousand years ago by the illustrious de Bruce. Perhaps there are some grand old stumps left of the identical trees of that time, and I wished to stop and explore. But inexorably we steamed on, without the smallest regard to poetical longings, and had a glimpse of Glen Douglas. Douglas! what a name! and I really saw what once belonged to them! The river Glass flows into the lake from this glen, and Ben Glass towers over it. Immediately above Rowardennan, the next pier, the king of Bens, Ben Lomond himself, climbs to the stars in three vast waves, the midmost the highest, three thousand two hundred feet above the level of the lake. All who wished to ascend upon the monarch's shoulders and stand upon his head, left us here, where there are ponies and guides. From his head can be seen Stirling and Edinburgh Castles, Goat Fell in the Isle of Arran, the passes of Jura and Ailsa Crag. There are a great many shooting-lodges now upon the sides of the hills, belonging to Scotch and Eng-

LOCH LOMOND AND THE BENS. 167

lish gentlemen. Just beyond Kowardennan a promontory juts out called Forken, and on its top is a little lake, used long ago by the Fairies to dye the wools of the country people in. The trustful people deposited their wools on the shores of the fairy lake at evening, and in the morning when they came for them they were all ready, and of exactly the colors they wished; but at last, a foolish, faithless wight, as a practical joke, placed a budget of black wool and a bit of white alongside for a pattern. This so offended the small folk, that they threw all their colors into the loch and disappeared. Fortunate persons, who now look down into the pure water properly, can see these magical hues at the bottom, mingling together like the tints of a kaleidoscope, in ever-varying, marvellous patterns. But we had not even a chance to try our luck, our captain remorselessly steaming past the spot.

We were now especially in Rob Hoy's realm, and I saw the sheer rock rising perpendicularly from the water, from which that resolute and uncompromising gentleman was in the habit of dipping his enemies, and those of his adherents who differed from him, till they concluded to be his friends or saw fit to agree with him in opinion. He tied a rope round the waist of the delinquent, and kept him under the water awhile to cool his rage or damp his enterprise, and then raised him a moment just to ask whether he would be good. If he said "no," down he went again, and if there were determined

168 NOTES IN SCOTLAND

resistance, without hope of amendment, Rob Roy tied the rope round the neck of the unfortunate man, and then dipped him for the last and the fatal time.

The Lord of Lorn once defeated the bold outlaw, and he took refuge in a little cave just beyond this rock of execution.

Ben Lomond ranged now on our right, and a strangely cut peak on the left, called the Cobbler and his Wife, and just at this point a wonderful assemblage of mountains opened upon us. Gigantic sweeps of outline, all softly flowing to the lake, flowing, flowing, and lost in the waters--and also rising from the waters upward, upward, like a strain in one of Beethoven's sublime symphonies, which seemed to me, when I heard it, like the human soul's cry, prayer, demand for light, wisdom, and help.

The boat stopped at Inversnaid, but we concluded to keep on, as I told you in the beginning. A wonderfully beautiful and romantic glen comes to view, near to Inversnaid, on the opposite shore, on each side of which mighty Bens loom up--Ben Crosh and Ben Eim, and craggy, rugged Ben Vain on the left, and lovely, though grand, Ben Voirlich on the right. Ben Voirlich is peculiarly tender in aspect, though of vast proportions. It is something in his nature that gives him this gentle expression, no doubt, and it may be the effect of a shy little tarn on its summit, where the angler can always find trout. That tarn may be the pure soul of this huge

LOCH LOMOND AND THE BENS. 169

old Ben, into which the heavens constantly gaze, and which itself holds the heavens in its depths. Loch Lomond becomes narrower just here, and the shores are enchanting, and the next memorable object we saw was Rob Roy's great cave. There are large rocks tumbled about the place, and on one that is exactly over the opening the captain pointed to a mark which identified the entrance. * * * * * * The scenery is very rich all about it. Robert de Bruce also concealed himself there before the battle of Bannockburn, when the English were hunting for him.

"The Braes of Balquhidder" are north of Inversnaid, where Rob Roy is buried. Meantime, during my memories, we are going on, and a sweet little Inch is at hand. It is covered with trees, but by carefully peering in I saw the ruins of a castle. The name of the island is "I vow." It belonged to the clan of McFarlane, and one of its chiefs built the castle, saying "I vow no other clansman shall pass by." Directly ahead of us now rose Ben Oss and Ben Douchray, and then we approached Inverarman , where we landed. * * * * * * As I sat upon the upper deck all the time, I had a full view of the passengers as well as of the lake and mountains.

It was all in harmony to hear the Scotch dialect and accent on every side. Mothers calling out to their bairns "Take care, noo! sit doon or ye'll fa'." "Dinna put the roup in yer mou, it's nae gude;" and so on. The lake was not smooth to-day, and a

8

170 NOTES IN SCOTLAND.

gentleman told us we lost a great deal by not seeing it like a mirror, reflecting all the majestic mountains.

I established myself on the lower deck, and sat near a group of folk, one man of whom was reading aloud a trial for poisoning. They were so absorbed by it that they did not look at the scenery, which amazed me. Yet, perhaps, they had often gone up Loch Lomond, as they were Scotchmen, with intelligent, amiable faces, though rather rough.

So we came to Inverannan, in the county of Glenfalloch, and learned with some dismay that the hotel was two miles from the spot where we were to disembark, and that there was no carriage of any kind to convey us, but only a light cart for the luggage. We questioned whether I could walk so far after the fatigue at Dumbarton, but I accomplished the feat very well. We sauntered, entirely at our leisure, along the charming road. Oh, the gurgling burns at the foot of the wooded braes! Oh, the sweetbrier-roses, foxgloves, daisies, and purple-bells, and the desolate, grand, steep Bens that shut us into the quiet vale! rising instantly, not gradually from the even plain. Papa mourned after wooded mountain-sides; but I was content with the sublime forms without any drapery. There was no lace, nor ruffles, nor flounces upon my Highlands hereabouts, and not even a skirt. Naked and awful they stood--Michelangelic forms, even as gods, conversing with the skies. The pure, high air winged my feet, and I never felt better in my life. Here I sit now in a

LOCH LOMOND AND THE BENS. 171

pretty parlor, and we also have comfortable bedrooms surrounded--yes! give ear, England! and never more boast a superiority to auld Scotia--surrounded with hospitable pegs and hooks!!! Scotland is not only the land o' cakes, but the land o' pegs, and poor mortals are not obliged to wander wild with despair round their chambers, holding their garments, and crying--" Oh, where shall I hang them; oh where?"

I never saw a peg in England, and I believe Europe cannot show one, so that Scotland and America alone excel in this kind. There are also an abundance of baths in this good country, though it is so abused for uncleanliness--and a great deal of various comfort.

We are so far north now that during these summer months there is properly no night, and therefore I said it was evening but not dusk, in the beginning of this letter. The Gloaming meets the Dawn, and they join hands and dispense with Night altogether, and now they have the Moon also for boon companion.

We have had the most enchanting stroll. At the end of a meadow, close beneath a great Ben, we saw the rudest little hut that ever took shape and was not a cave. It was built with stones, overgrown with moss, with no windows and one door. I can give you no idea by a sketch of the exceeding wildness of this wee shelter. We found also a very wonderful oak-tree, branching out from one root into

172 NOTES IN SCOTLAND.

fifteen boles, as if fifteen separate trees were springing from it. Then we got into its midst and sat down, and it would have held you and B. also, and thus we should have been a whole family living in a tree. It had delightful forks for chairs. I compared it to a Briareus with one hundred legs, instead of arms--the said Briareus standing on his top, while his multitudinous legs sprouted into thousands of feet, and his thousands of feet into no end of toes, each toe flourishing out millions of whispering leaves, and so becoming finally a tree. Oh, Briareus, thou hast buried thy head with a noble.result! * * *

The sunshine played on the sides of Ben Voirlich (the tender-souled mountain), and papa took up a bit of slate from the ground and drew his profile, which is very irregular with rocks, and then we turned homeward, gathering delicate purple grasses on our way.

July 3d.--It rains, and we are weather-bound, yet we mean to post down to the shore, and meet the afternoon steamer for Inversnaid.

173

V.
INVERSNAID AND LOCH KATRINE AND THE TROSACHS.

July 3d, 1857.

HERE we are now at the veritable waterfall, where Wordsworth met the Highland girl, and we hear the musical flow from the hotel, but do not see it, and it pours a heavy rain. We left Inverannan about an hour ago, in a covered phaeton, and were obliged to run from it down to the brink of the lake, through the wet grass, and then, in the steamer, I must, perforce, stay in the cabin all the time, and could only see a little from the side-windows. What a loss! Mists were on the mountain-tops and trailing down the sides like mantles of illusion lace; but I saw again Rob Roy's cave. If it were fair weather we could go there this afternoon, either in a boat or by climbing over rocks. But, immitigably, down falls the rain, and to-morrow we shall go to Loch Katrine in a stage-coach, and take a steamer at one end and proceed to the other. * * * From our parlor windows we look directly across the lake into the romantic glen of Inveruglass. Ben Eim and Ben Voirlich, Ben Vain and Ben Crosh rise up on either

174 NOTES IN SCOTLAND.

side. They are now almost wholly enveloped in mist; but when it clears I hope to sketch them.

July 4th.--When I looked out this morning I had hope for fair weather, and the sun has been actually shining. Before breakfast I visited the waterfall, so as to make sure of if. We climbed up a path to a little wooden bridge, which is built over it midway. It is very pretty from the bridge, and yet it seems a pity to have placed a bridge there, as it is not a lovely arch, but only a straight, common affair. Why will man make a straight line when a curve is possible? I thought I should like the view better from below, and so I ran down to some rocks directly in front of the foaming cascade, and it was far more satisfactory from that point. The glen of Inveruglass was hidden in thick mist, and not a mountain could be seen before breakfast. Indeed, it has been clear enough only within an hour to perceive the entire outlines. Now they are grand. Ben Crosh is nearest on the left. Ben Vain is on the right, as you enter the glen; but from this window it looks very much in the centre, and is bold and conical. Ben Voirlich rises from the edge of the water, half concealing Ben Vain. Ben Eim is behind Ben Crosh, and now has a turban of thick India muslin on, so that I cannot trace the line of his head. * * *

After breakfast we walked along the road which leads to Loch Katrine. It was constructed by the Duke of Montrose for the benefit of travellers, and it winds round in a very comfortable manner, pro-

INVERSNAID. 175

tected on the steep side by a fence made of young oak of a year's growth, woven like basket-work. We sat down on the rocks at the second turn of the road, whence we had a fine view of the glen, and also of the lake toward Rowardennan, over which Ben Lomond uplifts himself. He "the likeness of a kingly crown has on" this morning of folded cloud, and I have not seen his highest height to-day. While we sat aloft the steamer arrived from Balloch, and gave forth a great many people, who pearly all mounted into an omnibus for Loch Katrine. It was so full that many gentlemen were constrained to walk, and we were glad we had decided to go at four P.M. We then concluded to take a boat and visit Rob Roy's cave. The lake was charming to row upon, and is very deep just at Inversnaid--I think a hundred fathoms deep. The shores on the right, as we glided along, were richly wooded and green; but on the left the Brothers Ben rose up bare and rugged, with a small fringe of trees round a cottage at the base of Ben Voirlich. The air was soft and the sun hot, and I trust that the cold, chilly weather has passed. We arrived in less than half an hour, and our oarsman helped us climb the crags nicely. We descended into the depths. Rob Roy, with twenty men, used to remain there together in pretty small quarters; yet there is as much space as in a room of a Highland cottage, perhaps. Light comes in through two or three crevices; but an entrance can be effected by one only, and that one could be well defended

176 NOTES IN SCOTLAND.

from an intruder. Not a very sumptuous palace for a king, as King Robert Bruce probably thought when he fled there from his English pursuers. There is a ladder by which we descended into the lowest part, and there I stood, after knocking my head twice, at the risk of spoiling my pretty bonnet, too, though I believe it is not injured.

The cave does not seem to be a natural hollow in a rock, but a result of the falling together of great boulders, leaving open spaces. The boatman told us that it was Rob Roy's property, and that he owned the land for ten miles, as far from here as Rowardennan. The water is beautifully clear, diamond clear, and of a golden color. This mountain spring-water is delicious to drink--the first I have tasted in Britain not hard. August is the time for the heather to bloom, but I saw a wee tuft of crimson color on a rock in a warm nook. Farewell for a few hours.

THE TROSACHS!

MACGREGOR'S HOTEL, Head of Loch Katrine,
Fourth of July--Evening.

WE have celebrated the day of the Declaration of Independence in a very delightful manner. We left Inversnaid this afternoon.

Before the stage-coach set forth for Loch Katrine, papa and J---- started on foot, enjoying much better to walk till they were tired. There was room for

THE TROSACHS. 177

sixteen in the carriage; but there were only two gentlemen, and my ain sel was the only lady. The gentlemen were Germans, as I discovered by the "neins," and "jas," and "echs;" but they spoke English as well. They stationed themselves on the driver's box, and so I had all the rest of the fifteen seats at my disposal. The road which we owe to his Grace the Duke of Montrose, winds along on a shelf, exactly after the manner of that road in Madeira, up which you and I and R. were borne in palanquins or litters. On our left were the braes, and on our right below rushed the Arkhill, which forms the falls of Inversnaid as it hurries into the loch. It was very beautiful and refreshing, singing its loud song over the rocks. Where its banks were high, the huge boulders had tumbled in from age to age, so that the small river has much ado to get along, but having a downward impetus, along it will and must get, and its persistence and importunity are very musical, and it roars like a thousand nightingales. The descent to the stream from the road is quite precipitous, and the. basket-fence is not finished, so that after a mile or so, we could have pitched over as well as not. It all depended upon the driver of our carriage--his skill and his soberness. It seemed to me that I should never overtake papa and J----. The hills were wild and bare for a good distance, and had no names. Small stone hovels here and there appeared on the moors, lonely and forlorn, and then we came to the ruins of a

178 NOTES IN SCOTLAND.

stone fort, which the English built to protect the surrounding people from the terrible Macgregors. In 1718, General Wolfe was stationed there.

As I could not reach my foot travellers, I turned round to look behind, when lo! such a glorious vision burst upon me, as I had not yet seen among these Highlands. We were high and far off, but exactly opposite, was the glen of Ivernglass--and all those lofty Bens that cluster there had, risen in glory and ascended into the heavens. Let me try to tell you how. They were half-wrapped in delicate gauzes, and the sun, which was not shining on us nor on the intervening spaces, was pouring a flood of silver-gold splendor into the glen, in front of which a dark hill stood. So that the effect was precisely as if the sun had dropped into the glen, and was shining up from it, and with a million arrows of light was piercing the mists that hovered just beneath the summits of Ben Crosh and Ben Vain, in such a way that they appeared miles in height. Indeed they seem to have no end, but to be lost in the heavens. You have observed at sunset or toward sunset, how rays are marked on the sky from the sun (when veiled in clouds), to the horizon. Now fancy the sun hidden in a deep vale, and the rays streaming up from it to the zenith instead of down from it to the horizon. Prismatic hues played about the mists like the changes in a pearl shell, and the whole wonderful pageant was on such a gigantic scale that I was breathless with astonish-

THE TROSACHS. 179

ment. Fancy a dim twilight world of giant proportions, Chimborazos and Himalayas piled up, enclosing passes of awful depth, or assembled in majestic conclave around one deepest fell. Fancy them thinly enveloped in illusive vapor, which allows, here and there, an outline to be discerned, and then let the Great Carbuncle suddenly blaze out from the abysses, and shoot aurora borealises upward, and transmute white mists into rainbow tissues, and by the singular refraction or reflection magnifying every line and mass into a vastness beyond comprehension. But it is not possible to show it to you by words.

The German gentlemen were all this while looking straight ahead, not having the remotest idea of these glories, and after reflecting, I considered it my duty to tell them. "Wunderbar," "Wunderschön!" they shouted in a rapture, and we all sat with twisted necks in a helpless state of exclamation for a long time. I say "helpless," but perhaps "vain" would be an apter word, for exclaim as we might in German or English, we could not adequately express our emotions. No expression has been coined that would fit the case, and we were obliged to ease off. into "oh's" and "ah's." And I truly believe that these little ejaculations often save the lives of poor mortals. They are blessed safety-valves when the shows of Creation are too much for us, and I dare say "Oh" was Adam's first utterance when he found himself standing with open eyes in

180 NOTES IN SCOTLAND.

Paradise. And I was so afraid papa and J---- might not look back!

The head of huge Ben Venue now appeared in the distance, the very Ben Venue, dear, which overlooks your beloved Loch Katrine, Ellen's lake. It did not seem possible that I was really so happy as to see it, and I then especially wished for you by my side on one of the empty fifteen seats. * * * * Now I saw papa and J---- far ahead, and we overtook them directly. We then passed the small Loch Arklet, which might reflect Ben Lomond when smooth, and then we arrived at Stronaclachar, where is a hotel and a pier, and a pretty screw steamer was waiting for us on the shores of Loch Katrine itself! Into this we immediately entered and settled ourselves in the prow, so as to see all before us without hindrance.

* * * * Loch Katrine opens with a wide and lovely expanse of water which seems quite shut in by the hills, as if it were finished off at once, holding a small island on its bosom. We were a weary while waiting at the pier, and I could conceive no reason why--but each thing has an end, and so had our delay. Upon arriving at the little island aforementioned, which is covered with trees and shrubs, Ben Chochan can be seen, but there is no name to the bare mountain bases that are washed by the waters all along here. The Lord Willoughby d'Eresby owns the left side of the lake, and the Duke of Montrose the right, so that Aberfoyle is his. There are

THE TROSACHS. 181

several passes on each side, and in Portnellen, a pass on Lord Willoughby's side, once lived Rob Roy. You well remember Malcolm Græme, so that you will be interested to know that the family name of his Grace of Montrose is Grahame, or as the Scotch pronounce it, Græme.

The broad waters of the Loch wind in great curves round the various promontories and headlands, so that constantly we seemed to see the whole, and then a turn brought to view still remoter reaches, and as we approached Ellen's Isle, the sterile mountain-sides changed to richly-wooded steeps. Before this change, however, I ought to tell you of a magnificent glen, or pass, which we saw on the left. Heavy clouds hung over that region, tinging the bold, vast heap of rock and stubble perfectly black, while close to the lake, long hills swept down to the brim, of the richest, brightest green--not of the texture of velvet, but exactly like chenille, soft and uneven like that, and delicious in verdure. The water was like ink beneath these black masses, so that papa proposed I should fill my inkstand with it, as just before I left Inversnaid, I upset my little portable. But we have traversed the inky flood, and passed the mighty pass, and now glide into peculiarly enchanted realms. Sir Walter stood thereabout with magic wand, and the whole boat's company assembled amidships when Ellen's Isle came in view, as if it were the promised land. -What is like the power of genius! The captain told his

182 NOTES IN SCOTLAND.

own minute stories, as if Ellen, and the Douglas, and Roderic once lived and loved and fought; and, in our imagination, did not we all devoutly believe so? The island is much smaller than I had fancied, but lovely, and entirely covered with trees and shrubs, as are all "the banks and braes" at this end of the loch, while far above rises Ben Venue, rugged and stern. Opposite to it--

"Ben An heaves high his forehead bare."

The beauty and richness seem to increase as we go on from Ellen's Isle. Scott's description of its innumerable riches only mirrors the plain fact.

I looked with all my eyes at every side. I wished to be Argus, so as to see all round at once, and not lose anything behind while I was gazing before, or on one hand while looking on the other. Alas! however, we have but two eyes, and we are bound to be thankful when they both look the same way, instead of in different directions.

It is one wilderness of thickly-wooded hills at the head of the lake, and then begins the pass of the Trosachs. Two carriages, one open and one closed, awaited us there, and we preferred the open one, so as to enjoy the prospect. There had been only a slight sprinkling of rain during our voyage of ten miles, and though now it threatened somewhat, I thought I would take the risk. The whole narrow road was enchanting from beginning to end, overhung with trees, guarded well by Ben Venue and

THE TROSACHS. 183

Ben An on either hand, with small burns gleaming among the wayside shrubbery, and flowers and sweet-brier hanging out long wreaths of roses.

Soon another lake--Loch Achray--opens the pass. Round this water the hills are much lower. Trosachs means Bristled Territory. Two arched stone bridges span a river that flows from Loch Achray to Loch Vennachar.

So now on the shores of Loch Achray, we drove up to a castellated building, Macgregor's Hotel, built by Lord Willoughby d'Eresby. It has corner towers which J---- disrespectfully called pepper-boxes; but which are castle-like, and in one of them is our parlor. It is a delightful room, with four lancet windows like a true turret. So at last I am living in a tower, as I always wished to do. One lancet opens upon Ben Venue, another upon the lake. It is wainscoted with polished oak, and the deep embrasures and furniture are also of oak. The walls are hung with a mosaic pattern, crimson and wood-color. The carpet is crimson Brussels, and the couches and chairs have crimson-velvet cushions. No Macgregor of former days ever lived in such a fine castle as this.

After tea we strolled out toward Callender, with Loch Achray on our right. A tiny little stone kirk soon came in sight, which we walked round, and then sat down on a comfortably low parapet to gaze about. The water was smooth, and perfectly reflected the purple and gold clouds of sunset, and

184 NOTES IN SCOTLAND.

there were actually level lands on its. banks, while Ben Venue rose aloft. Ben An from one point presented a perfect pyramid, and it is really difficult to say what shape any mountain has, the form changes so much at different points of view. Until we are very close upon Ben Lomond, however, its shape holds, always like a head and shoulders.

It was in the pass of the Trosachs, you know, that Fitz-James stumbled and fell when he was hunting. It was formerly a mere gorge where now the good road winds. We gathered here from a wild eglantine three roses--one a shut-bud, but showing the lovely pink petals--another not quite half opened, and a third just ready to unfold, but curved over the stamens. We named them after three children we know, and they are the prettiest of portraits.

It was nearly nine o'clock when we got back to the hotel, still day, and though I wished very much to go to Loch Katrine, we concluded to defer our visit there.

* * * * * *

July 6th.--The waiter came with a request that we would dine at the table d'hôte, because it was Sunday, and the servants wanted rest and leisure; and I could not but consent, though I was very sorry. So we went down into the dining-hall, which, in harmony with the rest of the castle, had an unceiled roof of polished rafters of oak, in gothic peaks, and an oaken wainscot. On one side was a broad window of painted glass, with three lights. Oppo-

THE TROSACHS. 185

site me hung the portrait of some redoubtable hero, Robert de Bruce, Rob Roy, or Macgregor, I presume. Between two windows, at one end, was a picture of a bishop, and opposite him a convex mirror, surmounted by an eagle.

The table was exactly full, and I saw hardly one comely person. Two young gentlemen in gray, and a young clergyman at the top of the table, were good-looking, but only one individual in the room was eminently handsome. There fell great pauses in talk, one of which I. broke by saying to papa, "What a pretty dining-hall this is!" and my profound remark proved quite a blessing, for they all began to speak of it to one another, and continued to keep up a babble to the end.

After dinner it was clear and fine, and we went to walk, and decided to go to Loch Katrine through the famous pass of the Trosachs. We were guarded on each side by Ben An and Ben Venue; and there were the wildest fells, the steepest precipices, beetling crags, singing burns, and plumy foliage--every combination in form and texture of soft beauty and rugged grandeur. When we arrived at the lake, we saw our pretty steamer moored fast, resting over Sunday, and several row-boats also. Two thatched buildings are on the margin of the water, one of them covered with moss and lichens, and large clusters of a white flowering plant. The front of this hut was ornamented with devices made of saplings twisted into ornaments in alto-relievo. The

186 NOTES IN SCOTLAND.

other was a shelter for animals. Before us lay Ellen's Lake, shut in by the promontories and capes, so as to seem very tiny, while Ben Venue, the mighty sentinel, kept watch on the left of the dream-haunted spot.

Some friendly dry boards were piled up near the cattle-shed, and I had a good rest there, after a walk of a mile and a quarter. One way in which we discover the vastness of Ben Venue is by finding that he always seems just alongside, go as far as you will. A mantle of mist about his shoulders, and a gleam of sunshine from behind a cloud, would at once make him appear of infinite altitude. He has thrown off (if he ever had any) all his "lendings" from head and body, but there are heaps of drapery of richest material fallen at his feet;--such lovely, feathery garments, as if his royal robes had been of emerald marabouts intermingled with ostrich plumes and a great deal of pea-green chenille trimming. The gem of purest water that erewhiles dropped from his loosened gabardine is the lake itself. It seemed very small as we looked at it from our pile of boards.

We made up our minds to go on to Ellen's Isle, though it was rather far, but there was no other way to see it unless there had been a donkey for me, or it had been a week-day and we could have hired a boat. So we took the delightful path that is made on the borders of the water sometimes, and sometimes farther inland. It is about twelve feet broad,

THE TROSACHS. 187

and just as wild, lovely, and varied as woodland path can be, and made tuneful by mountain rills which run across the way into the lake: often walled in, too, by horrent crags that rise up from the level ground, wedging the innocent air with sharp points, though often wrapping their "épouvantables terreurs" in mantles of heath and moss. The purple heath was in early bloom along the sides, and I gathered some for you. I did not see the "light harebell" that "raised its head elastic from her airy tread"--which is a pity; but at last, at last, came "the snow-white beach" to which Ellen shot her shallop when she heard the bugle, and directly opposite this was her island home! The sun had now come fully out, the wind was still, and it was a scene of perfect repose and loveliness. Though, as I said before, the isle looks smaller than I expected, yet distances and scenes are very difficult to estimate correctly across water, and I think it may be found large when close upon it. It is thickly wooded and there are cliffs and rocks, and we are bound to suppose there are ruins of the castle of the Douglas somewhere within the recesses. What castle that we see is so real to our hearts and fancies as this? There is a beautiful bay made by a peninsula that reaches far beyond the island, and the beach is covered with white stones--some of which we gathered up for you. I walked all over it, so as perchance to set my foot where "Snowdoun's Knight" set his, as he descended from the thickets to step into "the

188 NOTES IN SCOTLAND.

light shallop" of the Lady of the Lake. Just as the perfect reflection of the surrounding landscape looks more real and finished, as well as lovelier than the tangible scene, so the dreams of poets are more truth than very facts. The Douglas, the Græme in spirit had been there. Ellen lived and breathed--

"Her head thrown back, her lips apart,
Like monument of Grecian art."

Papa found a stone, hollowed like a little cup--and we drank of the dissolved diamond dropped from Ben Venue's regal vestments. J---- lay down prostrate and took a reviving draught, and we mused and gazed till about eight o'clock. The sun had not yet set, and the long gold lights and shadows were enchanting; but we were obliged to commence our return, because there were more than two miles to walk. J---- ran on before us, and just as we were coming opposite an enormous cliff, we heard him shouting aloft--

"And like a sheet of burnished gold,
Loch Katrine lies before me rolled!"

How little he supposed he should repeat those lines in the very place where Fitz-James himself stood, perhaps, when he first heard them read in Leamington. The setting sun threw wonderful gold floods over the wooded braes and slopes and through the glades; and once in the dark depths of forest, a single group of trees flamed in its beams like fire.

THE TROSACHS. 189

What a country is Great Britain! Every atom of it is a jewel. History and poetry transmute into precious stones every particle of its dust. One cannot look abroad or plant his foot, but a thousand illustrious shades spring up before him--noble deeds and creations of genius make it fairy-land. And full as it is of riches, it is so small that we can fold our arms round it and love it and enjoy it. Hail Britannia!

190

VI.
BRIDGE OF ALLAN.

July 6th, 1857.

HERE we are--arrived at the most famous of the Scottish Spas, at the Queen's Hotel, and we are most unexpectedly here, as I will tell you.

We left the Trosachs at nearly four o'clock, in a mail-coach, for Stirling. The coach had a small body or calyx, and a very wide-spreading corolla. We three and a stranger-lady were in the calyx, and innumerable people were perched upon the corolla, like so many bees; and such a gorgeous king-bee as the driver was you will never see, unless you see one of her Majesty's mail-coachmen in a new scarlet coat. Every time he appeared in sight, I heard the sound of trumpets, and the landscape kindled. My scarlet bee buzzed about so long, without apparent aim, that we were quite tired of waiting. You, perhaps, remember the coachman from Newby Bridge to Milnthorpe. He looked like a huge moth-miller in his light-drab wrapper, but I liked him better than this scarlet creature, though not his coat so well. Finally we bowled off very pleasantly. The

BRIDGE OF ALLAN. 191

road skirted Loch Achray, and then a valley through which a stream wound to Loch Vennachar, the Trosach crags continuing on our left till we came to a hotel. But first we passed the Bridge of Turk (vide "the chase" in the Lady of the Lake) and saw the River Turk rushing down Glenfinlass--a broad glen with bleak mountains rising from it--and of course I thought of Fitz-James, who dashed over this bridge on his "gallant gray," when pursuing the stag. The huts of Duncraggan then came in sight, built in the open space near the glen, singular, desolate old huts. Now Loch Vennachar (lake of the fair valley) opened upon our right, and opposite, on the left, giant Ben Ledi lifted its double-headed top, one of the four highest Bens in Scotland (3,000 feet). After passing the loch, we began to see a most lovely valley in the distance--a river winding through it, and a town situated on the fairest plain, broad and bright, with richly wooded cliffs sweeping up in long curves from it, and Ben Ledi growing more and more grand as we left his immediate vicinity. I wish you to have an image of this valley. It took a character of vastness, it was so exceedingly smooth and wide, and gave me the impression that everything was cleared away at last, allowing plenty of room to breathe and consider, while the heights which closed it in afar off gave an effect of comfortable and comprehensible space, while plains that reach to the horizon almost weary one with their indefinite immensity. George

192 NOTES IN SCOTLAND.

Herbert, in one of his divine poems, speaks of the Lord's "transparent rooms"--and this seemed one of them, though on earth, and not in heaven. I think it must be after this valley that the loch is named Vennachar, fair. Before us were blue distances, probably including Stirling Heights, and as we drew nearer the vision grew more beautiful, and a bridge of three arches, the midmost the tallest, captivated my eyes, so eager and grateful for curves. The Teith is a tolerably wide river, flowing over rocks, and, in some places extremely shallow, so that when Rob Roy was chased over it he need scarcely have wetted his flying feet. We stopped at a hotel to change horses, and had twenty minutes to walk about. We went to the pretty bridge and looked down into its clear water, and saw tall trees drooping their branches into it to take a sip. The trees were quite lordly all round. The long street of Callender is bordered by all kinds of thatched cottages, small inns, and low shops, not at all comely, but we saw some large, handsome villas among the groups of woods outside the thickly peopled part. Just as we were settled again in our calyx, another stranger-lady joined us; a person who looked anxious and careful, as if she had so many children she did not know what to do, or some other great burden on her mind. She charged the driver over and over again to leave her at "the Queen's," as if she feared to be mislaid somewhere; and when he had quieted her uneasy mind we resumed our way. The road

BRIDGE OF ALLAN. 193

now lay across a more level and desolate country. I put out my head to glance back once, and saw Ben Ledi standing alone like a monarch, a Saul among his brethren, taller by the head and shoulders than any other.

We now came to Doune, where the rivers Teith and Ardoch meet, and at their confluence is an old ruined castle, making a stately picture; and soon after leaving Doune I caught, a glimpse of Stirling's storied height. I saw but for an instant an abrupt ascent from a plain, and a heap of turrets, and then it was all gone again. When we arrived at the Spa, the coach stopped at this hotel to allow our anxious passenger to alight, and I asked her about the hotels in Stirling. I supposed this was the town of Stirling, or immediately in the environs of it, and the hotel looked so large and inviting that I asked her if she could recommend it. "Oh, yes, she could," and so we decided to remain here, and did not discover, till after our malles were in and our rooms engaged, that we were not at Stirling, but at the Bridge of Allan, three miles away, and that our fellow-traveller was the landlady of this very hotel, and that it was "the Queen's." The coach had driven away, however, and here we must stay, and it proves so very beautiful that we are not sorry. Scott has made the place memorable; besides that it hag natural advantages of situation. After tea we walked out, and found another great hotel, with gardens of rose-trees, in full bloom, a pretty church

9

194 NOTES IN SCOTLAND.

of the Establishment, a mighty fountain nearly ready to play, a nice little bowling-green, and a view of Stirling Castle. We then turned about to walk on the bridge. Near this are the original old cottages which first composed the village. The bridge has been renewed on one side; but on the other looks very old, with two arches. It spans the Allan-water. "Allan" comes from a Celtic word--aluinn--meaning beautiful. The parish is named Logie, and is bounded on one side by Dumblane. We walked along a road leading to a church, which gradually ascended. Embowered cottages were on our right hand, and under one clustering vine a woman sat knitting, and I asked her about the church. She said it was not an ancient one, but quite pretty inside; so we did not visit it, and turned on our steps, when behold! spread before us and on one side a magnificent prospect. The sun threw long beams of light from his closing eyes, and out of the rich, cultivated plain, rose in the midst the high crag upon which the renowned Stirling Castle is built. Nearer to us the Cliff Craigforth, less high, but perfectly beautiful and thickly wooded, seemed to invite another castle to crown its summit with battlements. A steep rock on the highest side I thought might be a ruined wall, but a woman near us said it was not. Farther to the east the Grand Abbey Craig swept up like a wave, and on this the national monument to William Wallace is to be erected, and a nobler pedestal for the monument to

BRIDGE OF ALLAN. 195

a hero could not be found in any kingdom. It is far more superb than the elevation on which Stirling Castle stands, and there are remains of a wall on its face, which are a sign of, who knows what? deeply interesting historic events in the vanished ages.

Besides the three I have mentioned, there is another on the horizon over Craigforth, still keeping the form of the others, but after rising it continues for miles and miles along. I believe it is "the Ochils."

196

197

ROME, February 14th, 1858.

WE have been in Rome since the 20th January, and I have not written a word of journal. Till the 2d it was bitterly cold, and afterward but little milder, and not sufficiently so to make my fingers flexible enough to hold a pen. On the 5th it began to rain, the weather previously having been clear and brilliant. The rain softened the air, or it rained because the air was softer, and rained on till the 12th. Now, again, it. is glorious sunshine and cold; but every one says the winter has gone. I have not really commenced seeing Rome in earnest, and with accurate observation, but intend to do so after the Carnival. I have walked about, however, and had glimpses of what is before me. I have

198 NOTES IN ITALY.

spent one hour in St. Peters, walked through the Forum Romanum, and seen the Arch of Septimius Severus, the portico of the Temple of Saturn, the three beautiful columns of the Temple of Vespasian, the three of the Temple of Minerva Chalcidica, the single column erected to the Emperor Phocas, the Schola Xantha, the Temple of Faustina and Antoninus, the Sacra Via, terminated by the Arch of Titus. How I like to write down the illustrious names of what I have all my life long so much desired to see! I cluster them together like jewels, and exult over them. The Forum is a kind of vale, above which rises the Palatine on the right, as one approaches from the Corso; while the Capitoline towers up behind the Arch of Septimius Severus, which is at the opposite end of the Forum to the Arch of Titus. I have wandered over the Coliseum, passing by the ruins of what was once called the Temple of Peace, but is now the Basilica of Constantine. At a distance I have seen the ruins of the Palace of the Cæsars, crowning the Palatine. I have driven under the Arch of Constantine, through the Porta San Sebastiano, to the Appian Way, and passed under the Arch of Drusus to the tomb of the Scipios and the Columbaria, by the stupendous ruins of the Baths of Caracalla, and, outside the walls, back through the Porta Maggiore, upon the Piazza of St. John Lateran. Since the drive I have been into that grand old Basilica, and half looked at it; also, into Santa Maria Maggiore, on the Esquiline. One day

ROMAN JOURNAL. 199

when alone, I chanced upon a most beautiful temple, with a mighty flank and portico, which I find to be the Temple of Mars Ultor, in the Forum of Augustus. I have been on the Quirinal, and seen the Greek groups of Castor and Pollux by Phidias and Praxiteles, before the Pontifical Palace; and the Forum of Trajan (or the little that has been excavated of it), with the wonder of art, Trajan's column, sculptured by Apollodorus, from top to base with hundreds of figures, in the highest style. This is a slight sketch and foretaste of the riches I have before me.

February 19th.--It is a superb and cold day. After breakfast we undertook to search out Santa Maria degl' Angeli on the Viminal. We went through the Via Felice, and passed the Piazza Barberini, in which is the Triton fountain--a stone basin, wherein sits a Triton with upturned head, spouting a thin line of water into the air, and then we ascended through the Via delle Quattro Fontane. On its highest point the four fountains make the corners of the four ways. They are all at the angles of houses, and look very old, with recumbent figures, mostly without noses, quietly reposing by the ever-flowing streams. At this point, we turned to the left into the Via Porta Pia, while at the end of the Via Quirinalis on the right, we could see afar the obelisk, round which are the glorious groups of Castor and Pollux, with their horses, crowning the Monte Ca-

200 NOTES IN ITALY.

vallo, where we went the other day. We walked along by a dead wall for some time--probably the Barberini Palace Gardens--and then by the monastery and Church of Santa Susanna and Santo Bernardo, and Santa Maria della Vittoria, opposite to which is the fountain of Termini. This is quite imposing, with a colossal statue of Moses in the centre, striking the Rock. Its old name was Fontana dell' Acqua Felice. There are four marble lions, with their heads turned toward one another, while out of their mouths flow the inexhaustible clear streams. The Moses is the work of Prospero di Brescia, who died of mortification at the derision which it called forth. But I do not see that it is so very absurd. It is a mighty old form. On each side are bas-reliefs, in one of which Aaron predominates--in the other, Gideon. The places of these four new marble lions were once filled by four Egyptian lions of black granite, that were removed from before the Pantheon--which I think is unpardonable--and now the Pope has put them in the Vatican Museum.

We saw no Basilica, and so we went on, passing the Villa Bonaparte,--a charming little mansion in the midst of green shrubbery, looking English in form and arrangement, but without the lonely velvet lawns: then the Villa Torlonia, which seemed an Eden through the gates; and the city wall limits it on one side. We went out of the Porta Via, designed by Michel Angelo. Upon the top of Michel Angelo's gate Pio Nono has built another story, as if for no

ROMAN JOURNAL. 201

other reason than to put his name upon it; for the popes emblazon their names in this way, all over Rome, on every ruin and church and wall, as if it were in the least interesting to read the names of popes, or that it is of any account to know what they did. I wish they would beautify and repair and restore, without marring their good deeds by illuminating their unimportant cognomens upon them, as if to proclaim--"It was I, Gregory, or Pius, or Benedict, VII, VIII., or IX., and not Gregory, Pius, or Benedict, X., XI., or XII., who did this fine thing. Observe!" Near this spot is wondrous interest; for it was not far off that Hannibal threw his spear over the wall of Servius Tullius, of which a portion still remains, stretching from the ancient Porta Collana. The Via Porta goes straight over its site, and on the right hand is what is left of the venerable wall. Between it and the Villa Torlonia is the Campus Sceleratus, where the vestal virgins, who had broken their vows, were buried alive. The Pretorian camp of Tiberius was near this dismal field of murder, still more to the northeast. Belisarius had also something to do with the walls surrounding the Pretorian camp. Beyond the gate afar off were the ever-lovely blue Sabine and Alban hills, snow-capped and of enchanting form. In the clear light of morning they looked like the Delectable mountains of Christian's dream, where all the saints were shining. No Saint Mary of the Angels, however, was yet visible, and upon looking at the map

9*

202 NOTES IN ITALY.

we found we had taken the wrong direction, and that we must return to the Fountain of Termini. So we retraced our way, and went through the Piazza di Termini again, by the calm Lions, and the never-ending crystal streams,--more like the ceaseless bounty of God than anything else--and, like His bounty, too much contemned and forgotten by these Romans, who use it neither to make themselves nor their city clean, and who think those persons who drink it mad men and women. The grape flows for them, and the voice of the many waters calls to them in vain. We found a wide space beyond the Piazza, with avenues of trees leading two ways from one point, like the tines of a fork, and at the end of one a gate of bronze, which we thought might be the entrance to the Basilica we sought. But it was the gate of a garden of the Villa Negroni, where Crawford lived, and we saw within some giant cactuses, which looked as if carved out of pale, green marble. A French sentinel stood near, and I asked him where the church was, and he pointed to a heap of ruins; but we could see among them no sign of the magnificent structure we had read of. These ruins, however, were the wreck of the baths of Diocletian,--a portion of them having been made into a Christian temple by Michel Angelo. They were very superb, and a mile in circuit, built by forty thousand Christian slaves. The vast hall, in the midst of the Thermæ, is entirely preserved, and forms the largest part of the church. Eight of the enormous, grand

ROMAN JOURNAL. 203

columns of oriental granite are the identical columns of Diocletian's baths, and stand just as they were first placed. They have marble bases and Corinthian capitals, and lofty arches rest upon them. The ceiling is still studded with the very brass rings from which the lamps were suspended fifteen hundred years ago, and it is vaulted in a somewhat gothic form, so that it looks lighter and freer than any other ceiling I have yet seen in Rome, giving a fountain-like expression to this noblest hall in the world; for no hall of ancient times has come to the present age so grand and fine as this. Michel Angelo has arranged the church in the form of a Greek cross. The Natatio, or swimming-bath, is higher by a step or two than the hall. On one side hangs the Martyrdom of St. Sebastian, by Domenichino. Opposite is the Baptism of Christ, by Carlo Maratta. Domenichino's fresco was veiled; but upon my pulling at the curtain, a respectable priest came forward and drew it aside. For over every rare and famous masterpiece in the churches these Romans hang a veil, so as to get a paul for removing it; though I should like to think it were to preserve the painting from dust and light, which might fade the colors. This holy man, however, seemed neither to expect nor await a fee,--honor be to him ever! We took chairs, and sat down before the great picture. I had never heard of it, though I saw a mosaic of it at St. Peter's on Ash-Wednesday, when I attended the ceremonies in the Sistine Chapel. The mosaic

204 NOTES IN ITALY.

I did not dwell upon, for then I was taken up by the Transfiguration (in mosaic also), and Michel Angelo's Pietà, in marble. But the original fresco to-day impressed me deeply. It was first painted on the wall of St. Peter's, and by marvellous skill transferred to this place. Why St. Peter's should be deprived of so wonderful a work I cannot imagine, unless it was intended that all its pictures should be (as they are now, with one exception) of imperishable stone. Executioners are drawing up the form of St. Sebastian, with ropes, on a cross. On the right, a soldier is dashing by upon a horse, and shakes a truncheon at the saint as he goes. Before the cross, kneeling on the ground, is a woman, turning her face toward the horseman. Another woman and a child, both with hands extended in fear and horror, crouch in one corner. A man with bow and arrows stoops on the other side, raising his head to speak to a soldier, who is bending down to him. Other officers are in the distance. Above, very near the head of St. Sebastian, an angel hovers, with a crown in his hand, in the act of dropping it upon the brows of the martyr. Higher still, Christ, in a form of freshest youth, reposes in the arms of other angels and cherubs, in a blue mantle. Seraphim are blowing trumpets on the left. The head of St. Sebastian is raised, with an expression of divine patience, at the same time with a keen sense of suffering. The pure, pale features are, however, becoming glorified, as if reflecting the heavenly vision above

ROMAN JOURNAL. 205

him. Eternal youth and rest look down upon him from the face and figure of Christ. The countenance of the angel with the crown is of etherial beauty, illumined also with the soft light of his golden hair, floating backward. The woman, kneeling in the centre--her face in profile--is beautiful, a rich mass of sunny tresses gathered beneath a turban, and her neck and shoulders exquisitely painted. The headlong rush of the horse, and the rapid action of its rider, are in fine contrast with the silent agony and patience of the saint, and the unearthly repose of Christ, beaming through the heavens. This is unlike any martyrdom I have seen, for Domenichino has succeeded in making the triumph over pain complete, and instead of the distressing horror, I felt only a peace which passes all understanding. The longer I looked, the more profoundly I was affected by the sublimity of the sacrifice, for St. Sebastian looks delicately organized, and full of tender susceptibility, as if pain to him were pain indeed, and as if he were conscious, perfectly, of the agony he endured, and should endure. Yet he is willing. His gentle might is inflexible, and controls the quivering sensations of anguish into resignation; and his countenance is becoming celestial, as I said, as the heavens open upon him, with the sound of trumpets, the golden crown, and above all, the Lord Jesus, not represented bleeding and wounded, and as "a man of sorrows," but with serene joy beaming like a pearl on his forehead. His aspect says to the suf-

206 NOTES IN ITALY.

ferer, "Come unto me, my beloved, my brother, and I will give you rest."

I was obliged to leave the picture much sooner than I wished, without half comprehending it; but I shall go again. I should now like to know all about Domenichino, and whether he painted unconsciously in a religious devotion, or whether a personal experience of sorrow and torment had revealed so much to him as this. I think we generally take a masterpiece as if directly from the hand of God, and do not consider the character or idiosyncrasies of the artist. But it seems as if the soul must be pure, and the instrument clean, by means of which the Creator delineates such a scene as is represented here.

The opposite painting by Carlo Maratta was rich and soft in color, but I saw nothing more than that of it to-day. The tops of both were arched, as well as those of every picture in the church. The vast hall is surrounded with these arched pictures in every compartment, which gives great splendor of effect. Very many of them are the originals of the mosaics in St. Peter's. At each end of the transepts are altars in chapels, and the pavement of one has been lately renewed or newly laid by Pio Nono, and is magnificent.--a mosaic of the most rich and highly polished marbles, shining like glass; and the Greek cross is repeated over and over, alternating with other patterns. I did not know the earth contained such varieties of superb marbles as I have already

ROMAN JOURNAL. 207

seen in Italy--first in Genoa and now in Rome. The whole pavement of the church was once like this new part, but is now dimmed and defaced by innumerable footsteps. An immense meridian line is inserted transversely from one corner to another. Above the arched niches are other arcs and lights, and the sections of the arcs are also filled with brightly colored frescoes or oil paintings. Such compartments as these, so filled, are truly sumptuous.

I can fancy Diocletian's Calidaria, encrusted and paved with marbles and bas-reliefs and adorned with frescoes, while a hundred blazing lamps, suspended from those very brass rings now visible, kindled into splendor the polished stones and glowing colors, (the light of day never penetrated into the Roman thermæ,) and brought out all the expressive lines of the statues of the gods and goddesses standing around. The ancient Laconium, now the vestibule, is a dome upon the ground. The tombs of Salvator Rosa and Carlo Maratta are here, with two others, opposite each other in the circle, and between them are shrines and altars, with pictures. In the short passage from the vestibule to the hall is a noble, calm statue of St. Bruno, by Houdon. He is looking down in reposeful thought, with his hands crossed, and a face of sincere benignity. The drapery is very straight and simple, in perfect harmony with the lines of the countenance. It is truly grand, with no gesture or attitude for effect--just

208 NOTES IN ITALY.

standing, serene and firm in faith, with a very living presence. Not a statue of a saint in St. Peter's can be compared to it for a moment. Bernini makes all his apostles and holy men stage-actors. There is always a whirlwind among their garments, and a tempest of passion (virtuous rage, I presume) tosses their limbs about. But the soul of St. Bruno possesses itself, his limbs and his robes in PEACE.

We did not go to-day into the cloisters behind the chancel. In the court of the cloisters I wish to see some cypresses planted by Michel Angelo, and I shall go another time.

We came out and walked along the other avenue, around the ruins of the baths, now in part converted into public granaries and barracks for French soldiers. Endless arches, almost all filled in with bricks, rise on every side; and half-ruined vaulted roofs and mighty walls, thick and high, have now all tumbled together in confusion.

February 20th.--Bright, cold day. We went to the Barberini Palace. I feel indignant with it, because Urban VIII., who was a Barberini, built it out of the Coliseum--daring to pull down that lordly ruin for materials for his house. The entrance to the court is under a very old, battered stone gate, that looks like early Roman work, and the Pope may have plundered some other classical ruin for it.

ROMAN JOURNAL. 209

Soldiers are on guard at and around and within the gate, who seem to belong to the prince; for they are neither Papal nor French. There may be a few red legs among them, however. The palace is three-sided. On the right is the gallery of pictures, which is on the ground-floor. A magnificent white marble staircase winds up to the upper suites of apartments, with beautiful columns and balusters--the finest in Rome. We then went into an ante-room, where some old and not valuable pictures were standing on the floor and hanging on the walls; but we did not stop to look at them. A civil, intelligent custode received us in the first gallery, and gave us a mounted card-board, upon which the names of the pictures and their artists were written, both in Italian and French, with most hospitable care. There were also tubes for use on the marble tables. A holy family, by Francia, first arrested me--one of his saintly works. Mary's face is extremely beautiful, matronly, pure and intellectual, as his Madonnas so often are, looking older than Raphael's Madonnas, and as if her experience were deep and wide. It is a MOTHER, with a perfect sense of all a mother's responsibilities,--and a sacred mother, as if she knew she were the long-hoped-for "mother in Israel," who has the Christ for her son. The infant has a noble head, and it has the air and motion of the heads of so many of the best old masters, as if they heard stately music, and poised themselves in unison with it, with a peculiar expression of dignity and

210 NOTES IN ITALY.

duty and severe precision--not as they would, but as they ought--" Not as I will, but as Thou wilt." The genius of Francia is thoroughly devotional, as well as that of Fra Angelico. The only other masterly picture in this room is Christ disputing with the Doctors, by Albert Durer. The Christ is not at all divine; but the power and wonder of the painting is in the heads and action of the Jewish Rabbis, who, every one, have the truth of portraiture, and are all the Jews of Jews, especially one frightful creature, who stands close by the young Jesus, with his wicked eyes fastened on the child-face, and his fingers resting on his hands. I think this Jew was the father of Judas Iscariot. Eccolo! only I cannot get so much wickedness, malice, and meanness into my sketch as are in the original, especially the eye is not so evil. He has an unwholesome, yellow complexion, while all the rest are as red as Adam. Two are reading out of the Talmud, to prove something against the words of Christ; and the books are painted with true Dutch fidelity. They are books, and not pictures of books. I wish "the Light of the World" had a more adequate beauty, and then the contrast of the frame-work of "Scribes, Pharisees, Hypocrites" with him would be more suggestive still; but it certainly is a chef d'oeuvre, as it is.

In the next saloon is the Garden of Eden, after the Fall, by Domenichino. The Lord has come down, riding on angels and cherubs, to ask Adam why tie did not answer when He called him. Adam

ROMAN JOURNAL. 211

points to Eve to excuse himself for having disobeyed His commands, with a pitiful air of unmanly cowardice, and. actually shrugs his shoulders at the Almighty [the first shrug], as if he said, "Thou seest how it is--that woman tempted me." Eve is kneeling, and turns to the Creator with a much more dignified and respectable gesture of concern, and points to the serpent for her defence; and the serpent is wriggling away as fast as it can, perfectly conscious of its base purpose. All the grandeur of Adam has collapsed under that shrug and cringing look toward his Maker, though it is evident that his form is noble and his "front" has been "sublime." Self-respect having gone, however, and taken with it his self-possession, he is king no more. He is weak, and his sceptre is taken from him. A lamb in the foreground, lying hitherto in quiet felicity, raises its head, and looks at the scene, as if aware of a disturbance in the bliss of Eden, with a questioning, awakened action of the pretty head. It is the loveliest lamb I ever saw painted, except that one by Murillo in "The Good Shepherd," in the National Gallery of England. If Domenichino intended to prefigure "The Lamb that taketh away the sins of the world," its marvellously tender beauty is accounted for. Close by comes prowling a tiger, no longer in loving fellowship with lambs, but glaring with newly-born ferocity at the unconscious creature, ready to devour it in a moment. This group suggests "all our woe." Just above reposes

212 NOTES IN ITALY.

the Almighty Father in His wreath of angels. It is no face of God; but the angels are of enchanting beauty, especially one in the centre, with a noble head, lustrous with golden curls. Another puts back, his lovely hair to gaze up at the grand form he upholds, with a clear, sweet look of confidence. Another on the left side actually blazes with joy; and a faithful little cherub, who supports a globe upon his shoulders beneath the Lord's left hand, has an expression of cheerful duty rendered, which is a sign and lesson to all beholders. I had no idea of Domenichino's power to represent beauty till yesterday and to-day. The disorder of emotion and disturbance of self-respect caused by sin in the group of Adam and Eve, the immediate suffering of Innocence for the guilty, typified by the Lamb and springing Tiger, and the baby-love and rapture of the little angels, who behold the face of the Father with no shame nor fear, compose a wonder of art and a world of Truth.

And now we sat down before Beatrice Cenci! at last, at last! after so many years' hoping and wishing. This is a masterpiece which baffles words. No copy, engraved or in oils, gives the remotest idea of it. It is all over Rome, in every picture dealer's shop, of every size; besides being engraved. In the copies are red eyelids, and other merely external signs of sorrow. In the original the infinite desolation, the unfathomable grief, are made evident through features of perfect beauty, without one line

ROMAN JOURNAL. 213

of care, or one shadow of experience,--translucent and pure as marble: Extremest youth, with youth's virgin innocence and ignorance of all crime--an expression in the eyes as if they asked, "Oh, what is it--what has happened--how am I involved?" Never from any human countenance looked out such ruin of hope, joy, and life; but there is unconsciousness still, as if she did not comprehend how or why she is crushed and lost. The white, smooth brow is a throne of infantine, angelic purity, without a visible cloud or a farrow of pain, yet a wild, endless despair hovers over it. The lovely eyes, with no red nor swollen lids, seem yet to have shed rivers of crystal tears that have left no stain--no more than a deluge of rain stains the adamantine arch of heaven. It is plain that the fountains are exhausted, and she can no longer obtain any solace from this outlet of grief. The delicate, oval cheeks are not flushed nor livid, but marble-pale, unaffected by the torrents that have bathed them, as if it were too hard an agony to be softened by tears. The mouth is unspeakably affecting. The rose-bud lips, sweet and tender, are parted slightly, yet with no cry, nor power to utter a word. Long-past words is the misery that has banished smiles forever from the blooming flower of her mouth. Night is gathering in her eyes, and the perfect face is turning to stone with this weight of voiceless agony. She is a spotless lily of Eden, trailed over by a serpent, and unable to understand the desecration, yet struck with a fatal blight. Her

214 NOTES IN ITALY.

gaze into the eyes of all human kind, as she passes to her doom, is pathetic beyond any possibility of describing. One must see that backward look to have the least idea of its power, or to know how Guido has been able to express, without high or livid color or distorted lines or heavy shadow, a sorrow that has destroyed hope, and baffles the comprehension of its victim. If this be a portrait, and it surely is, then Beatrice Cenci must have been as free from crime as the blazing angel of Domenichino's picture opposite to it, who is basking in the "effluence increate." The heavy folds of the white turban and mantle are all in keeping with her innocence and involved and weighty woe. It is certainly one of the greatest works of man. One could look at it forever and not tire. I wonder that the Prince Barberini can give it up so much to the public, for these rooms are open to all daily from eleven to five.

Close beside the Beatrice hangs Raphael's Fornarina--not the Fornarina I had always seen engraved, which is probably that at Florence; but quite a different person. She is sitting with uncovered neck and arms, holding up transparent drapery with one hand, while the other lies upon her lap, across, a red mantle. She is the darkest brunette, with deep, rich color, black eyes and hair, and a turban, threaded with gold, upon her head and a bracelet upon her left arm. There is the most complete contrast between the two persons. The For-

ROMAN JOURNAL. 215

narina is very handsome, but with the world and its wiles thoroughly mingled in her mortal mixture of very earth's mould. Life, sunned without stint, glows in her ruby-red and golden-brown, and lightens in her laughing eyes. Fresh youth, unconscious innocence, lily-purity, have departed. She is a gem, but a carbuncle rather than a pearl or a diamond. She is utterly incapable of the desolating sorrow that has swept over Beatrice. The Fornarina could no more comprehend such grief than Beatrice can comprehend the crime which will destroy her life, and has already destroyed her peace. It is not difficult to say which is nearest heaven, even so, under such circumstances of horror as surround Beatrice. Raphael could never idealize this Fornarina into a Madonna. I am not sure, though I believe he has the other that is in Florence.

Next this picture is the portrait of Lucrezia Cenci, the stepmother. She is a stern lady, with regular features and no pity, beautifully painted by Scipio Gaetani. Her brown hair makes a coronet on her brow: a plain black dress, like that of an abbess, is folded over her bosom, and she holds a book in her hands.

Miss M. came in accidentally while we were at the Barberini Gallery, and when we left it, I proposed to go to the Rospigliosi Palazzo, to see Guido's Aurora, and Miss M. wished to go with us. So

216 NOTES IN ITALY.

we mounted the Quirinal to the Monte Cavallo together, and observed the house where Milton lived while in Rome. It is a corner house, at the angle of which is one of the Quattro Fontane, on the Via Quirinalis. The glorious groups of Castor and Pollux were good to see against the deep-blue sky as we ascended the hill. Miss M. and Mr. H. walked round them, while I inquired for the Palazzo Rospigliosi. The French sentinels did not know, though they were keeping guard just opposite to it, as it proved. People passing did not know; but finally a woman told me, pointing, not to a palace façade, but to a long, high wall, at whose gate stood a porter in blue and silver, with a chapeau bras. Entering, we were in an immense court, and at the farthest side of it stood the palace. But the Aurora is in the Casino (garden house), and not in the palace, as the frantic gestures of the distant porter signified, his brandishing arm being stretched toward the left of the great court where was an arched way leading to a smaller enclosure. (I am not sure it was arched.) Upon a door, up several steps, were brass tablets, whose inscription announced that the Casino could be seen on Wednesdays and Saturdays. A gardener admitted us here. Opposite the door was a grotto, where once had been a fountain, but now there was no voice of waters, and a broken statue occupied the place. Perhaps it was a Naïad, but I did not take notice at the time. Stone stairways led on both hands to the garden above, and all

ROMAN JOURNAL. 217

along them stood marble busts and statues of antique workmanship--heads of goddesses, virtues, and powers--spoils from the Baths of Constantine (326), upon whose site the palace was built in 1603, I should say rather, upon a very small part of the site, large as the palace is; for those famous Roman Baths were miles in circuit, and that of Constantine covered the whole summit of the Quirinal, where palaces, villas, and public edifices now stand. Paul V. was the barbarian pope (anti-classical, I mean), who removed all vestiges of them to build this palace, retaining, however, for the adornment of the Casino, the sculptures we saw to-day; and considerately placing the noblest relics, Castor and Pollux, with their horses, on the Piazza, before the pontifical residence; and statues of the Nile and Tiber in front of the capitol, for all men freely to see and study.

In the centre of the Casino garden is a laguna, in a vast stone basin, surrounded with statuettes of marble. Orange and lemon trees and various flowers grow round about, and a rare tropical tree, with delicate foliage and a strange knotted trunk. In the façade of the Casino are inserted very beautiful bas-reliefs of white marble. This is a way the Romans have. If they pick up a rare bit anywhere, they fasten it upon the outsides of their walls and houses, without regard to symmetry of arrangement often, being wildly determined to save it, at all events. The want of order at first disturbed my mind, but

10

218 NOTES IN ITALY.

when examining and enjoying each morsel, I was indifferent about their being tossed at the walls in such a random style.

Finally we entered the central saloon, and there, on the ceiling, dawned the world-renowned Aurora, and Apollo rose up in his chariot with the wreath of Hours. I was amazed to see the fresco as brilliant as if painted to-day, perfectly unharmed by time and atmosphere. Four artists were copying it together. It does not cover the whole ceiling as I supposed, but only the centre, enclosed in the similitude of a frame, richly arabesqued and carved. I found that even Morghem does not quite give us this radiant creation, not even the expression, though through him I recognized all. But the color adds infinitely to the glory of the composition. Apollo blazes in a sea of golden light, and the only part of it I do not entirely admire is his hair, which is too pale and short, I think. I wish there were a sheaf of yellow beams rolled up in lovely splendor on his brow, and flowing off backward, like a wake of sunshine. This truly olympic form bends forward with majestic ease, as he lightly holds the reins of the magnificent horses, swallowing up the darkness with his presence, and filling the dawn with his overflowing day, as she looks to him for illumination. Such glorious, fresh, rejoicing movement and outbreak were never painted before. Guido has made the sun to rise as no landscapist--no Claude even, nor Turner has done. The lovely

ROMAN JOURNAL. 219

Aurora, beaming from her violet mantle with reflected joy--the young Morning Star holding on to his kindled torch with a gentle but resolute force, as he endeavors to outstrip the absorbing, fast-rushing god, perhaps with a premonition of his doom: the horses, mottled with a struggling light and shade, purple and pearl--the rainbow richness of the drapery of the Hours, each one so individual in character and expression--the softly-heaped clouds--the deep-blue sea beneath, and mountains beyond, tipped with morning--this is Guido's sunrise in items, but ye who wish to see the sumptuous pageant as a whole, come to Rome, and behold it. There is no other way, words and the pencil cannot copy it. One Hour steps gravely forth, fateful like the Grecian Destiny, with calm, classic contour. Another, with fair, blonde hair and azure robe, points forward with ivory finger, while she turns to the rest, as if promising bliss to come, while her delicate feet airily tread upon the imponderable vapors. She is strong, and will give strength to many. Her hair is of the finest mist of amber. Holding the hand of this heaven-robed Hour is one draped in a peculiar tint of green--not grass-green, nor sea-green, but a bright, cool, tourmaline hue, visible in early morning at a fountain in a grotto. It is symbolic of hope and trust, and the shape it enfolds has a wonderful grape. She looks out of the picture at all the world, soft, sweet, with a fulness of content that can never become scant. Her feet are beautiful with glad

220 NOTES IN ITALY.

tidings, and dance to the music she hears, though we do not, "wrapt in our muddy vesture of decay." * * * * * * There is another, looking back with a sad thoughtfulness, as if no future could be to her like the past. This is one of Guido's upturned faces, in which he excelled so much. One Hour is younger than the rest, with quite an infantine expression, as if life were in close bud, and no knowledge had yet shadowed her bliss of ignorance. There is no record in her innocent countenance of experience or inquiry.

A mirror is arranged in the saloon in such a way, that instead of breaking one's neck by bending back the head, one can sit down and look into it, and 'see the fresco, as if it were hung on the side of the room. The mirror is on a very slightly inclined table, I think.

There are here a bronze horse, found in the baths, and busts of Emperors and Empresses, without names, upon pedestals, and the upper panels of the walls are painted in fresco by Tempesta, and the lower with landscapes by Paul Brill. Two side apartments are hung with oil paintings, but no picture is pre-eminent except another Garden of Eden, after the Fall, by Domenichino, in which Adam (in return for the apple, I suppose) is giving Eve some fig-leaves. But I was either not in the proper mood to see it, or it was really quite inferior to the conviction of the unfortunate pair, in the Barberini Gallery.

ROMAN JOURNAL. 221

I was interested in a portrait of Poppæa Sabina, the fearfully depraved wife of Nero, over whom she exercised such despotic sway, and who was, I had thought, so supremely beautiful. She has a small head and features, by no means of uncommon beauty, and a slender figure, and reminded me of a portrait of Jane Shore, that I saw at the Manchester Exhibition of Art Treasures. She looks cruel and crafty, and I observe that cruel persons always are rather thin, with small and sharply-cut features--handsome, but not lovely nor inspiring confidence. Have I indeed seen Poppæa, the terrible creature?

There was a Christ, bearing His Cross, very fine, by Daniele de Volterra, and a great picture, by Ludovico Caracci, of the Death of Samson. The Caracci always excite my opposition, for some reason, perhaps because they are academical, and work by rule and not by inspiration of religious devotion.

The floors were paved with a mosaic of brick, and there were gilded chairs, some of blue damask and some of crimson velvet, and tables of ormulu, with marble tops, arranged in straight rows round the different saloons; but all the furniture was faded and defaced. Every ceiling was frescoed--as is the invariable habit of ceilings in Rome--where every available surface is emblazoned with color, in flowers, saints, and angels, and, once in the ages, with an Aurora, by Guido.

But it was very cold in the stone house, and we

222 NOTES IN ITALY.

returned to the warm sunny garden, and looked at the marbles standing about there.

When we first arrived, we saw the Rospigliosi children, two of whom were playing with their attendants in the avenues. One was followed by a liveried servant and a maid, and the other was in the arms of an old nurse, and both were entirely in white ("devoués au blanc"), like all the younger children of noble families in Italy. When we came out of the Casino, the infant was asleep, and I went to look at him as he lay on his nurse's lap. He was lovely--the long dark lashes of his closed eyes resting on cheeks like rose-petals--a cherry mouth, shaped like Cupid's bow, soft-brown hair on a noble brow, and a cunning little straight nose. Such heads and faces the painters paint for cherubs and angels, hovering around Madonnas and holy people, of all kinds. The woman sat in the sun (like Queen Anne), while the baby-prince slept peacefully in the flower-scented air, to the tune of a fountain in a niche, near by. It was a stately and elysian scene, that I shall like to recall hereafter.

The Palace of the Consultà, makes one side of the piazza of the Monte Cavallo. This summit of the Quirinal is a grand site, commanding one of the finest views of Rome and St. Peter's. On our way home, we followed two gentlemen into a small

ROMAN JOURNAL. 223

church on the Via Quirinalis, and found it a perfect jewel of beauty. It was Santa Andrea. It is oval inside, and surrounded with columns, and chapels that- are encrusted all over with every variety of marble, and illustrated with oil paintings--three in each chapel. In the first, on the right, is a copy of Correggio's Nativity, in which the light comes from the child, irradiating the Madonna with white effulgence, and dazzling all who stand near. In the chapel of St. Stanislaus is a sarcophagus of lapis-lazuli, adorned with sapphires, emeralds, amethysts, and chrysolites--and before it, suspended in a gold setting, is a vast ruby or carbuncle, perhaps "The great Carbuncle" itself. Was the sarcophagus made in Ormus or in Ind, I wonder?

The floor of the little temple is a mosaic, in the form of a star, the rays extending to the outer circumference. Those who enter to worship stand upon a star! What an appropriate pavement for a church! Over the centre is a dome, surmounting the dome-like interior, and a garland of white cherubs encircles its base. In designing this building, Bernini certainly redeemed himself, in some measure, from the disgrace of his ranting, stormy statues, though I rather think the Prince Camillo Pamfili's taste controlled him here in his fancies, since it was at the Prince's cost that the church was built. To-day we have indeed had an "embarras de richesses."

224 NOTES IN ITALY.

February 22d (Washington's Birth-day).--Our celebration of this fortunate day was to go to the Museum of the Capitol. We saw the Dying Gladiator, the Antinous, the Amazon, the Faun of Praxiteles, the wonderful Centaurs, busts of all the Emperors and Empresses, and other illustrious people; and in the Hall of the Emperors, the antique bas-relief of Endymion, of which I once made a copy in oils. It was deeply interesting to me to see the very original of my picture, and to be able to compare it with the water-color painting from which I copied it. The right hand is broken in the marble, and so the lovely one, so heavy with sleep, in the water-color drawing, must have been the creation of the modern artist. If so, it is a wonderful work, but I cannot help thinking that the marble might have been injured after the drawing was made. In the same hall is the celebrated sitting statue of Agrippina, with small, delicate head and features--a perfectly chiselled profile, just barely escaping sharpness--and great ease, dignity, and grace of attitude. Agrippina was wife of the good Germanicus, and mother of the wicked Caligula, both of whom are near her, one beautiful, and the other the most evil looking of all men. The Julius Cæsar I cannot believe in, for it is too uncomely, mere driving action and will--not grand nor intellectual. Next him is Augustus, perfectly handsome, and like his youthful

ROMAN JOURNAL. 225

self, with the exception of two deep lines of care on his once deep brow. "The young Augustus" is considered the most exquisite bust in the world. As yet I have seen only casts of it, not having been to the Vatican; but this mouth is as ideal in faultless beauty as a mouth can be, but there is more experience in this of the man, more strength too, and finesse than in that of the boy. It is very satisfactory to identify illustrious individuals in this way, tracing them from youth to manhood. I have now seen Octavianus face to face, and also Marcus Aurelius. There are a great many busts of these last, all resembling each other, and a most noble head and countenance he has. The marbles in the Capitol, and the head of the bronze equestrian statue in the Piazza, are of the same man. I had an impetuous desire to see Commodus, because De Quincey speaks of his marvellous beauty. I found him of fair symmetry of feature, and I do not think I should prophesy a monster from his expression; yet there is nothing high and pure in his look, and I believe there is the shadow of a frown somewhere about his face; but I have not half seen either of them. I shall go and become well acquainted with all these potentates, who ruled the world, but not themselves. The Dying Gladiator cannot be seen in one, nor in many visits, yet even in the little while I looked at it to-day, I began to feel its irresistible power, and I foresee that I shall think it one of the greatest of all sculptures, more and more. The Antinous is

10*

226 NOTES IN ITALY.

consummate mortal beauty. I do not conceive that any human form can surpass it. It satisfies all my dreams of it, even already. The Amazon is superb, and the Lycian Apollo, is music. There were some magnificent sarcophagi, with high reliefs--one the history of Achilles, one Diana and Endymion, one the battle of the Amazons; and each one the labor of a lifetime. The walls of these saloons are covered with inscriptions on marble, inserted into the stone--relics found all about Rome. The famous Venus of the Capitol is not seen on public days; but is kept in a reserved cabinet, to be shown only by special request. We glanced through a grate into the hall of bronzes, where I saw the world-renowned mosaic of Pliny's doves, which has been repeated for centuries in cameos, mosaics, and enamels. On the staircase walls are deeply interesting bits of marble inlaid, covered with the ground-plan of the city in early times, and thus revealing the site and relation of temples, forums, and porticoes. It was found near the Forum Romanum, in broken pieces. I wish it had been all matched, so as to be a clear map, instead of being stuck up, as it is, in sixteen separate bits. It is called the Pianta Capitolina.

After leaving the Museum, we went into the Mamertine prison. This is one of the few remaining structures of the Kingly Period. We went down

ROMAN JOURNAL. 227

into the cell where Jugurtha was starved to death, and where St. Peter was chained. Prisoners were let through openings in the ceiling. It is a terrific dungeon, but now very clean, and now also there are stairs for visitors to descend comfortably. But the true way to show it, and give one a due sense of "its horror and misery, would be to be lowered into it, as the prisoners were, through the trap-door, with a shuddering sense that hope was left behind, unless, by human aid, deliverance should come. There was very little room there. I really think a man might at least be allowed room enough, if he must be confined in a dungeon. That is enough, without a refinement of cruelty. We drank of the miraculous fountain, which sprang up for St. Peter to baptize his keepers with. We saw the stone column to which he was chained. The prison is of enormous strength, a true Etruscan work, of huge square blocks of stone. On the floor upon which we stood, the Catiline conspirators were strangled. It was astonishing to find myself in the very spot upon which St. Peter stood! It was a den.for State criminals only. In the apartment above St. Peter's cell, and equally dark and strong, is an altar, and the marble busts of St. Peter and St. Paul, enclosed in an iron grate, carved in the time of Constantine. The guide showed us the walled-up, ancient stair-case that led to these cells from the Capitol, by a secret way--the way along which the stranglers came. It made me faint to think how utterly im-

228 NOTES IN ITALY.

possible it would be to escape. It would be as easy to tear asunder a mountain as to break through these ponderous stones. I hope St. Peter was allowed a torch. O wonderful revolution! He who was chained and martyred then, now rules Christendom from the throne of the most magnificent Cathedral in the world, and a hundred ever-burning lamps watch round his sacred grave, under the high altar, like so many sleepless eyes of seraphs. He who was in black darkness has light enough now, and having died for his Lord Jesus, he has found his life, which he can never lose again.

THE FORUM ROMANUM.

We went to the Forum afterward, and I remained alone there to wander about. It is the first time I have had a chance to loiter round the chief seat of Roman grandeur. What a dream of unexampled beauty must it have been, when the white and violet marble temples, porticoes, and richly sculptured arches stood in all their freshness! From the Tabularium of the Capitol what a vision of splendor must have then dazzled the fortunate eyes that looted forth over the vale between the Capitoline and the Palatine hills! Directly beneath and before me (had I been that happy gazer), the pure white Temple of Concord, where the illustrious Senate assembled--the Conscript fathers we so worship in our young academic days--lifted its glorious beauty into the

ROMAN JOURNAL. 229

sunny air. I know it was glorious; for I saw to-day the bases of its columns in the Museum, and the sculpture upon them was elaborately perfect, and as fine as the cutting of a cameo. It has now utterly gone from its site, except a portion of its pavement. Close beside the Temple of Concord was that of Vespasian, of which three lovely columns, with an entablature, alone remain, richly ornamented; and this temple was purple, as if cut out of an amethyst--the Temple of Concord a pearl; the Temple of Vespasian an amethyst. Near these stood the Schola Xantha, of which eight elegant little pillars, of the most delicate grace, now survive. It was a portico, where the twelve consenting Gods (Dii consentes) were placed; and along by all these visible dreams ran the Clivus Capitolinus, leading down from the Capitol on the right, and on one side of it was the Temple of Saturn. Eight columns, of the Ionic order, still are left of it. Directly in front of the Temple of Concord is the Arch of Septimius Severus; but then its present defaced and stained marble was white as snow, and its reliefs perfect, and on its summit was a bronze chariot and prancing horses. How my vision grows! On the left of this arch, I can see with my past-world eyes the magnificent Forum of Augustus, with its group of stately temples and porticoes, of which I perceive, at this moment, a ruin of grandest style and form. It is the Temple of Mars Ultor. The lofty columns of one of the peristyles attest the perfection of this

230 NOTES IN ITALY.

work of Augustus. But I now look down upon the Forum Romanum only, and I see the marble statues of Curtius and of one of the Emperors, standing in the midst, and, beyond them, the temple and rostra of Julius Cæsar, in front of which he sits and receives the senators, as they go to bring him to account for offending the Roman people. The populus Romanus! what words are those to pronounce here! Fancy that majestic, grave procession winding down from the Temple of Concord, in white robes of fine samite, bordered with purple, through the Clivus Capitolinus, to call to judgment the Dictator of the World!

By Cæsar's temple passes the Sacra Via, over which young Virginia "danced along" and the "vulture eye" of Appius Claudius "pursued the trip of those small, glancing feet." On the sides of it I see Julia's Basilica, with its hundred and twenty columns (now vanished, except its pavement); and beyond rises another splendor, "like another sun rising at mid-noon," the temple of Minerva Chalcidica, whose ruins are the models of architects--its three Corinthian columns the most consummate specimens of their order. Farther to the right another marble flower blossoms, called the Temple of Castor and Pollux, while at the end of the Sacra Via the arch of Fabius frames a distant picture, made up of turquoise sky and emerald Coelian hill; and farther on, the arch of Titus encloses another landscape of its own. Through this I perceive, coming

ROMAN JOURNAL. 231

on, the triumph of Titus, after his conquest of Jerusalem, and behold, glittering in the sun, the sacred seven-branched candlestick of massive gold, borne by the procession, and the silver trumpets of Judah and the golden table from the Temple of temples, the Temple of Jerusalem. And here is the Emperor in his car, with four proudly-stepping horses, surrounded by the bearers of the fasces, and crowned by Victory. On the left is another tuneful temple, that of Antoninus and Faustina, with its richly-sculptured frieze, crisp to this hour, and its peristyle, yet complete; and nearer to where I stand, the Basilica Emilia, shorn now of its glory of columns and pediment. Beyond, in a loftier strain, the vast Temple of Peace cuts its arches against the tender blue; and farther still, the most stupendous ruin of the world--the mighty circle of the Coliseum--crowns my view. But even this is not all. On my right is the Palatine, and I see it shining with Nero's golden house--the palace of the Cæsars, like a gorgeous oriental sunset, with its colored marbles, its gems and precious metals. What a scene, indeed! And if the Capitol and piles of modern buildings did not hide it, I should see Trajan's Forum on the left and behind, with its noble column, covered with a spiral band of delicately-cut bas-reliefs, still perfect.

I tried to go down upon the pavement of the Basilica of Julia, but sought in vain for steps or an opening; and when it was too late, a man came to

232 NOTES IN ITALY.

unlock an iron door for me. It is new to me to find that all works of art here are Greek, and not Roman. The Romans were the employers of all men's hands, but did not work with their own, and the tens of thousands of slaves they brought to Rome quarried these enormous stones and polished the adamant, at their behest, and carved the statues and the relievos. Then it is necessary to suffer to produce beauty as well as to be beautiful. Alas for the blood and toil and misery and crime out of which these glories sprang! And they would have utterly perished long ago, if the Cross had not been affixed to every relic of Heathen Rome which remains for us. Four great palaces have already been built out of the Coliseum, and a dozen more would have been pulled out of it, if the Cross had not been set up in the arena, where unspeakable atrocities once amused assembled thousands. So in the amphitheatre's headlong fall, that potent emblem--so potent in spirit, so weak in substance--upholds the giant walls, which cannot come down, except by violence of man; and instead of dying gladiators and wild beasts, tearing and torn, a tall, black cross rises in the midst, and pious folk go and kiss it, to win indulgence from Purgatory--for each kiss two hundred days.

I tried to come home a new way, and was consequently misled, and strayed into the Piazza, of the Holy Apostles, where the great Palazzo Colonna stands. Then I found myself at the fountain of

ROMAN JOURNAL. 233

Trevi, and by degrees arrived at the Pincian hill; and Mr. Louis Rakermann played Beethoven to us all the evening.

February 23d.--This morning I went, according to agreement, to show Miss M. M. the temple of Mars Ultor. We looked with wonder at the stupendous blocks of stone of the wall of the Forum, against which the building stands. It is evidently Etruscan work. Everything here is either Etruscan or Grecian. Lately, these columns have been cleared to their bases, very far below the street that runs by them. Madame de Stäel says modern Rome is forty feet above ancient Rome. This accumulation of soil is caused by the frequent inundations of the Tiber. Five times in the course of a century the city was overflowed even to the top of the hills, though not over them; and so, holding the earth in solution, as it were, I suppose it settled down again more equally. But I know nothing about it.

As we came along the Corso, we went into the Palazzo Doria, because it is one of the two days in the week when visitors are admitted to the gallery. But we had but an hour, and only expected to see what treasures were in store for us at another time. We found the palace exceedingly splendid. We walked through fifteen saloons, whose walls were covered with pictures, some of them very choice, besides that there was a great deal of beautiful Greek statuary. Every great name in art was rep-

234 NOTES IN ITALY.

resented by some work. Claude's two famous landscapes, the Molino and the Temple of Apollo;--Titian's Sacrifice of Abraham;--a superb portrait, by Leonardo da Vinci, of Joanna of Aragon (a lovelier aspect of her face than Raphael has given);--a portrait of Lucrezia Borgia, by Paul Veronese;--the lovely Madonna of Guido, adoring the Infant;--and Claude's celebrated Flight into Egypt, with Lippi's figures. There is also a grand picture, by Sebastian del Piombo, of the Admiral Andrea Doria, grave and stately, like all Piombo's portraits. He must have chosen persons of such character to paint. In one of the cabinets is a noble marble bust of the Admiral, and one of the Princess Mary Talbot Doria (the English lady), by Tenerani, which is very beautiful. The present prince is eminently handsome, as a bust of him testified; with arched brows, quite ideal in beauty. His nose is a very little too pointed, which saves the face from being perfect. Upon a table stood a head, in white marble, with a colored marble robe, and a veil. It is exquisitely lovely, but I do not know who it is, nor who was the sculptor. The Palace has an inner court, with green shrubbery and flowers, and a fine arcade of columns entirely round it.

February 25th.--This morning there was a cruel, murderous wind; but it did not rain, and we went to

ROMAN JOURNAL. 235

the Palazzo Borghese. The gallery is very superb, far more so than that of the Doria. I looked at every one of the eight hundred pictures, in twelve rooms, and at some of them carefully, and I was diligently employed three hours and a half--and yet I have merely introduced myself. I recall, first, Raphael's "Entombment." I congratulate myself that I have travelled to Rome from America, if only to see such a consummate work of genius, conceived and executed at twenty-four years of age. I think I felt the pre-eminence of Raphael first to-day. Beauty, force, grace, expression, color, all were excelling. The life, energy, and vividness of the figures who uphold Christ are in striking contrast with his dead body, the limbs so stiff and pale. His sacred body rests upon a linen mantle, which two young men support, each with both hands, and with an appearance of great effort, as if Death were very, very heavy. This group is at the left. The youth who is at the feet of Christ has a most graceful form. His limbs are so light, I thought it an imponderable angel at first. The face of the other bearer is very handsome, and painted so marvel' lously, with such perfection in every way, that I can conceive of nothing superior to it in execution. It has the rich, full, soft forms and hues of life itself. By his side stand two of the apostles, Peter and John, I should think. Mary Magdalen is also near; and on the right is another group. Mary, the Mother, has fainted quite, in the arms of several

236 NOTES IN ITALY.

women. One of these is young, and of surpassing beauty. Mary's face is noble. But I feel helpless to express my sense of this miracle of art. I wish I could see it all the rest of my life. Raphael's portrait by himself, in early youth, is in the same room, I believe. Another great picture is the Chase of Diana, by Domenichino. Diana is awarding a prize to one of her nymphs. Lovely maidens are grouped all about. A wreath of three is rejoicing over the flight of an arrow just sped by one, while a bouquet of two is looking on with animated faces. Diana, in the centre, stands eminent, with arms uplifted over her head, and limbs elastic and swift for the chase. Two children are lying in the water in the foreground, taking the fresco and the dolce far niente; as if all work were over in the world. The picture overflows with bounding, eager, rosy, pure life, splendid as morning; and the children balance the quiet sky, in their pause from play.

A young artist was copying one of the groups, and his easel was much in my way. He had not succeeded in getting a single face right; but the neck and bosom of the archeress who had shot the arrow was beautifully painted. Domenichino's celebrated Cumæan Sibyl is here also. I saw a copy of it in Mr. George Peabody's house long ago; but though I knew that the original was superb, I must see it often to appreciate all its merits, and it certainly did not fasten me as long as the other masterpieces. Cæsar Borgia's portrait, by Raphael,

ROMAN JOURNAL. 237

fixed me much longer. It,is deeply interesting, and so excessively handsome, that, at the first glance, I said to 'myself, "What, is that the monster of humanity?" For his figure is stately, graceful, and commanding, and his head turns upon his shoulders in a princely way, and his features are high and perfectly chiselled. A light bonnet and floating feather give him a chivalric, gallant air. But soon one discovers that out of the fine sculpture of form and face looks a cold, dark, cruel, and vindictive soul. The black eyes are especially terrible. They do not send forth any beams, but are introspective, secret and evil. They reminded me of the eyes of the sullen vulture in the Zoological Gardens in London, who sits on his perch, and looks vicious and designing, and above all, cold and indifferent. No human, kindly warmth seems ever to have made genial the heart of Cæsar Borgia. The curved lips are closed firmly, with an immutable fixedness of fell purpose. He has ceased to be aware that there is a conscience, and there is no longer any tender sensibility in him to suggest to himself that he is a monster. He has left the circle of human brotherhood, and made a compact with the Son of the Morning, beautiful once like himself, but fallen, fallen now. He really seems never to have dreamed of good, and therefore to be unaware that he has departed from it. How true was Raphael! How could he bear to study and dwell upon such a countenance, and then render it so sincerely, as to create

238 NOTES IN ITALY.

another Cæsar Borgia, to live during the world's forever? It is impossible to compass the versatile power of Raphael, who was greatest in whatever he undertook.

Close by this is Guilio Romano's copy of Raphael's portrait of Julius II., of which there is an original in the National Gallery in London, where I became well acquainted with it. It is in great contrast with Cæsar Borgia. He looks venerable, of extraordinary intellect and indomitable will, grand, and firm as a rock, with musing eyes. He seems sculptured out of a rock in attitude, but the rich hues of life burn like fire in his fine countenance--in Raphael's picture. One is never weary of this masterpiece. I believe it is considered the greatest portrait in the world. This of Guilio Romano, though very splendid, has not the strength in the mouth that Raphael's has, and the artist who was copying it to-day failed still more in the same feature, so that the magnificent Pontifex Maximus looked like an old lady of benignant disposition, but not like the Julius whose will was the law of all around him. He is so still; yet so filled with latent motion, powerful enough to overturn worlds, that he reminds one of a lion at rest, but not slumbering--oh no,--watching, considering, haughtily ready. If we had seen the living Julius, we could not possibly have known him so perfectly as by studying this "presentment."

Two apostles or prophets or saints, by Michel Angelo, in his first years, impressed me deeply. It

ROMAN JOURNAL. 239

was profanely suggested that there was something of Bernini in the draperies, but I did not agree. Grand and massive they are, but not in a whirlwind of passion. The attitudes and faces reminded me of the prophets of the Sistine Chapel, as I have seen them in engravings; for though I spent Ash-Wednesday morning in that chapel, I could not see the frescoes, because of the ceremonies and the crowd. I have yet to go there and to the Vatican. To-day I became acquainted with an artist altogether new to me--Garofalo. He has made himself immortal by an angel I saw in one of his pictures. In his backward-flowing, soft vapor of golden hair is caught the sunshine of heaven. I have never seen such celestial hair in life, so it must be that of an angel. It is rolled away from the pure, serene brow and cheek in a radiant, fleecy cloud, and floats off in beamy curls. The face is entirely lovely and unearthly. The subject of the painting is a Deposition, but I cannot recall the rest of it, so completely has the angel outshone everything else. There are many beautiful works by Garofalo, sincere, careful works, with the devoutness of Perugino and Francia, but not with their grace always. Francia is well revealed in this gallery. Sacred Madonnas, mothers with tender, anxious care and noble expression, and divine babes and holy saints. I think he must have been like Fra Angelico in character, who never painted after the fire of inspiration went out, and always knelt before his easel, as if at his prayers.

240 NOTES IN ITALY.

I was deeply moved by a Crucifixion, by Vandyke, one of the few of this subject that I can look at. It is of the noblest manner. Titian's famous Sacred and Profane Love had no effect upon me whatever to-day. Correggio's Danafe is a work of great fame,--ah me--and here are creations of Carlo Dolce, Sasso Ferrato ("senza errore"), the Caracci, Perugino, Pinturicchio, Guercino, and all of them--and by the last a beautiful head of the Adolorata, though I never like his inky shadows and sharp lights. It must be the richest gallery in Rome, but I have as yet seen only two others. There are three frescoes by Raphael in the remotest room--one of a group of archers, shooting at a target, very renowned; but it was too cold there to stay a moment. A great many people were copying--one an Englishwoman. How hospitable are the Roman princes! In almost every saloon was a brazier of coals, to warm, at least, the fingers of the visitors, who may wander at will before these wonders. Yet I see why they must feel under an obligation to share the invaluable chefs d'oeuvre of human genius, by accident fallen to their lot, among the world's best riches. One must also have sympathy in enjoying things of beauty; for even a jewel, put away in a shut casket, might as well remain in the depths of a mine. It must be worn for others to see, if it would be of any worth, or give true enjoyment.

There is a Salutation by Rubens, the only one by him in the collection. Mary's face and expression

ROMAN JOURNAL. 241

are lovely, but her figure is large and full, with Dutch contours, in striking contrast to the Italian type, portrayed in all others that fill the gallery. A portrait of Mary de Medici, by Vandyke, is very interesting as an authentic likeness. We meet face to face here many artists--Titian, Bassano, Pordenone; and there is a portrait of Savonarola, by Lippi.

March 1st, Spring.--Yesterday the rain fell and the wind blew all day, so that we could not go out at all, and another day was lost in Rome. But this morning it brightened, with frequent little showers, and we concluded to go to the Vatican. But the Vatican was shut, and so we tried for the Palazzo Colonna. We found an entire change in the air, a really spring day. It was soft and mild and south-windy for the first time since we arrived in the city, and also very muddy; but when we finally got to the Palace, we could not go in, because the custode was ill; and so the Palace of the Conservatori was our last resort, A stupid French soldier did not know how to tell us the way into the picture-gallery; for these small red-legged men do not know anything whatever. If they are keeping guard in front of a palace, they cannot even tell its name. They never move their minds, and hardly use their eyes. They are only machines, that carry guns and swords.

11

242 NOTES IN ITALY.

It is really something like a retribution, for power abused and means wasted, that Imperial Rome should fall so low as to be watched and sentinelled by these mean-looking, ugly, diminutive barbarians, who crop up at every turn, to shock the vision that is harvesting marvels of art. Rome, held in check by pigmy Frenchmen, causes a melancholy, grim smile that becomes almost a grimace. The only words I ever heard any one of them utter were "Je ne sais pas," and this is the exact amount of their knowledge. It is sad to think there are so many young men living such an inane, monotonous life--stunted in form, but still more in faculties.

Not finding any entrance, we walked round the court and loggia. There we saw a grand colossal statue of Julius Cæsar, the only authentic one. The face was younger than those of the busts I have seen, and handsomer--not so worn and careful. We could not get a good view of the profile, because it was so high up. He wore the gorgeous dress of a general--an Imperator in a martial sense. On the other side stood a colossal Augustus, in the same richly-sculptured dress as that of Julius. In the open court a great many precious wrecks were placed, enormous feet and hands of a mighty statue, erected by Lucullus to Apollo on the Capitoline, forty-five feet high. These feet and hands reminded me of the Egyptian red-granite hand in the British Museum. The statue must have had an Egyptian grandeur in it. In Imperial times, architecture and

ROMAN JOURNAL. 243

sculpture took gigantic forms. This Apollo responded to the Coliseum. A head of Domitian and a head and hand of Commodus are of the same size. Perhaps I shall discover, by and by, what stupendous temple or amphitheatre these vast figures adorned. The celebrated group of a horse attacked by a lion, restored by Michel Angelo, is very powerful in expression. Michel Angelo has replaced parts of the legs and hoofs of the horse, whose agony quivers to the last fibres of its body.

The Arch of Constantine, near the Coliseum, is adorned with spoils from the Arch of Trajan, now destroyed. Bas-reliefs were taken out and put into Constantine's Arch; and the stately, mournful captive kings and warriors of Dacia, whom Trajan brought to Rome, stand upon its pilasters, with folded hands. To-day I saw another relic of Trajan's lost arch. It was a relief upon the key-stone, representing a mourning female figure, probably Dacia, and very beautiful. There were also two gray-marble conquered kings of heroic, size, which perchance also embellished the same arch. A defaced marble square block, called a Cippus, which once held the urn that contained the ashes of Agrippina (as an inscription now legible upon it testifies), interested us extremely. Why did not the solid stone shiver to atoms when the poison of her dust touched it? Somehow it seems as if the wickedness of these cultivated, highly-civilized Roman emperors and empresses, kings and princes, was more appal-

244 NOTES IN ITALY.

ling and atrocious than the sins of barbarians--that is--of all peoples beside. It was such a finished, conscious, purposed, fondled depravity--so delicately studied out often, so utterly without compunction, that it overwhelms our apprehension. And I was so near the fearful Agrippina as to lay my hand upon her cippus, once permeated by her evil effluence. What have they done with the urn of her ashes now? I think they ought to have been left in their first place of deposit, and not separated from this ancient sepulchre. It is a pity not to allow things to remain in their original relations, when it is possible--things of great historical interest, especially. It destroys the unity of effect to divide and scatter what belongs together.

Several columns of granite and marble and a lofty one of porphyry, are preserved here. While we were looking at these morsels, an Italian guard appeared, (how different from a French sentinel!) and when I asked him for the gallery he directed us to it with genuine politeness, for it was a good deal of trouble. We ascended a broad, marble staircase, where some statues and reliefs looked irresistible; but we passed quickly on, till we came to the oil paintings. Both rooms contain a great many unfinished sketches by Guido, and a finished head of

* I am mistaken in having supposed this the cippus of the wicked Agrippina, daughter of Germanicus. It was the cippus of the wife of Germanicus--who was remarkable for her virtue, in an age of monstrous depravity.

ROMAN JOURNAL. 245

himself, by himself, which I gazed at with deep interest. It is a youthful face, earnest, gentle, and full, with a mouth not unlike Raphael's, but with not quite such a delicate and lordly curve as his. In the second room is a St. Sebastian, which I think is Guido's. It has the upturned eyes he painted so often, and is of a most winning sweetness, and perfectly finished. Some of his sketches, I must say it, looked like unbaked clay,* so whity and cold. He would hardly thank any one for showing them. There is a shadowy Lucretia and a Cleopatra, both dying by their own hands, besides several mere beginnings. A Magdalen is about half painted, but of noble expression. I should think some one had plundered his studio of these pictures, after his death, when he could not keep them back.

There were four or five fine Guercinos--one, the Persian Sibyl, a grand, sad face, without the abrupt lights and shadows he fancied so much; another a large composition of Augustus and Cleopatra, splendid in color and expression. The "Serpent of old Nile" is imploring Augustus, apparently. She is of gorgeous form, and is gorgeously arrayed. It hangs in a very bad light, so that it was nearly impossible to catch the whole scene at once. His immense picture of St. Petronilla (copied in mosaic in St. Peter's) is also here; but I am not much attracted to this great work of Guercino. I see that the dead

* I wish to say dough, but it seems irreverent.

246 NOTES IN ITALY.

body of the saint is very dead, and very, very heavy, as is shown by the efforts of those who are lifting it from her grave, to show it to Flaccus, her betrothed. And the contrast of life around is vivid and impressive. But I do not appreciate it yet, and the scene above, where she is ascended and kneeling at the feet of Jesus, is to me neither sublime nor beautiful

There are some magnificent Paul Veroneses, the Rape of Europa the most so. All the luxury and splendor of rich womanly beauty are in the form and face of Europa, who is superbly arrayed in stuffs of silk and gold, shining with jewels, and brimmed with the rapture that perfect, material well-being gives. It is a glory of earthly felicity, without anything divine or etherial in it. The complete comeliness of the white bull--the large, soft eyes and mild aspect of subdued strength, with the radiant garland of flowers across its brow, are quite in harmony, and the creature seems as high-toned as Europa--nor more nor less. A little Cupid holds him with a slight wreath, quite securely, and stands with one tiny foot on his leg, as if the bull were a lamb. It is a sumptuous, glowing reality--no dream nor vision. There are velvets, brocades, precious stones, and Europa is a queenly woman. The white bull is lying down in the foreground, and Europa sits upon his back, while her maidens finish her toilet. One is just clasping a glittering bracelet upon her shoulder, and Cupid holds the slender reins till she be

ROMAN JOURNAL. 247

quite ready. Her eyes and head are raised, and a little thrown back. On the right some people are going off--a figure on horseback, with a brocaded mantle, and others walking by his side. Over a thicket the head of another bull, or of a cow, is thrust out, the eyes flashing fury and amazement (ox-eyed Juno, perhaps). I do not recollect any more of the composition. It comes up to my idea of the great Venetian artist. Europa is Venice, as she was in the days of the Doges, when all her palaces were alight with refulgent life and state, and looked like jewels Studding the rim of her water-courses, when the air was heavy with fragrant sighs and perfumes, and delicious tones from harp and dulcimer overflowed from gondola and balcony, till the senses could bear no more enjoyment. This was Venice, and it is the Europa of Paul Veronese.

On the same wall hangs his Madonna and St. Anna, surrounded by angels. Mary sits in the centre, and Anna stands behind with arms outstretched and mantle spread in a kind of shielding love. I cannot describe it; but I do not believe Paul Veronese was a devout painter, though, in my next visit, I shall like to see how he has managed a wholly divine subject.

In the first saloon is one of Perugino's loveliest Madonnas. It is more entirely beautiful in feature than I have yet seen by him, besides the holy expression he always gives. The oldest masters conceived an image of ideal maternity in their Madon-

248 NOTES IN ITALY.

nas--sacred, intent, thoughtful, with a shadow of the worship of sorrow, as they hold the holy child, who became "acquainted with grief." But this peculiar look of tender, anxious care is only when the infant is present. For in the Annunciations it is different, and to-day I saw an Annunciation by Garofalo, which surpasses all I have yet seen, even Murillo's. A young maiden is kneeling, reading a book, with a lovely, innocent face just before, but now made glorious by the sudden presence of the angel. He has brought down with him the splendor of heaven. The airs of paradise wave back the torrent of golden curls from beneath the glittering fillet on his brow, in the rapid rush of his flight. He seems dressed in rainbows--and amethysts and rubies flash from his shining garments, fastening his mantle on his breast. An immortality of prime youth beams like a star from his countenance. He bends one knee as, with an air of gentle majesty, he offers the lilies to Mary. He radiates such vivid life, that he seems to have this instant bent the knee, and to be just rising, also, to vanish from sight, a prismatic ray of the aurora of Christ's coming. Mary does not raise her downcast lids. She has no need to look. She knows Gabriel is there, and she is made almost transparent by the brightness of his glory. Every feature gleams, like the sculptured lines of an alabaster vase, illuminated within. But this is an inner, caused by an outer light, or perhaps the angel is passing into her heart; for she

ROMAN JOURNAL. 249

looks penetrated with the celestial messenger. What a picture is this, and no one says anything about it!

There is a portrait of Michel Angelo by himself, and of Velasquez, also by himself, very interesting. Now surely I see Michel Angelo, at last.

We saw the superb bas-reliefs from Marcus Aurelius's arch, which once stood in the Corso; and which Pope Alexander VII. was so barbarous as to destroy, in order to widen the street. Had not far greater men than he found the street wide enough before he was ever thought of?

March 3d.--* * * * * This morning it was very sunny and mild, and we concluded, for the celebration of U--'s birth-day, that we would take a large barouche and drive out on the Appian Way to the tomb of Cecelia Metella. We started at half-past eleven from our old Palazzo Larazani on the Pincian, and took the hill of the Quirinal and the Corso, through the Forum Romanum, by the Coliseum, under the Arch of Constantine, and along by the Palatine, piled up with ruin, and the Baths of Caracalla, a city of tumbling walls and arches, out of the Gate of St. Sebastian, upon the Appian Way. Two miles beyond the gate is the tomb. Just within the gate we passed under the Arch of Drusus, the oldest of the arches now remaining. It has two columns and a little sculpture left, and is made of

250 NOTES IN ITALY.

huge masses of stone that might stand forever still. We passed the door of the tomb of the Scipios, and the Columbaria, and at last towered up the Mausoleum. It is larger than I supposed, raised on a high substruction, built of square blocks of travertine, precisely fitted, with a cornice and a draped frieze.

When the Gaetani took it for a fortress, they raised a battlemented story upon the original tomb, which spoils its symmetry. For a wide distance all around the extensive ruins of the outworks of this fortress stand and fall. The custode was absent, and we could not go inside; but we wandered about, and walked along the true Appian pavement, lately laid bare by Pio Nono,--composed of large flat stones, more than a foot long and wide. Whose chariots and horses have passed this way? What legions have stepped on these very identical stones, with their worn traces, in which I plant my own foot? I see the unconquerable eagles raised aloft--as the solid phalanx moves on to crush the world--I see them return in triumph, and pause before the Temple of Mars that once stood hereabout. Hadrian and the beautiful Antinous passed over it--Horace and all the poets--the superb Zenobia, in her fallen estate, yet in eastern pomp, came this way to her regal villas. What way in all the earth is so rich in memories as this?--and I actually step upon it, without any doubt. I thank the Pope, Pio Nono.

The inscription in front of the Mausoleum is as clear and distinct as if carved to-day, yet it was cut

ROMAN JOURNAL. 251

nineteen hundred years ago, and I believe the tomb would have presented a perfectly finished and fresh appearance to our eyes this morning, if the reprehensible Popes had not violently destroyed a great part, for the sake of robbing it of the slabs of fine marbles with which it was covered;--and if the Savellis and Gaetanis had not desecrated it by their warlike uses. Time could have had no effect on those perfectly-hewed stones of travertine, as one may see by the crispness of those which have escaped the destructive hand of man. The beautiful frieze is uninjured nearly round the circle; stone drapery, looped up by bulls' heads. The sarcophagus of white marble that was within the chamber is also taken away to adorn the court of the Farnese Palace, but we could not see even the empty crypt to-day.

The view of Rome, as we turned back, was superb. St. Peter's made the highest point, and all the lesser domes grouped themselves round it. The Sabine hills were in a silver veil. The Campagna lay between, in dim green, with ruins scattered here and there over its whole extent.

We drove straight along upon the Appian Way for a little while, and then turned to the right to visit the grove and grotto of Egeria. Near the spot is the Temple of Virtue and Honor, spoiled into an ugly church, enclosing in its brick walls four lovely Corinthian columns. We entered and found a vaulted cella, with old urns upon a ledge at the top

252 NOTES IN ITALY.

of the straight sides, just at the base of the curves, and a great deal of fresco-painting, and figures in stucco. The custode called it the Temple of Bacchus. Opposite the Temple, over a valley, and upon an eminence, stood a shadowy grove, called the Sacred Grove, and beyond the view wandered over the Campagna, where the magnificent arches of the Claudian Aqueduct looked like ruins of mighty temples--with miles of colonnades. And, farther still, the silver-veiled Sabine Hills guarded the enchanted land. But as it is now said that this was not, after all, the true site of Egeria's grotto, we did not go to it, and, after plucking violets and lilies, we drove away, and came to the Columbaria of the families of Cæsar and Pompey. These were very curious and interesting, and have not been excavated long. The first we saw had been found ten years ago, and the other three were discovered and dug out by the man who now showed them to us. There is an avenue of extraordinary cypresses on the hill near them--a truly funereal walk. We descended by a narrow, steep flight of ancient stairs into the one devoted to the household of Cæsar. It was square, and very deep, and the walls were entirely filled with semicircular niches, like pigeon-holes, for the cinerary urns, with inscriptions on brass plates fastened over them. In the urns were the burnt bones and ashes of the dead, and over each a cover of red earthen substance was placed. I took in my hand the illustrious ashes of some Cæsar. Little vases of food and ewers for

ROMAN JOURNAL. 253

libations stood above. In one niche was a marble bust, and beneath the bust a bas-relief, and beneath that still, the cinerary urn. This was the bust and these the ashes of Lucius Valerius Creticus, B. c. 67. The proprietor pointed out to me the name of the usher of Cæsar's Court, the officer who announced names to the Emperor. "Nomenclator Neronis" was the title of the individual, but I forget his name. The poor man was probably brought to an untimely urn, by announcing some one whom his imperial majesty did not wish to see. I should think this columbarium were forty feet deep and twenty in diameter. There are thirteen or fourteen rows of semicircular niches all round, one above another. In the centre is a large upholding pier, also surrounded with niches. The narrow stairway, and very steep stairs with an iron railing are on one side, just as firm and safe at this moment as nearly two thousand years ago. The grounds around are probably full of these wonderful dove-cotes. [It is sad to think how far from dove-like were the persons whose ashes filled the urns.] But how much better is this way of disposing of the dead than any other. What the fire burns away should not be left to decay. The purified ashes have nothing fearful nor repulsive in them, and the living are in this way saved from the miasma of inanimate mortal substance. There was but one beautiful marble urn, standing upon a niche; all the rest were hollowed in the stone, and the covers only were moveable. Our guide uncere-

254 NOTES IN ITALY.

moniously removed the lid of the incut urn of the conqueror of Crete, Lucius Valerius Creticus, and plunging in his hand, brought up a quantity of calcined bones and ashes, and I was stupid not to take at least one little bone of the illustrious dead. I wished very much for a fine, small marble medallion of Tiberius, that lay on the ledge.

When we had sufficiently examined this, the custode desired us to go down into that of Pompey's household; but we had not time to do more than glance into it. It was deeper than the other, and I think, had no pier; and I wish we could have seen it, because it has been very lately brought to light--only three years ago. I saw another a little way off, cropping up like a singular kind of "plant, budding and bursting from the soil. I suspect no variety of produce could bring to the farmer of this campagna-homestead so large an income as the Columbaria. He looked really fat with prosperity. I think the avenue of solemn old cypresses was the ancient walk between two series of tombs, and perhaps the households of all the emperors were buried in them. This is a private notion of my own. The many remains of marble columns, and capitals, and bas-reliefs scattered all over the grounds, show that these deep sepulchres were covered with little temples or porticoes. How stately, then, must have been the scene! At the end of the double row of cypresses, is a kind of shrine, surrounded by a circle of these tall, dark, mourning trees, and within the

ROMAN JOURNAL. 255

circle is a marble cippus or pedestal. Perhaps a statue or a superb urn stood upon it once of some very distinguished person. Bordering the large field runs along the Claudian Aqueduct, whose lofty arches, when in perfect condition, must have been magnificent to see, though hardly more beautiful than their ruins now.

We resumed the carriage, and drove to the tomb of the Scipios, still nearer home. A weird old man, with the nose of a Jew, and handsome features, all worn to a spectre, unlocked the door, and we followed him into a chamber, where he lighted five moccoli, and gave each of us one (except R.), and then he preceded us into these ancient catacombs, where the noble Scipios were buried. What a procession! The weird old man first, with his torch, and we five following with ours, and lighting up the winding ways and arches dug out of the tufa and peperine rocks. Once in a while he stopped to show us, by his moccolo, the inscription on a marble tablet of the name of an illustrious Scipio, and then we brought all our moccoli to bear upon this point. Little R. kept tight hold of my dress, and seemed not at all alarmed at the profound darkness that swallowed up our small tapers. U. enjoyed the adventure and the picturesqueness, and said it was the best time she ever had in her life. But all the sarcophagi have been removed. That of Scipio Barbatus is at the Vatican. It is a pity to take away from their proper places these

256 NOTES IN ITALY.

deeply interesting relics, though it may be the best way to preserve them. I do not submit to it at all, however. J----, with his usual good fortune, found, outside the door of the sepulchre, on the steps leading to the road, a precious stone, a tourmaline, covered with the lovely iridescence which ages of time cause upon vitreous substances. Holding it up to the light, one can see the peculiar tint of that stone--a green different from any other. But looking upon it in the hand, no tint of green is perceptible, but only rainbow, ever-changing hues, like those upon the neck of a dove. The gem is oval, about three-quarters of an inch long.

We then returned home, after a charming excursion, and Mr. Louis Rakermann closed the birthday with performing for U. one of Beethoven's symphonies.

Now I will go back to yesterday. When we went into the Church of the Capuchins, we found a curtain drawn before the Chapel of Guido's Archangel, and, peeping through, I saw a man copying the picture. I asked him whether we could go in, and he directed us to a side-door, opening from the next chapel. The mosaic at St. Peter's is an admirable copy of the original, but I was glad to have before me the work of Guido's own hand. We had just seen the Beatrice Cenci, and I think that that and this are quite sufficient to make immortal any name. This is of the same order of hierarchs as Garofalo's Announcing Angel. There is the same immortal

ROMAN JOURNAL. 257

prime in his face, youth in essence, baby-majesty of innocence, the freshness of the petal of a rose just bloomed. And with all this, there is princely state, and a lofty dignity. It is an unfallen form of man, and by this we can see what man has lost of original brightness. How light and powerful is his descent! He is as imponderable as air and as irresistible as--I was about to say, as a thunderbolt, but I cannot say it, for he is not so terrible. What is irresistible that is so soft and tender? I can think of nothing but light. He is then as irresistible as light. The armory of heaven seems to have been exhausted to furnish forth the splendor of his array. His corselet is of sapphire, and identical with the curves and lines of the glorious form. A crimson mantle floats around him, like the red band in the rainbow let loose for his adornment, a symbol of his flaming love; and from his brow waves backward light spirals of pale gold hair. The sandals are bound upon his feet with lacings of azure and gold, and fastened high with large rubies that burn like fire. How can any one describe the aerial tread of those angelic feet? The left one is planted upon the head of the dragon, who looks up at the seraphic vision with the face (it is said) of Innocent Tenth, an evil-eyed old demon, and now powerless beneath the etherial touch. The right foot rests upon a rock, with as little effect of weight as the alighting of a bird upon a tree. It is the insubstantial yet immutable firmness of divine power. This

258 NOTES IN ITALY.

combination of airiness and might, shows miraculous genius in Guido. The delicate contour of the limbs, the pearly texture of the beautiful feet, like the snow of an infant's feet, as if just created, with no earthly stain, are united with superhuman force, expressed in the chest and arms. One hand, the left, holds the chain with which the dragon is to be bound, and which already secures him. The right is uplifted, grasping a sword, in act to strike. The glitter and flash of the inevitable stroke dazzle as it descends. Outspread wings of pencil-color, just the hue of the shaded side of a cloud near the moon, hold poised this celestial Leader of the Hosts of God. The downcast white lids, with dark lashes, the untroubled brow, the curves of the closed lips, without disdain or pride, but tender and sweet, though resolute without effort, show the messenger of Our Father. What endless worlds of meaning are evolved from this master-piece. A perfect work is a unit of Truth, and all truth is one. The whole destiny and history of man in relation to the Deity can be read in this picture. The artist who was copying it had entirely missed the face and the sway of the attitude, but had succeeded pretty well with the right foot and limb.

March 11th.--On Saturday, though it rained, as it is the only day of the week for the Sciarra Palace,

ROMAN JOURNAL. 259

we went through the showers, and fled into the gallery like stormy petrels, taking U. for the closing festival of her week. The first picture in the first room that arrested us was Raphael's Violin-player. It stands on an easel, with plate-glass over it. It is the face of a youth, looking over his right shoulder, holding the bow of the violin in his hand, with a flower. It is a dark, Italian face, with long hair, falling from beneath a small cap, and with earnest eyes. The upper lip is rather long, but the mouth is handsome, with an expression of grave sweetness, and the painting is most highly finished. But I have to confess that I was not so deeply smitten with this celebrated picture as I supposed I should be, at the first study of it. The memory of it is more powerful than its presence was, but when I see it again, I shall understand it better. Near it, also carefully glassed, and upon an easel, stands what is called "Vanity and Modesty," by Leonardo da Vinci, another famous picture, so very often repeated in every way. As in almost every picture that Leonardo da Vinci painted, one can see Mona Lisa in this. "Vanity" is another Mona Lisa, with her sweet smile. The whole is as rich and dark as a carbuncle, and of deepest glow in the face and smile of "Vanity." She is attractive, beautiful, and gay, decked with jewels and finest ripples of golden hair, and looks away from her monitor, and into the eyes of the world around her with a soft, resolute expression of persistent, happy complacency with her-

260 NOTES IN ITALY.

self and with all earthly good. It is a pure, innocent vanity, an ideal self-conceit, not in the least offensive. "Modesty," with her veiled head and warning finger, is not so charming as the delinquent, though she is beautiful. She looks quite hopeless in her expostulation; and I think one might as soon expect to win to seriousness the play of sunshine on a waterfall, as this smiling maiden. Engravings and oil-copies do not render this wonderful face. They leave out the rich meaning, and either make a simper or emptiness. Only these very lines, only these very lights, shadows, and colors can convey the artist's idea. One call get little more than the design in any copy, as I find more and more. Copyists generally are superficial, quite. They should be informed with the feeling and secret of the soul that wrought the wonder, or they only hide the masterpiece they pretend to repeat, and this is an injury and a wrong, and not a benefit. The finish of this painting is of the highest perfection. It is only true genius that has patience and love enough to create. Mere talent and skill are never faithful; and what they effect in art can never last but a moment.

In the first saloon is also a copy of the Transfiguration, by Valentine, as large as the original, and much faded. Being hung exactly opposite the windows, with unaccountable disregard of proprieties, it was difficult to see it, and I did not care to try, as I have not been to the Vatican yet, where the original

ROMAN JOURNAL. 261

is. To copy the Transfiguration! Mr. Valentine was enterprising, certainly!

In the next room is a Holy Family, by Francia, in which the Madonna is different from any other of his that I have seen. Instead of the matronly expression of care and solicitude, together with great beauty, this is the face and form of a young peasant--handsome, but not ideal. It is of rich color, with dark eyes and hair--honest, sweet, thoughtful, but with no premonition of sorrow. The child is of the usual type.

Two large pictures by my new painter, Garofalo, are here: a Caccia, and the vestal Claudia; and also a Noli-me-tangere, in which the Mary is exceedingly beautiful, but I do not like the Christ at all. The vestal Claudia has fastened the rope of a ship to her girdle, and is drawing it across the Tiber, out of the mud, where it had sunk, to prove her chastity. There are some admirable heads and figures in the group of priests and Roman citizens, who await her on the other side of the river.

A very curious large picture I saw called the Old and New Testaments. Christ and the Virgin Mary sit on a throne with angels on each side, with green wings. Just below them are the prophets on one hand, and the apostles on the other. These form a sort of orchestra (as U. suggested). Below the orchestra, directly in front, stands an angel, and a monk kneeling to him with clasped hands. This angel also has green wings; but his attitude is fine,

262 NOTES IN ITALY.

and he points to Christ in answer to the prayer of the poor old monk. It is by Ferrari. One of all the angels in the orchestra is very beautiful.

In a bad light, in the corner of the room, is a most lovely Madonna and child, by Carlo Maratta, Mary's head is in profile. The babe stands upon her knee, and endeavors to read in the book she holds open. It is very graceful, and the faces are exceedingly beautiful; but it was aggravating not to be able to get a good view of it. I tried to push back the shutter and curtain, but they would not stay back, and the day was so dark, it was in vain to have more than a faint glance at it.

In the last room were Guido's two Magdalens; one, the Magdalen delle Radice, and the other much like it, but far more finished and beautiful--one of his chef d'oeuvres. The abundant hair is not of. the red or yellow gold, so greatly loved by Italian painters, but palest flaxen, and fine and soft as the silk of a cocoon, and flowing everywhere about and over her perfect form, like streams of dim light. From all points of view but one her mouth seems too much open, as if with a cry; but there is one point from which the lips look only parted slightly, as would be inevitable, with the eyes upturned, and the head raised and a little thrown back. One lovely arm and hand support the head, the hand overflowed by the pale flood of hair, and clutching it; the other hand rests upon a skull, and this right hand and arm are surpassingly lovely. This is one

ROMAN JOURNAL 263

of the Guido pictures that can be looked at forever, without weariness or satiety. It is forever new, and forever more expressive, eloquent, and pathetic.

In strongest possible contrast to this is Titian's renowned "Bella Donna," the portrait of a lady. This picture realizes completely all I have heard of Titian's coloring, which no other work of his had yet done. The flesh-tints of this beautiful lady imprison the sunshine of Italy, golden and fair at once. I can in no way conceive how such a rich, glowing splendor of tint is also so pure and fair and dazzling. I find here the master of color, which I have sought in vain in all the Titians I have hitherto seen in Rome and England. It can neither be described nor copied. Titian has caught the daylight, and enclosed it in transparent pearl. A folded mass of auburn hair crowns the head, and falls behind the throat. As U. stood near I perceived what artists have meant when they called U.'s hair "Titian hair," for it was precisely like the Bella Donna's. The eyes are dark and rather small, and their expression and that of the perfect mouth are not amiable. The Bella Donna is proud and imperious and peevish. Even her fine, straight nose is handsome, without sweetness. Bright, gorgeous colors mingle in her dress. When looking upon the face, one involuntarily turns to see whence comes the sunshine that seems gleaming over it. I actually exclaimed, "Why, the sun has come out!" and behold, it was still a dull, rainy day, and I came to discover that

264 NOTES IN ITALY.

the light was not upon, it, but within it. Has Titian painted the life? I perceive how Mr. Alston endeavored to get this miraculous coloring--but he never did get it. His complexions are all thick and muddy, compared with this. I always thought them not clear and living, but not till now knew at what they aimed and how they failed. Titian's Bella Donna lives and breathes throughout her material form. Her veins are like the Pactolus, and her tissues are woven of opal at its whitest, but, like that marvellous gem, you feel that fire is somewhere shut in, so that they are warm and sentient. But I am trying to render into words what Titian's pencil alone can manifest; for this must be seen to be known. The Venetian artists have discovered the secret of sumptuous earthly beauty. Transmute a superb eastern jewel or a gorgeous flower into a woman, and you have the Bella Donna. In Guido's faces a spiritual and heavenly light dawns. His Magdalen here, beams through the silver mist of tears, like a lost Pleiad, striving to ascend again to her unfallen sister band, through the evening dews. * * * We then went to the studio of Mr. Nichols, a townsman of ours. He was close against the sky, up a hundred steps! We saw some landscapes, and a copy of one of Murillo's Holy Families, now at the Vatican, and it was a fine picture; but I have not seen the original, and do not know how well he has succeeded in imitating it. He has, however, a high reputation as a copyist of the great masters.

ROMAN JOURNAL. 265

We thought we would go into Mr. Gibson's work-room after our skyward visit; and there was such a crowd of statues that we could scarcely move through them--Cupids, Venuses, Nymphs in legions. Out of the whole throng one Cupid shone pre-eminent, as fresh and lovely as if it had been the first and only Cupid conceived and sculptured by man. It is not a little, round, rolling, baby Love; but a boy, in earliest youth, toying with a butterfly on his breast. We did not stay long in this room, all were so busy chopping and chiselling, but passed on to find Miss Hosmer, whose studio is behind Mr. Gibson's. Yet we got into another crowd of Mr. Gibson's immortals, in the next saloon. A bas-relief of Cupid and Psyche was enchanting, close by the door; but we did not wait to examine anything, and pressed on to Miss Hosmer. She was in her aditum, and came forward with the most animated gesture to greet us. Her action was as bright, sprightly, and vivid as that of a bird: a small figure, round face, and tiny features, except large eyes; hair short, and curling up round a black velvet cap, planted directly upon the middle of her head, instead of jauntily on one side, as is usual with artists; her hands thrust into the pockets of a close-fitting cloth jacket--a collar and cravat like a young man's--and a snowy plaited chemisette, like a shirt-bosom. I liked her at once, she was so frank and cheerful, independent, honest, and sincere--wide awake, energetic, yet not ungentle. She showed us her "Puck,"

13

266 NOTES IN ITALY

which she called "the son of her old age,"--a mischievous mad sprite, sitting on a toad-stool, with a shell on his wild curls for a cap, and a crab in one hand; not so weird as Sir Joshua Reynolds' Puck, but very charming and jolly. She showed me also her design for a fountain--Hylas, drawn into the stream by the water-nymphs--which I liked exceedingly, as also her sad, noble Daphne; but not so much her Medusa, which missed the Greek, terrible beauty. Her pencil-sketches for bas-reliefs enchanted me--Night approaching--Dawn coming--and a Star group, all in circles. In one, Night rises, drawing up with her the stars, embodied in two lovely, graceful forms, who cling to the ancient mother. In another, the Dawn begins to mount, and the stars above (two sister forms) veil their heads and close their lids before it. The grouping is masterly. Miss Hosmer also intends to model a Zenobia, walking in the triumph of Aurelian. After seeing all she could show us of unfinished designs, we descended into one of Mr. Gibson's work-rooms again, where men were chipping out goddesses. There was a tinted marble Venus, with a golden fillet on light golden hair, a golden apple in her hand, and a mantle edged with red and gold. It was beautiful and captivating; but I inveighed against the coloring of the pure marble most emphatically, as profanation, when Miss Hosmer exclaimed, "Take care what you say--Mr. Gibson is behind you," So I turned to him, not frightened out of my protest.

ROMAN JOURNAL. 267

He is a short, elderly, Italian-looking--or rather Greek-looking--gentleman, with glowing, dark eyes under pent-house eyebrows--straight nose--every feature handsome. He smiled, and said, "It was nonsense not to like tinting of marble--that it made a richer effect." I persisted that I wished for pure form, and not painting in sculpture; and so he gave me up to my folly, muttering good-naturedly, "Yes, yes; it does seem horrid to color marble, I know." He then began a long story about a Chinese general, which I did not care to hear. I kept breaking in upon his tale with "That is a group of Cupid and Psyche--how lovely!" "Yes, yes--that is Cupid and Psyche--so the Chinaman said;" and then followed more story. My eyes were wandering round on Nymphs and Graces, and soon I unawares exclaimed again, "Oh, what an exquisite Flora!" "Yes, that is Flora--so now the rascally Chinese general declared the men were all respectfully buried!" At last the narrative was finished, with regal indifference to interruptions, and Miss Hosmer took us to her own workshop, where her cutters were finishing her monumental figure in marble--a young lady asleep on a tomb. It is a portrait, she says, and it is very lovely. I had time for only a glance at her Beatrice Cenci--for it was nearly six, and we had to hurry home to dinner, up the Pincian hill.

On the 7th, Sunday, we heard there was to be high mass at Santa Maria Sopra Minerva, before the

268 NOTES IN ITALY.

Cardinals, on account of the festival of St. Thomas Aquinas. So I went with M. and Miss S. to see and hear. It was a fine, clear day. This is the only Gothic church in Rome. It is built on the site (and perhaps partly with the materials) of Pompey's Temple to Minerva, and is very near the Pantheon. It has now the plainest possible façade, promising nothing, like so many churches in Italy. Within, it is magnificent. A lofty nave, with cippolino marble columns, and arched side-aisles, with chapels. Michel Angelo's statue of Christ stands on the left of the high altar. This statue is one of Michel Angelo's divine, gentle, and not terrible creations. Christ stands holding a very heavy cross, his face turned from it. It is infinitely powerful in the simple majesty of its action. The story is told at once. There is the heavy, heavy cross, and there is He who was crucified upon it, and bore.it for us. The noble, serene face looks straight into the eyes of all men, with ineffable attractive force. The form is delicately moulded, and is full of sensibility, as if it would suffer much; yet it expresses "O my Father, if this cup may not pass away from me except I drink it, Thy will be done." In its strong, firm peace it also expresses "I have overcome the world." Its gentleness, its gentle majesty, impressed me more than anything else, at the first contemplation of it; but a very little only of a great work is seen at first. Meanwhile, high mass went on, and chanting of "De Profundis," but there were no

ROMAN JOURNAL. 269

Cardinals. After mass a sermon was preached, and we stayed awhile to hear Italian pronounced so sonorously that it was like a rich hymn. The preacher was eloquent and graceful, and discoursed of St. Tomaso Aquino in words that rolled like gems from his lips.

March 15th.--A week ago we went to the Vatican, to the halls of sculpture. They commence by a very long narrow gallery, the first part of which is devoted principally to inscriptions, inserted into or fastened upon the walls--on the right hand, pagan, on the left, Christian. All along the gallery of inscriptions there are sarcophagi, vases, torsos, capitals of columns, cippi, and various bas-reliefs of fine workmanship--cornices, and specimens of everything picked up and dug up about Rome. The second part of the gallery contains busts, and figures of heroes, gods, goddesses, emperors, philosophers, poets, children, and women. Here is the colossal head of Minerva, with the strange black eyes and black lashes, while the rest is snowy marble--the grand, colossal, sitting figure of Tiberius, with the civic crown. He seems to have been carved out for a god, though he became unworthy even of the name of man. Here also is the newly-discovered and only true Cicero. The Cicero that has hitherto been called the orator, is now supposed to be his brother, who was a soldier. It is only a year ago that this was found. It is very satisfactory--a re-

270 NOTES IN ITALY.

fined, intellectual, penetrating head, with a mouth of wonderful beauty. Its authenticity is proved by its exact resemblance to a medal in the Vatican, inscribed with his name, and which the long-accepted Cicero does not at all resemble. It is delightful really to have seen Cicero. Here, too, is the celebrated young Augustus, of a delicate, poetic, musing beauty, with a lovely mouth and a perplexed brow. The trouble on his brow seems a prophetic shadow of his anxiety, at the close of his life, to know "whether he had played his part well."

There is also an imperial head of Julius Cæsar, as Pontifex Maximus, with a folded drapery, and another fine Cæsar, not veiled. These are both far superior to the head in the Hall of the Emperors, at the Capitol, though still like that. A baby Nero was very interesting. It is not a pretty child, but it is not evil in its expression. I was disappointed in Scipio Africanus. I expected him to be very noble. It is an earnest, strong head, and full of care, and in nero antico. Praxiteles' charming Faun is here also,--a happy smile embodied. There is an astonishing grace in the figure, and a cheerfulness, like a sunny afternoon. I became acquainted with this ever-enchanting creation in the Capitol. He stands in an attitude of easy rest, making multitudes of curves. Sunshine on rippling water is like the gleam on his face and form. The dolce far niente was never so exquisitely expressed. He is perfect

ROMAN JOURNAL. 271

bonhommie, idealized with a thousand fine amenities. It is one of those master-pieces of antiquity, in which "the marble flows like a wave."

About half-way in the long gallery, the Braccio Nuovo leads off to the left,--a gallery with mosaic floor, and marble columns and arched niches, in which full-length statues stand--and half-columns of red, oriental granite, surmounted with busts: If it were not for what they contain, the halls of the Vatican would be visited for their own intrinsic splendor and state. But who minds the setting of diamonds? In the Braccio Nuovo is the Minerva Medica, which alone is worthy of a pilgrimage to Rome. I had never heard of this "statue in America, and first saw a cast of it, a very fine cast of it, in the Crystal Palace last autumn, pointed out to us by Mr. Silsbee, who greatly estimated it. Even then, in the disguise, and through the obstruction of plaster, it seemed to me the most majestic expression of profound and pensive" thought I had ever imagined. The plaster was as much as I could comprehend at first, and I am glad I saw it first; and now to see the marble is a privilege, for which I trust I am sufficiently thankful. There is a grand sorrow in the countenance and air, but it is the sorrow of an immortal--the pensiveness of profound insight--not a human emotion. The drapery is in fine folds, and falls round the feet in solemn flow. The expression is entirely introspective. The features are

272 NOTES IN ITALY.

of perfect beauty, of a very high order of beauty--with no prettiness. She is the sister of the Apollo Belvedere. He is all immortal action, while Minerva is immortal Thought, and both heroic.

March 17th.--Yesterday, it was so perfectly clear and dry and exhilarating, that I took U. to the Palatine, to explore the ruins of the Palace of the Cæsars. We wandered out of our way by going up some steps on the right of the Arch of Titus, from the Sacra Via. It was very interesting to go that way, however. It was the Via Santa Buona Ventura, and led to a church of that name, which contained, on one side, a multitude of shrines, like niches, each one containing a colored bas-relief of some event in the life of Christ.

On our left, at the top of the steps, were some ruins of arches, said to be of a temple of Adonis, erected by Domitian, with gardens adjoining. We then passed along a narrow way, with high walls on each side. On a gate on our right we saw a paper upon which was written "Termi di Livia," and we knocked, but no one came. So we went on, along by the church and its shrines, till we came into a still narrower path with still higher walls, with now and then a gate, peeping through which, we could see ruins; but no one would let us in. We passed a group of French soldiers, sitting on the grass, at some game, persevering resolutely, and quite beyond U.'s patience, who was sure we should find no-

ROMAN JOURNAL. 273

outlet, yet walked on in her queenly gait, out of indulgence to my persistence. U. was right; there was no outlet, and we were obliged to retrace all our steps. I knocked at a great double-door of a garden, on our return, as U. saw an old portress sitting on the other side, and she admitted us. It was a vast space within, partly cultivated with vegetables. On the left side was a semicircular construction with niches--alternate square and arched recesses. The arched ones were for statues, doubtless, and the square for frescoes or mosaics. At the end of the field were lofty ruins of a curved shape. An old man said this was the Sala di Augusto Imperatore, and a Hippodrome or race-course; and the high ruins were his theatre. Sunken panels of square and oval form were cut in the roof of the stone arches, and a little minute carving of the cornices is left. We climbed up, and went through an opening to the other side of the theatre-ruin. Below us stretched out a richly cultivated plain, once the Circus Maximus. On the right of the Hippodrome, now the garden, is the Villa Palatina, standing on the site of the Palace of Augustus. We sat down in the sun, on a bank of flowers, and took out our map of Rome, and concluded to go back, and find the other entrance. We therefore passed under the Arch of Constantine, upon which I was right glad to see the original marble relief of that lovely outline of the moon setting over the Tiber, which I long ago saw in Miss Burley's volume of antique gems, by

12*

274 NOTES IN ITALY.

Moses. It is broken now in many parts, but the beauty and grace remain yet. We again lost our way; but at last discovered a tablet over a small door, "Alle Rovine del Palazzo de Cesari," and we joyfully entered. An English lady, with her portfolio and camp-stool, followed us. We found a very lofty flight of steps, which took us up into a vestibule, turning to the right. This was frescoed, and surrounded with low stone seats, and contained another staircase. We strolled about, above, among arches, round towers, chambers, halls, and recesses, gathering purple flowers (efflorescent loyalty, in the very home and centre of kingly pomp), and bay-leaves, with which to crown Cæsar's brow, and ivy and laurestinus--and admiring without end the magnificent views on every side of the lordly Palatine, the Campagna, and the Alban and Sabine hills, whitened with snow--and Rome within these lovely bounds.

March 25th.--I was interrupted in my record more than a week ago, and now I am crowded with a multitude of events. The Prince Piombino sent us a ticket of admission to his villa, the Villa Ludovisi, long ago, and we availed ourselves of it to-day. It is close by our Palazzo Larazani, leading up from the Piazza Barberini, by the Via Basilio. Upon entering the gate, avenues and enchanting vistas opened on every side, but we went first to the Casino of Sculpture. There are two rooms in this small

ROMAN JOURNAL. 275

casino, sown thick with richest gems of art. There is a Venus coming from the bath, with a most luminous smile curving her mouth into a splendor of beauty, without any movement of the muscles of her face. There is often an insipidity of perfection in the lines of the mouth of the Venuses. But in this a sweetness and an archness combined--a full, free wave of light--give more piquancy to the expression than I have before seen. It is the foam-born goddess. There is the sparkle, the motion, the translucency of water in her form and attitude. She is entirely beautiful, and there is an Olympian nobleness in her air. A sitting statue of the philosopher Zeno is good, and there are many admirable busts of the Emperors. I have now become perfectly acquainted with Julius Cæsar, Hadrian, the good Trajan, the pious Antonine, the beautiful, noble, and good Marcus Aurelius, the superb and wicked Commodus, the ugly monsters Caligula and Nero, the handsome and repulsive Claudian family, and Augustus, boy and man. I know also the earnest Demosthenes, the keen, intellectual Cicero, beautiful Euripides, our dear old Socrates, and Phocian, whom Plutarch made me love--Marc Antony and Lepidus. Marc Antony has a very strong head and face, with immense force of will in it--Lepidus is weak, with small features. He stands opposite the powerful Marc Antony, in the curved transept of the Braccio Nuovo in the Vatican--and Augustus is between them. There they are, the triumvirate, perfectly life-like.

276 NOTES IN ITALY.

How could so insignificant, puny a person as Lepidus be united with such, mighty powers as Augustus and Antony?

How little I once thought I should ever see these persons! But I am not at the Vatican now. In the inner room of the Casino is the far-famed Ludovisi Juno. The simplicity of this Juno--the absence of all attempt at effect, may strike one with surprise at its fame for the first moment, and lead one to prefer the other. Yet I was impressed immediately with the pure grandeur and majesty of this. It beams with a broad, steady, calm effulgence. Light tranquilly forms itself into this Queen of Olympus. The lines and curves are all as soft and round as a baby's, yet grand with intellect, and serene command. It seems to rise as one looks at it--to rise and unfold and bloom--a vast Lily of the White Bay, combining all the seven other rays--a thousand times Queen and Goddess. No effect is drawn from nobly arranged drapery; for it is the head only. The hair is folded away from the clear brow, and surmounted with a diadem, and from this a long curling tress hangs behind each ear. This Juno could never be angry. Eternal repose has crystallized into marble, yet it is also a controlling energy.

On each side the door are wonderful works. One is Mars at rest, the other a Hero, taking his ease.

ROMAN JOURNAL. 277

Mars is famous, but I prefer the Hero. The head and face of the last are more noble, I think, and the attitude of the head graceful and fascinating. He sits upon the ground and leans forward, supporting his right hand with his sword, while his left hand and arm are thrown upon his right knee, which is raised. The position is so balanced, that one sees he might sit there forever, and rest forever, and therefore it conveys an impression of comfortable peace. Mars clasps the left knee with both hands, and at his right foot a little Cupid sits laughing. He certainly has le bel air, and it is glorious sculpture.

There is a group near Mars called Orestes and Electra, when they meet after their long separation; but it is also suggested that it is Penelope taking leave of Telemachus, when he is going to seek his father. I am inclined to believe it is Penelope. There is a mother's love in her face--a tender, fond, admiring look, as if she commended his enterprise--a matronly dignity and sacred purity; and the action is gentler than that of Electra would be, who suddenly should recognize her brother. There Would be rapture in Electra. In this face and figure is quiet, deep love. This youth is also much shorter and smaller than the female form, as I think Orestes would not be. A gentle, home-like, tranquil dignity is in the noble woman, and she is fully and richly draped, like a matron.

There is also a large group, which may be Pætus and Arria. I immediately thought of it. Arria has

278 NOTES IN ITALY.

already pierced her own bosom, and is falling, held up by the arm of Pætus, who is thrusting the knife into his heart. It is very powerful.

A bronze bust of Julius Cæsar is remarkably fine. It is singular that it reminded me of Mr. Wm. Henry C. It is almost Mr. O.'s portrait.

After two hours here, we walked about the extensive and delightful gardens, till we came to the Casino of the Prince and Princess, in which is Guercino's Aurora. It is rather harsh-looking after Guido's, but upon patient study, there is found great beauty and expression in it. We mounted to the Belvedere, and saw therefrom a magnificent view of Rome and its environments. We then visited the gardens of Sallust, which are included within the Prince Piombino's grounds, and we saw a strange little grotto. I could not but wonder that I was in the gardens of Sallust.

March 26th.--We went to-day to see the Pope pray at St. Peter's. He prays there every Friday during Lent. I thought it would be a good, quiet time to see his face, which I had not yet done. In due time a great many attendants arrived, with various-colored, long-bodied, old-fashioned coats, trimmed richly with pie-colored borders, and three-cornered hats upon their heads. They looked like sudden apparitions out of an old picture-book of ancient costumes. They arranged themselves in lines from the chief entrance, edging the crowd with

ROMAN JOURNAL. 279

their finery. Then followed the Swiss Guard, a body of stalwart young men. Their dress is entirely peculiar--trousers full to the knee like a Turk's, with a tunic--in stripes of bright yellow, red, blue, and white. The dress is made of separate strips of cloth of the pure colors, so that a battalion of them looks very gorgeous and harlequiny. These gay tulips lined the way quite to the chapel. The space before the Chapel of the Holy Sacrament, to which the Pope would come first, was left wholly free for his Holiness. Near the gate was placed a prie-dieu, covered with crimson velvet and gold, as was the floor beneath--and crimson velvet cushions were arranged for him to kneel upon and to rest his arms. We patiently waited a long time, and at last a stir announced the entrance of the Pontifex Maximus. He was preceded and followed by Cardinals, dressed to-day in violet robes, significant of mourning, just as all the pictures are veiled during Lent in violet. The Pope was arrayed in white silk, with red shoes and a red mantle. I do not know why he also was not in violet, unless he is to be presumed beyond penitence and mourning. He was, however, without tiara, and only a white silk skull-cap, and his aspect, and that of all his suite, was grave and sad. I saw him very well as he passed me. His face is benign and comely, and every few seconds he blessed the crowd by a motion of his right hand, and a slight bend of the head, at once majestic and gracious. If one could only believe him a perfect saint and virtu-

280 NOTES IN ITALY.

ally the Head of the Church, this would have been very impressive. He made a deep obeisance to the Chapel of the Holy Sacrament, where he believed God was present in the wafer, and then he knelt on the crimson-velvet cushion, and the Cardinals knelt behind and on each side of him; and profound silence fell over all while they prayed. Every Catholic was on his knees, with moving lips. As soon as the Pope rose, there was a rush for the next prie-dieu, prepared in front of St. Peter's shrine. We stood close by the ever-burning lamps, and the same ceremony was repeated, watched and guarded by a military band. I at first thought these mailed and halberded soldiers symbolized the Church Militant. But they are merely the attendants of the temporal prince, as the Pope claims to be King and Imperador, as well as Pontifex.

March 31st.--Mrs. W. sent this morning to invite me to drive with her in the afternoon, and she came for me at two o'clock. We returned to her house in the Piazza di Spagna, and took in Mr. W. and H., and drove to the Villa Borghese. This is a very large and enchanting domain, and the prince liberally permits the public to frequent it at will every day after twelve o'clock. It has groves, deeply shaded avenues, lovely meadows, fountains, wide prospects, wild-flowers, stone-pines, casinos of sculpture and painting, and profound quiet. We alighted from the barouche; and H., looking like a crocus in

ROMAN JOURNAL. 281

her striped purple and white silk dress and ribbons, strayed off into one of the sunny meadows, and gathered a bouquet of pale-blue violets. I thought of Proserpine in the Vale of Enno--but checked myself when I remembered the result of that. On the border of one of the avenues was a row of stone-pines; and it was pleasant to see the enthusiasm of Mr. W. for them. It was so great that it served for us all. Their lofty curves, marked on the upper azure, certainly have a peculiar charm. In a landscape by Turner, in the Marlborough House, I saw one so perfectly painted, that these living ones seemed quite familiar to me. All about the grounds were marble busts and statues, which, even in this clear climate, have lost their brilliancy. It is melancholy to know that it is not possible for the owners of these superb villas to reside in them in summer, on account of the malaria; so they are wasted when in their complete beauty. What a strange and mysterious retribution upon the Empress of the World is the malaria! It is said to be increasing and encroaching, so that Rome will finally be left desolate, a sign and a portent to the nations.

In reading the history of Rome, I feel as if the Campagna were all steeped in human blood, and filled with human bones and dust, as indeed it must be. I have heard that one cannot sit down on the grass in the Campagna, anywhere over its whole extent, without finding, just beneath the flowers and turf, these human bones, excepting where there are

282 NOTES IN ITALY.

ruins of dwellings. It has been thick with life, and now it is thick with death, and Death is chasing all that remains of Life from these regions.

After exploring the Borghese grounds, we drove to the Forum and Coliseum, and to the Pyramid of Caius Cestius, in the line of the city walls. It is in perfect preservation, covered with plates of white marble, and its apex as sharp as if just pointed, though it has pierced the air for at least two thousand years." Mr. W. and I left the carriage to see the tomb of Keats; for the Protestant burial-ground is at the foot of the Pyramid. There is a white marble headstone, with "Here lies a young English Poet" upon it, and no name. The hillock over the body is still rounded, and covered with flowers, which seem to be carefully tended. Shelley's grave is close by, but we could get no admittance to it; and we could not go into the Pyramid to-day, because the custode was not there. It has a small chamber in the centre, with arabesques that still retain their bright colors.

We then went into an old church, in which was an enormous Mask, called La Bocca della Verita. On each side of the nave were ancient columns of various orders, rifled from pagan temples. The floor was of mosaic. Two marble pulpits, on each side the choir, were of the remotest Christian times. They are called ambones, I believe. The mosaic is Alexandrian work. The name of the church is Santa Maria in Cosmedia, and it stands where once stood

ROMAN JOURNAL. 283

a temple of Ceres and Proserpine, from which the columns, and perhaps the pavement, were taken. The lovely temple of Vesta is close by, and also that of Fortuna Virilis, which is exceedingly small, but perfectly beautiful in its proportions; and opposite to it is the house of Fienzi, the last of the Tribunes. Pilate is said to have lived in it.

We then drove over the Pons Cestius (St. Bartholomew's Bridge) to the Island of the Tiber, now entirely covered with houses. In Roman history I have read a story of a ship having been sent to Greece for a statue of Esculapius, as a charm against the pestilence, and that when it arrived in the Tiber, a living snake, whose form Esculapius assumed, glided out of the ship into the island and hid itself among the thickets, and a temple was erected to Esculapius on the spot. Substructions of this very temple now remain; but they are built upon by modern houses. The island was faced with rock, and made in the shape of a ship, and an Egyptian obelisk was put up in the centre, to represent a mast. A hospital now stands on the site of the temple of Esculapius.

We afterward drove to Santa Maria in Trastevere, a large, old church, with a stately nave, bordered by ancient granite columns. One of the chapels was prepared for Domenichino to paint in fresco; and in one corner of an arch he commenced with a little cherub, and then he fell ill and died. No other hand has carried on the work. The little cherub

284 NOTES IN ITALY.

remains alone, as we saw, surrounded with the empty panels. There was something inexpressibly affecting in these void spaces, watched over by the cherub.

Finally we drove to St. Peter's, where we intended to hear Vespers. There was a dense crowd round the gate of the choral chapel; but we patiently waited two hours, and then crushed in and obtained seats in front. The music was divine to-day. It was a Miserere, and gave us a foretaste of the Miserere we shall hear in the Sistine Chapel by and by. They had the triangle of lights, and extinguished them one by one, after each chant, and then a priest took down the candle from the apex, and hid it behind the altar. Violet curtains were drawn over the windows. All the Canons of St. Peter's, and all the acolytes, and one Cardinal, in violet robes, knelt down, and a wonderful voice rose upon the silence and rich gloom, like a pure crystal jet of translucent water, and then curved and fell to rise again. "Misera, Misera!" It fell into a sea of sad voices composed of the whole choir, and then rose out of them again and again, far into the lofty dome, as if seeking heaven with its cry for pity. The responses of the Canons were so dissonant and loud that I was shocked and shaken by each uproar; but I had never conceived any sound so eloquent, sweet, and pathetic as the single miraculous voice. I could not dream of anything superior to it then.

It was dark at the close of the music, and the

ROMAN JOURNAL. 285

balcony over the statue of St. Veronica was lighted up, because there was to be an exhibition of relics--a portion of the true cross, and the handkerchief St. Veronica gave our Saviour to wipe his brow, when he passed, bearing his cross, on the way to Calvary. All we could see at such a distance was a very superb and glittering frame to each of these relics, which seemed to be all gold and precious stones. The fading twilight in the vast basilica was very impressive and grand. The multitude knelt when the priest held up the glittering treasures; and the prostrate throng, the illuminated balcony, the lofty arches receding in the darkness, the apparently endless nave, made a marvellous picture, such as can nowhere else be seen. Aforetime, a cross, seven feet long, of burnished metal, studded with the most brilliant lights, was let down from the dome, the most glorious imaginable sight, and powerful enough to kindle up those wastes of space. But it was necessary to discontinue the custom, because the Americans and English behaved so indecorously during the ceremony--walking about, laughing and talking aloud, much to the horror of the devout worshippers, and certainly very much to the discredit of the manners and decency of both Protestant nations. I have no patience with them, because I should have seen it to-night, if they had shown proper respect to the faith of the Romans. As we left the Piazza, we looked back, and saw one solitary star risen directly over the church, one star in the purest sky. Of

286 NOTES IN ITALY.

course we could think only of the star that stood over the place where the young Child lay.

On the 17th March (I must not omit to record) I went with the children and Miss Shepard to the Baths of Caracalla. We drove to the entrance, and were admitted through a small window, rather than a door, on the side of a great gate. An old man is custode, and takes fees. He at first insisted upon leading us to a bed of delicious violets in one of the mighty halls, saying "they were the violets of Caracalla!" Violets never were "of Caracalla," I am very sure. One glance from his wicked eyes would kill violets, for I know his evil scowl perfectly. We found the various halls stupendous in size and height, and the principal one really incredibly so. I did not suppose that such an apartment was ever roofed in. If the Emperor should sit at one end upon a raised dais, he might think he were ruling over a kingdom within the four walls. A part of the mosaic pavement has been uncovered within a short time, and it must have been superb when in its full polish and perfection. All round the hall it is of the fish-scale pattern, very appropriate for baths. In the centre there is another pattern, and the ceiling was once an immense mosaic, but it has now fallen, and lies in heaps upon the floor in huge boulders--on account of the granite columns having been unpardonably removed. The pavement is of purple, green, white, and yellow marbles, and the ceiling of black and white. The border close to the

ROMAN JOURNAL. 287

walls is mixed of all the colors, producing the richest effect, and the outside rim of pure white.

In the centre each oval is alternately of yellow, white, and green; the corners of the white are purple--of the green, yellow, and of the yellow, green.

All this was not in the style of the Florentine mosaics, in which one color is one piece of pietra dura, but each of these divisions is made up of small bits, and it is all composed of marbles. The purple is porphyry, the green is serpentine, and the yellow is giallo antico. The walls of this apartment were faced with marbles also, and columns of alabaster and marble stood around, while marble statues peopled the arcades and colonnades with ideal beauty--gods and heroes! And there they would all have been now, and there would have been the walls and ceiling, if man had not wantonly destroyed them. I found one small room with a roof. It is concave, paved with mosaics, and some of the marble plates are still on the walls. This was probably the natatio, the swimming-bath--a private little one--and delicious it must have been. Indeed, the whole vast hall seems slightly concave. What if it were once a mighty swimming-bath at times, whenever the Emperor chose to let loose his aqueduct upon it!

In a sort of tower there is a staircase which leads to the top, and we went up, and walked about on the passages made by the thickness of the walls. They also are laid in mosaic. It was designed never to

288 NOTES IN ITALY.

decay, certainly. The views from this summit are beautiful, of the same unwearying objects in different relations--the Alban and Sabine Mountains, the melancholy wastes of Campagna and Rome, with its domes and palaces--forever new, forever old--fascinating beyond all other combinations of hill and plain and city. I fell into infinite depths of musing, as one must always do in the midst of Roman ruins. It is certainly all right that Caracalla's baths should tumble and thunder down, and startle Rome with fear and horror; for they were built up through the toil and agony of thousands of captives, heathen and Christian, and revolting crimes were daily committed to make them so sumptuous for the tyrants who were to enjoy them. Thousands to suffer and die that one might roam in state, through miles of splendor, in cool comfort, and feast his eyes on beauty! Under such a curse, these stupendous structures could not stand. The very stones must have longed to revenge the wrong, and resist being placed in harmonious forms.

Since the ruling powers had no mercy, inanimate nature must have sympathized with the oppressed human creature, and I can almost fancy that there was an inward exultation in the heart of the mighty blocks when they hurled themselves crashingly from their settings, where weary, suffering hands had fixed them. If man turns his heart to stone, then stones must contrive to have hearts to balance the scales of divine justice. Flowers grew on those

ROMAN JOURNAL. 289

heights, springing out of the crumbling mosaic, as tender and fresh and sweet as if there never had been sin nor sorrow on the earth, or on the spot where they grew. They seemed to me like the gracious smile of the patient, Eternal Father, whose infinite pity preserves the world in its orbit, notwithstanding its errors and relapses. They suggested the loving mercy with which He waits for His prodigal sons, ready to take them into His arms when they arise and go to Him.

J---- and I strayed all about, while the others sat still; for they did not care to search for treasures. We found some marbles and bits of mosaic for memorials, and discovered wonderful subterranean recesses and rooms. Perhaps some of them were for heating water, but we did not know what they were for. We saw some broken columns and finely-wrought capitals, and at last we opened into a covered apartment, where a great many sculptures were placed, that had been collected about the ruins--pieces of figures, heads, vases, and morsels of architectural carvings. I asked the old custode whether these relics were his; and he replied, "No--sono di Pio Nono."

The atmosphere was transcendent that day, and on the way home, J---- and I delayed at the Arch of Constantine to sketch a bas-relief of the moon rising over the Tiber, in the same style as that of the moon setting--of which I made mention before, and which is on the other end of the arch.

13

290 NOTES IN ITALY.

On the 18th of March we went to the Temple of Vesta the first thing. The original roof of this is lost, and replaced by one as ugly as possible; but otherwise it is as perfectly beautiful in form as ever, though discolored by the storms of centuries. It is of Parian marble, once pure white--a small circular cetta, surrounded by a colonnade of Corinthian fluted pillars. One column only has fallen, A woman, admitted us. It consists within of one simple apartment about twenty feet in diameter, lined with white marble. I never saw anything built by human hands so simple and so lovely. Oh the divine sobriety of Grecian art! What a pattern for manners! It seems like a flower. I wonder why some one of the Popes has not put on a proper roof, instead of allowing these rude tiles to remain, like a rough cover to a daintily finished casket. It deserves either fit restoration, or the right of being an untouched ruin. It stands close upon the banks of the Tiber, which must have overflowed it many times, and I doubt not it is the very temple spoken of by Horace, built by Numa, ages ago. When it first rose there in its spotless purity, it must have been a fair type of a vestal virgin. Within full view of this pearl of beauty is the temple of Fortuna Virilis, a very small parallelogram, surrounded with fluted Ionic columns, with a portico in front. It is made of Travertine and is a perfect specimen of the Ionic order. The Greek forms have for me a mighty charm still, though I thought I never could be so much carried

ROMAN JOURNAL. 291

away by them, after being, steeped in the glorious Gothic so thoroughly. But the understanding, as well as the imagination, must have its sign,

Near to this Fortuna Virilis is a fabric we had not yet seen--with four sides--Janus Quadrifrons. It is a most solid and potent building, which must stand during the forever of this world, I am sure, as unmoved and immovable as it already has stood since Septimius Severus. The blocks of marble are enormous. It is no doubt Etruscan. The Etruscans, and the race they were of, easily moved mountains about, it is plain to see. In the centre is a vaulted roof. The earth has accumulated around it to such a height, that it is now in a hollow, and it has evidently been dug out; for the inundations of the Tiber set so much soil afloat, that new levels were constantly formed. These four arched fronts must have faced four streets. We were in the Velabrum--the Forum Boarium. There are many Forums, though I once supposed there was but one, the ever most illustrious Roman Forum.

Near Janus Quadrifrons, is another small arch, very much ornamented with sculptures. An inscription testifies that it was erected to Septimius Severus and his wife and children.

We then retraced our steps to the Ponte Rotto, which is a re-erection of the Pons Emilius, from which Heliogabalus was thrown into the Tiber. The great Scipio Africanus and the stupid Mummius finished it from a beginning by Lepidus and some

292 NOTES IN ITALY.

consul. Standing upon, this, we looked along the river, and saw the ruins of the illustrious bridge Sublicius, upon which Horatius Cocles did such good battle against Porsenna, and then destroyed it--or rather, the Romans destroyed it at his command.

We passed over the Ponte Rotto into the Trastevere, and walked a long way to St. Peter's. We had heard that the Romans of this region were finer and nobler looking than any others, and claimed to be descended from the pure, ancient race. We did not observe much difference to the others in those whom we met in the streets. Very many of the people have a kingly air and step, all over Rome. We entered St. Peter's, where I alone remained to see the five newly-appointed Cardinals pray at the two holy shrines--that of the Sacrament and of St. Peter. While I waited, people began to collect to see the ceremony, and purple-robed priests, with lace tunics, came out of the choral chapel, and knelt down near me to pray. I had my tiny sketch-book, and caught one of them exactly. In the midst of his prayer, when, in my own sincerity, I supposed him wrapt in devotion, away from all sublunary needs, he shocked me by taking out his snuff-box, and making himself jolly with a pinch. It seemed as if something must happen at such a disturbance of the divine economy and order; but the grand space and silence swallowed up this portentous irreverence, as if it were a very little thing. And, in truth, the priest only injured himself, and could not disturb the true worship and

ROMAN JOURNAL. 293

sublimity of devotion of those who really prayed. And so my, own private tourbillon at this incident subsided in presence of the majestic calm pervading the temple. Processions of nuns passed in remote distances of the nave--processions of young acolytes also, in various costumes--all kinds of monks and churchmen, each body in a different habit, as well as multitudes of ecclesiastical schools, in peculiar dresses. Each group was occupied with its own separate duty, and there was abundance of room for thousands of groups more.

At last the grand entrance was flung open, and the five new Cardinals, in very new scarlet silk skull-caps and violet robes, came in, attended by footmen and prelates, and knelt at a prie-dieu, side by side. One of them was quite young--an unusual thing.

I observed all at once that I was rather officiously attended by a stranger Italian, who seemed to feel bound to suggest to me a good place to stand; and as I could not possibly get rid of him, I became rather alarmed, and left the church at once, and took a carriage home, resolving not to be quite alone again. I think he must have been a spy.

March 20th is memorable for a charming walk which I took with little R. to the Temple of Peace, the Coliseum, the Coelian Hill, and the Forum. It was a glorious blue and gold afternoon, and we sauntered along very slowly. I meant to play in the Temple of Peace with B., to fulfil a prophecy of my

294 NOTES IN ITALY.

very dear friend. S. A. C., who said to me years ago, when I could not dream of such an event, "that my children would one day play in the Temple of Peace." But now it was so full of boys, and also so denied, that R. was disgusted. She enjoyed, however, the magnificat arches--the richly-sculptured capitals, bases, and architraves lying about upon the ground; and then we went on to the Coliseum, where the devout were kissing the black cross in the centre; and then to the Coelian, where I sat upon a marble seat, in view of the Palatine, while R. gathered daisies on the lawns, and I mused about Etruria, because Etruscans settled on this hill in the far-off times, and, as I believe, were the most civilised race of Italy before Rome was built.

295

II.
JOURNEY OF EIGHT DAYS FROM ROME TO FLORENCE.

CIVITÀ CASTELLANA, May 24th, 1858

WE left Rome this morning at eight o'clock. The weather was then fine, though, earlier, there was a fog. We had a nice old vetturino, Gaetano by name, who looked like a good New England farmer, with a face placid and gentle, and not at all Italian in color or expression. Our carriage was of the usual long and cumbersome fashion, with seats inside for four, and a coupé in front for two, in the form of a chaise--and in front of the coupé, a box for the vetturino. Our luggage was bestowed upon the top, and behind, reaching out many a rood, so that with four, and sometimes six horses, we have the effect of an endless arrangement of human affairs. We drove out of the Porta del Popolo, the old Flaminian gate, leading upon the Flaminian Way, and we were detained five minutes for the examination of our passports. I felt an extraordinary and unexpected regret at leaving Rome, and if it had been a final departure, I should

296 NOTES IN ITALY.

have been almost inconsolable,--so potent and profound is the hold this "city of the soul" has upon the mind. A great crowd appeared afar off on the road, and it proved to be regiments of infantry, artillery, and cavalry, all marked No. I. We could fancy them either the Roman legions, returning from a memorable victory (for the music-bands were in full play), or a saucy army coming to attack the "Mother of Empires," before they were "dead." It was a grand spectacle, but they stirred up a suffocating cloud of dust, which was all that remained with us for the pageant.

Pretty soon we began to see the identical pavement of the old Flaminian Way, by the side of the comparatively modern road. It is not very broad, but very perfect, composed of large flag-stones, as much as a foot and a half wide, and more than a foot thick, as smooth as a marble church-floor, and carefully joined. It is a wonder of skill and faithful finish, and a stupendous work, considering its length from Rome to Soracte! Rome could never have done such vast things if she had not broken up kingdoms to do them, and brought captive to her throne hundreds of thousands of peoples, gentle as well as simple, to accomplish her will. I am surprised that the Popes do not lay open this masterpiece of human hands and heads, through its whole extent, though I fear some of its admirably fitted blocks have already been removed to build other structures, which is a foolish and stupid act, if it be so. Yet such ruin of the

ROME TO FLORENCE. 297

most precious memorials to the classic scholar is constantly brought about by Popes and modern Princes. How impious in this way are the Piuses, how merciless the Clements, how unblest the Benedicts! I looked upon this road with absorbing interest. There is something that contents, or rather that is satisfactory to man's right royal demand for incredible deeds, in these Roman relics. It is not the triumph of our pride, so much as the proof of our possibilities, that gratifies one. The Romans had the will and the might--virtue--as they understood it--according to their acceptation of the word. If there were will and might--virtue according to Christ, what could not be done?

Ten or more miles from Rome we still saw the dome of St. Peter's on the horizon, and there were miles and miles of the fair and fatal Campagna, extending every way, plain and rolling, deliciously green--a green, and not "a whited sepulchre." We passed a great many crumbling tombs, and mediæval towers; but Gaetano, our vetturino, did not know their histories.

By and by, Soracte began to appear--Byron's "long swept wave," that "pauses in its curl." As we came nearer, we found it to be a vast rock, and Byron, as usual, to be correct in his description of it. It does indeed look like a suddenly petrified, enormous heap of waves, about to foam and fall hundreds of feet. It "hangs pausing." It is "the lone Soracte's height," and is one of the nota-

13*

298 NOTES IN ITALY.

ble and beautiful objects on the horizon in Rome, and here we were almost at its base. It is called Sant' Oreste now, and on its rugged summit is a convent in the name of St. Silvestro, which pilgrims climb up to visit. The view from it must be glorious. The Temple of Apollo, sung of by Virgil, was on this site, two thousand feet, at least, above the sea. Saint Oreste is also a town on an eminence near the mountain, once the Etruscan Feronia. There is an old grotto on the side of the mighty crag, and deep clefts, out of which oracle-inspiring gases still gush. There ought to be tripods there, upon which any one might sit and be a sibyl or a prophet for a time.

We stopped to lunch at Castel Nuovo at twelve o'clock, our first stage. It is a small village in the Boracic-acid region, told about by Murray; but I do not care about boracic acid in Italy, and as I did not see the works, I let them pass. The inn was a strange old place, and in the inner vestibule there was an altar or cippus of white marble, beautifully carved, a bay or olive tree in bas-relief in the centre of the side, and a lovely device round the edges. It is now put to the base use of a leg to a table, for upon it is a stone slab upon which people eat and drink. We were led into a large apartment, paved with bricks, in diamond shape, and the ceiling high and frescoed, and two long tables on each side. At one of them we had our lunch. Gaetano is our commissary, and we have nothing to do with order-

ROME TO FLORENCE, 299

ing our food. He gave us to-day beefsteak, omelette, bread and cheese, and wine, all of excellent quality. We neither order nor pay at the moment for anything, for he is also our purser, being paid finally the amount first agreed upon for the whole journey, which is very comfortable, and relieves us from all care and imposition.

After lunch we all went out, and descended into a valley--the children far down, but we sat on the grass in a shady place near the entrance. I gathered the prettiest little bouquet in the world, of all the colors. * * * * * *

We left Castel Nuovo at two o'clock. On the way, the mountain Soracte took every form--sometimes a round, sometimes a conical, and oftener a long, crested shape. The dells and profound valleys on each side of our road, were wonderful for beauty and richness. For a great distance the high causeway was apparently built up from an exceedingly deep vale--by Romans, of course; for who else would dream that such a stupendous work could be done? Just fancy a wide plain between lofty ranges of mountains, and fancy the conception of piling up, in the centre of it, a foundation for a road, five hundred feet from the plain! This seems to have been done. The roads are all perfect that we have yet travelled upon here--hard and smooth, and this road over the valley entirely straight. Some of them are paved, though not in the Flaminian style, but all in consummate order. How can I write down the

300 NOTES IN ITALY.

flowers? The hedges and fields burn with poppies of the brightest scarlet, and they have an effect among the green grass and shrubbery, which an untravelled American can in no wise imagine. Scarlet is so satisfying, so triumphant a color, like the sound of a trumpet (as a blind man described it), that to see it spread over consecutive miles of country, quite overwhelmed me with joy and gratitude; and, contrasting it, the pure gold of the broom is sumptuous, and a nameless, lowly purple-blossom clothed the ground with royal robes, varied with daisies and buttercups, as embroidery. One large field might truly have been called "the field of the cloth of gold," for, from a distance, there was no break in the yellow hue; just as sometimes the poppies are one suffusion of fiery red. It is not here and there, but everywhere. The sweetbrier contributes its delicate beauty to the waysides with long wreaths of pale, pink roses. We are perpetually accompanied by the lovely mountain-ranges, and as the afternoon deepened, they took soft and airy tints, seen only in Italy. As we were happily looking forth on such a profusion of beauty and splendor of light and space, it was sad to see a long carriage full of prisoners, who had no outlook--not a crack, and who had only small openings in the roof of their prison, partly shaded by extinguishers, for breathing. In front sat two dragoons, and the vetturino. This melancholy carriage we saw three times, and I was suffocated and miserable at the

ROME TO FLORENCE. 301

sight. Gaetano called it a carcellaria. They might at least have had grated windows. I cannot bear to see anything alive boxed up. No matter what a man has done, he ought to have air and light while he has life, even if he have forfeited his freedom. Air and light cannot make him worse, but probably would make him better. Justice should not be angry and revengeful with crime, but only careful that the innocent should not suffer by it.

At half-past five we arrived at Cività Castellana, and met near the entrance a line of donkeys, carrying loads of hay. Very comical was the picture of the short donkey, with his long ears and small front presentment, with such a wide-spreading, high load; so immensely disproportioned. The hotel was a large, respectable building, and we were agreeably surprised at being ushered up into this enchanting suite of rooms, opening out upon a broad, covered terrace or loggia, which commands a magnificent scene. Our apartments are in a row, and we are quite by ourselves. Everything looks clean and nice, and the prospect before us, who can describe? Now we see Italy, the Italy of song. It is also real Italy, which no song can fully render--Byron's, however, best. We never could have appreciated Byron's genius if we had not come to Italy. He came, saw, and became master or conqueror of the land, by reproducing it in words. The truth of his portraiture is marvellous. He was only thirteen or fourteen days in Rome, and he not only looked at

302 NOTES IN ITALY.

everything in that short time, but sung it as no one else before or since has done.

From our loggia we look down into a deep ravine; and rocks of red tufa, perpendicular, and hundreds of feet high, rise out of it, and form its sides, like fortresses, overgrown and adorned with foliage of trees and shrubs. From the summits of these parapets stretches a green campagna, with groves and meadows, in smooth undulations, and far in the middle distance lofty hills rise--some crowned with cities; and beyond these the grand mountains fill the remote spaces, each one lovelier, as it climbs higher and farther off into the pale blue and purple and roseate abysses. An arched bridge spans the defile, the limbs of the arches resting on the very bottom of the gulf. Soracte is on the other side. I have been trying to sketch, but just in the midst dinner was announced, and took up the goldenest hour between six and seven, and afterward it was too late.

* * * * * *

The moon is up now, and I have been on the terrace to see it, all having gone to walk except sleeping little R. and myself. It is not a full moon, and there is a clear but dark light, most magical and mystical. How fortunate we are to have the moonlight!

May 25th.--We arrived here at twelve o'clock, having left Cività Castellana before six this morn-

ROME TO FLORENCE. 303

ing. We came to see the Falls of Terni; but it has rained all the afternoon, and we cannot stir out--a pouring rain. It is necessary to walk a mile after driving as far as possible, and so it is quite an impracticable thing to-day. What a misfortune! We can see nothing from this Hotel delle Tre Colonne excepting an old house, two feet from our windows, and a man making a table at an open casement. Not even a green leaf or a blade of grass.

We had a superb drive this morning, looking into the vale of the Nar. The olive plantations are very numerous, and grape-vines are trained to separate, short trees, not far apart, so that, perhaps, when the vines become long they are looped from one tree to another, and make a continued canopy of grapes. The olive-leaf is dull-green, just as we always know it, and one side is silvery, so that when it flutters in the breeze it looks paler than when in repose. It is not a pretty tree at all.

We also passed the vale of the Nera and of the Treja, and drove through the town of Narni, the birthplace of Nerva. It is the Nequinum of the Romans. It has a square castle, which is a prison now. Near this old Umbrian city we looked down into the lovely vale of the Nar.

We wished to go into the cathedral of Narni, because of a masterpiece of Lo Spagna--the Coronation of the Madonna; but we could not, as there was no time.

We kept coming again upon the wonderful Fla-

304 NOTES IN ITALY.

minian Way, which goes farther than Soracte, I find; and along it we saw many more ruins of tombs; and we went through the village of Otricoli (Utriculum), the first Umbrian city that yielded to Rome. There was the most extraordinary formation of rock. It is volcanic--all the region is volcanic--and seemed to be in distinct layers. Some of it was horizontal, and some slanting one way and some another, in opposite directions. We passed over a fine bridge after leaving Otricoli, built by Augustus, and now called the Ponte Felice, and then Borghetto appeared, with its old fortress. The scenery upon the near approach to the town of Terni is indescribably enchanting. It is singular that one of the Romans should have made these falls. It was Curius Dentatus, the Sabine conqueror. I have read all about it, but cannot stop to recount the matter.

Magnificent mountains, rich with foliage and cultivation, swept down to the deliciously verdant vale, along which a pale ghost of a river meandered. The rivers of Italy seem a solution of white or yellow clay, and are nowhere clear and limpid. We saw very many beds of rivers, long ago run past, or perhaps never full, excepting after the melting of snows on the heights. Close on the plains, beside the river-beds, were ruins of towers, small castles, or houses; and just over the site of these buildings the shrubbery was particularly luxuriant, as if the memories of the hearthstones were pleasant and flowery. It was so, I remember, with the ruins of a small

ROME TO FLORENCE. 305

temple or church in the Isle of Man. It stood in the centre of a grass-field, and the walls remained standing, while the roof was gone; and it was so fall of rich plants and lovely trees, which towered up over the. broken edges, that it had the effect of a gigantic vase of flowers, standing on an emerald table.

May 26th.--We left Terni at six this morning, which proved fair; and our first stage was to this town, where we breakfasted at twelve, our usual hour for déjeuner à la fourchette. The first Bishop of Spoleto was a contemporary of St. Peter, Murray says. It is a queer old town, with narrow streets and picturesque Roman gates, at one of which Hannibal was repulsed,--and that one we have walked through or passed under. It is of vast strength, and quite entire, and has the ruin of a lion on one side, with a lamb in its mouth. We have been to see the Cathedral, which contains some fine pictures; and over the entrance is an ancient mosaic of Christ and the Virgin and St. John.

A beautiful effect the aqueduct has, with its numerous arches--spanning the deep vale between the elevation upon which Spoleto stands and the mountain near. Gaetano brought us into the city through a lovely avenue of acacias, and by a delightfully ancient wall, full of ruined watch-towers, that looked as if they might have stood there since the foundation of the world.

306 NOTES IN ITALY.

May 26th.--We left Spoleto at a little after two, and arrived here early enough to take a walk about the town. We climbed more than three thousand feet to Monte Somna, by the aid of oxen, added to our four horses. At Le Pene the Clitumnus rises, which is the only translucent stream we have yet seen in Italy. Byron has immortalized its purity, as well as the "delicate temple" on its banks. The temple has fluted Corinthian columns, and is very small, facing the river. We saw "the milk-white steer," and also a flock of lambs, passing over a fairy arched bridge, the sweetest picture of peace and innocence; and it is singular that Byron's words should prove so literally true at that moment. The vale of Clitumnus is wonderfully beautiful, and inspired Virgil to sing of it, and of its flocks and steers, ages ago--and it sings itself also. The Via Flaminia again appears here; and the town of Montefalco is seen from the road, before we arrive at Foligno--Foligno, the scene of so many earthquakes, and once the possessor of Raphael's divine Madonna (now in the Vatican), in which a thunderbolt is painted, descending upon the city. We walked out, and visited the Cathedral. Its walls looked very bare, after being accustomed to the richly-marbled walls of Roman churches. There were two half-ruined, red-marble lions at the entrance, and a sculptured Gothic front; but, the rest

ROME TO FLORENCE. 30?

of the edifice was painfully modernized and white-washed. A little boy, with one leg, followed us all over the town, into all the churches, as if he were a spy. He asked for nothing, but looked on and grinned. We went into Santo Domenico, once covered with frescoes, also whitewashed nearly over now, yet a few heads and groups are left of the ancient paintings--heads of saints and angels. In Santa Maria infra Portas we saw the ancient temple of Diana, now a chapel, in which St. Peter and St. Paul once said mass; and on the wall is a very old painting, in a ruinous condition. It is beautifully arched, and a deep-mullioned, small window remains on one side. This, again, is another of those very small and perfect temples of Greek design. All about the church were frescoes saved from the general white-wash, some of which were well worth study.

In this strange, weird, rambling old hotel, we are to remain to-night,

May 27th.--We left Foligno at six and passed the town of Spello (Hispellum), whose treasures of art we should have liked to go and see, but Gaetano drove pitilessly by, as it was not in our contract to stop there, and brought us to Assisi, so associated with St. Francis. It is the native town of Metastasio, and above all contains the works of Giotto, in a large convent and church of St. Francis. A

308 NOTES IN ITALY.

horrible, dirty scout ran by the side of our carriage for many miles; and when we set forth to go and see the town, he presented himself as guide. I told him we did not want him, but he followed us just the same, and went to the Cathedral with us and to the Church of Santa Chiara. But then we made the hostess dismiss him, and provide another guide, who proved pleasant and intelligent, and was clean and respectable. He went with us to the famous convent and church. It has an upper and lower part, beneath which is still a crypt, which contains St. Francis' body. The middle part is deeply impressive, with its Gothic vaultings and arcades, and sombre light. It seemed perfectly dark when we passed from the sunshine into its nave, but after we became more owlish, we could see a little. It is the first specimen of Gothic architecture in this part of Italy, and it is really delightful to see Gothic architecture after so much Greek and classic in Rome, and elsewhere in Southern Europe. A Franciscan priest was summoned by the guide, and he took us first to the high altar, above which, on the ceiling, are some of Giotto's masterpieces. There are four compartments, illustrating the three virtues of St. Francis--his poverty, chastity, and obedience--and in the fourth is his apotheosis. We broke our necks looking at these frescoes, but it was worth while. They are astonishingly bright still, and full of beauty and grace--especially the groups of angels round the saint's throne. But it is impossible in such hurried

ROME TO FLORENCE. 309

visits "to immortal works, to give an adequate idea of their character. Everything was gorgeous--all the wood or stone work covered with rich, white silk, embroidered with flowers, and every kind of splendor--all culminating in the masterpieces of Giotto above. We were not allowed much time to stay, and followed the monk into some side-chapels, of which I particularly remember one by Andrea del Ingegno, and one by Dono Doni. That by Andrea is covered by sibyls and prophets, grand and beautiful, and so much admired by Raphael that he is said to have imitated them in his sibyls of the Santa Maria della Pace, in Rome. But it is a pretty bold saying that Raphael imitated any one. Dono Doni has illustrated the life and death of St. Stephen, and I perfectly have in my mind the face of Stephen, when he kneels to be stoned, with hands extended, and turning a full, radiant countenance. It is indeed "as the face of an angel." With what wonderful devoutness these ancient masters painted! They pray, they adore God, they deny themselves, they live gloriously,--all with their pencil. They painted religiously, and there is an expression in the faces and figures nowhere else found, excepting in Raphael, who imbibed so deeply the spirit of those men, and was their last expression. In what is called the vestibule of the middle church, was a chapel with locked gate, in which was a picture by Perugino that seemed exceedingly beautiful, at the distance we stood. I was surprised that the priest

310 NOTES IN ITALY.

did not let us in, for we had apparently been admitted into all the holy places; but perhaps they are afraid of some sudden escapade, as it is a framed painting, and not secure on the walls. In this vestibule we saw some tombs, one reputed to be that of the Cyprian Queen Ecuba, who gave a huge vase of ultramarine to the church, for the painting of the ceiling. The vase (which was there) is big enough to hold sufficient ultramarine for the painting of the sky itself, I should fancy. I should like to spend weeks in looking at many frescoes that we could only glance at. We then ascended to the upper church, out of the crypt-like gloom of the middle one, and it was like climbing into the New Jerusalem, so light, so gorgeous, so lofty and airy is this stately Gothic structure. The roof is painted by Cimabue, and the walls by Giotto, Cimabue, and Guinta da Pisa. Damp has very much injured a great part of these frescoes; but enough remains to show how fine and brilliant they once were. The life of St. Francis, and subjects from the Bible, are represented. When I remarked upon the cheerful splendor of the upper church, the priest said that it was for festas, and the one beneath for prayer and devotion. The windows are filled with painted glass, which adds to the glowing effect. We did not go down into the crypt.

In the Piazza of the town we saw the Temple of Minerva, or rather its portico, with fluted columns, well preserved, and very beautiful--a little morsel

ROME TO FLORENCE. 311

of Greece set down in the heart of the old Etruscan town. We shall leave Assisi early, so as to go into the great church of Santa Maria degl' Angeli, about a mile from the town.

May 27th.--We arrived in good season at this celebrated city, and Gaetano brought us to the Grande Hotel de France, where we are very comfortable for our two days' and nights' sojourn. Our journey from Assisi was superb, as all our route has been. We first drove to the vast Church of Santa Maria, peculiarly interesting as associated with St. Francis. In the very midst of it is the old, humble stone chapel in which he established his order--once frescoed all over, but now dimmed and faded, so that scarcely a form can be made out. Fancy a defaced hut built of stones, planted in the crossing of the lofty arches of the transepts. Earthquakes have once shaken down the vast superstructure (since restored), but the lowly chapel remained unharmed. Over the arch of its façade, Overbeck has painted a famous fresco of the vision of St. Francis, very bright, and with one lovely face and figure. The old verger took us into a tiny stanza, covered with beautiful majestic saints and seers by Lo Spagna, fellow-saints of St. Francis; but they are much faded and injured. After we began to see in the dark little cell, divine faces beamed upon us, with the usual sacred bend of the devout heads and forms, so like prayers and

312 NOTES IN ITALY.

praises, infinitely affecting and attractive. This is preraphaelite painting, I suppose, as it was before Raphael; but what is called preraphaelite painting in England is not like this. Expression without beauty, to be sure, we see in modern English pictures, called by this name; but all the religion is left out, all the holy fervor, sincerity, and simplicity. Perhaps I should not say the sincerity is left out; but the simplicity is--the single thought--the unselfish aim. And the color in these ancient pictures is pure and harmonious. It is a bouquet of flowers, a bit of the rainbow,--a sunset, yet all flowing and blended. It is also a carcanet of jewels. The holy artists did not think it incumbent upon their truth and sincerity to paint every hair on the skin, or the rough ferocity of the weather-beaten, sunburnt complexion--such as I shrunk from in the galleries of England. In the living subject, Nature contrives to avoid this shocking bareness--but the prying modern artist seems to take magnifying glasses to the human face, as well as to the landscape--and bring to view what is veiled from common sight. Oh, why does not some one draw and engrave the divine creations of the old masters in fresco, before they are all faded away! I should think Pio Nono would be better employed in preserving such works from destruction than in writing encyclical letters; for I believe he would save more souls by it. If any visible thing can win a soul to Heaven, it is this embodied worship in spirit and in truth. He wishes to take jewels from his tiara to

ROME TO FLORENCE. 313

excavate treasures from Roman soil, and I should be obliged to him if he would; but I would thank him more for sending the best artists all about Italy to secure from the walls these vanishing, irreplaceable miracles of human genius, painted in awful reverence and love and childlike faith, without a thought of earthly fame. Lo Spagna, next to Raphael, was the most eminent of the scholars of Perugino. Andrea del Ingegno was another, he who painted the sibyls and prophets, which Raphael so much admired. Dono Doni painted the angelic face of St. Stephen, which I lately saw, and Gentile da Fabriano, whose picture of the Virgin with angels, now in the Colonna Palace, we could not sufficiently admire, was a predecessor of Perugino, and one of the oldest masters of the Umbrian school.

After leaving this interesting church in a kind of despair at its fading glories, our way lay through a rich plain of Shinar, and during nearly the whole route, we could see, on a lofty, distant mountain, the city of Perugia, marked by a very high campanile and a flush of red along the summit, caused by the tiled roofs of the houses. I did not comprehend how we were to attain this "city on a hill, which could not be hid," unless our horses turned Pegasuses or we became angels. Gaetano presently began to prepare for the ascent by a deep and sonorous call, that filled the air and the welkin; and he was responded to by another far-reaching and powerful voice. He called for oxen, and by the time we arrived at the

14

314 NOTES IN ITALY.

farm-house, on the road, a man appeared with two white steers--"milk-white steers"--which were attached by strong cords to our carriage and horses. All alighted and walked, excepting myself--though one or two gave out before the end; but three of us actually climbed up to Perugia on their feet--R. only failing at the very last, part of the way. We entered Etruria over a bridge, Ponte San Giovanni, and drove through the vale of the Tiber before we began to mount; on every side, endless splendors of scenery.

We walked out as soon as we arrived, after déjeûne. A guide accosted us, but we refused him for this afternoon, and tried to find places ourselves. We went to the Church of St. Domenic, pretty near the hotel, where we found some great wonders. A ferret-eyed sacristan seized upon us directly, and accompanied us about, though I told him we had no money with us. We began to think him quite unearthly, having little regard to the gold that perishes; but our visions of his heavenly-mindedness were dispelled by his informing me that he would come to our Locanda for payment. He first took us into the chapel of St. Orsola, to show us some pictures of Fra Angelico. One was a Madonna and Child--the child such a glorified innocence as never was portrayed before. He sits upon the Virgin's knee, and looks straight out of the picture, with a face that might make the world sweet and holy, if it were often enough contemplated. A clear, pure, spiritual

ROME TO FLORENCE. 315

radiance beams from it, with colors so delicate that I can compare them only to those of a blush-rose, a forget-me-not, and pale amber, gleaming through a lily. Some injury to the cheek of Mary destroys the effect of her once lovely face, but I saw that it was once lovely, and it is turned upon the child. On the side of this picture hangs one containing St. Domenic and St. Anthony of Florence. St. Anthony is one of the grandest and serenest of figures--its grandeur showing that there was no lack of strength in Fra Angelico. He stands in superb robes, reading a book with entire absorption of attention. Calm, majestic, noble, benign, the repose of Eternity has passed into his countenance and form. The very folds of his gorgeous drapery have the grandeur of mountain ranges, sweeping down into valleys. Thought and prayer are the phylacteries upon his brow. He looks as immutable, in his collected Faith, as Soracte. Crimson, purple, and gold throw around him all the prestige they can, but the moonlight of peace about his closed lips transcends rainbows. There sat the baby Prince of Peace close by, whose revelations were to evoke this sublime content in St. Anthony--a content that neutralizes all the great and petty trials of life--a content glorious enough to be embodied in the form of an archangel Michael, holding in a leash of iron the evil that opposes good. St. Anthony's foot was on the dragon as effectually as that of the celestial hierarch of Guido or of Raphael.

316 NOTES IN ITALY.

On the other side is St. Catharine, queenly as queen should be, but at the same time gentle and sweet and devout, as queens not often are.

We then went into the sacristy, where were several heads of saints, and two pictures by Giannicola. One is of the Madonna and St. John. It is plain at a glance that they have just come from Calvary, after the Crucifixion, though there is no cross, and nothing represented of the late sacrifice--merely the two figures walking. Mary is a little in advance of St. John. Her hands are tightly clasped, with profound, repressed agony. She looks out of the picture with a pale face that has seen death, and the death of one who is life of her life. There is no distortion of grief, though unspeakable grief is expressed. The head is slightly bent on one side--a certain terror of sorrow is in her wonderful eyes, as if she feared to know how bereft she is, and how awful a scene she has witnessed. The sword is cutting into her heart at this moment; she is feeling its keenest pain. A mute appeal is in her gaze----a desert of woe--the most heart-smiting pathos. Both the figure and face are also noble. St. John can do nothing for her yet. God alone can minister to her vast dismay, which invests her with a heroic dignity. John turns his countenance toward the Cross, evidently, though none is visible. He finds it hard to leave even the ruined Temple of his Lord; but there seems a marvellous light falling on his features from afar, as if the love of Christ shone

ROME TO FLORENCE. 317

upon them. Like Mary, he is of noble figure and air, and a tender grace sways his movement. I am sure his face is bathed in tears. He extends his hands toward Calvary, with impassioned, wild sorrow. I think John is not now occupied with his new care of Mary: he is only intent on his own loss, and yet a cord already binds them together.

The pendant to this is Elizabeth and St. John the Baptist, but I cannot recall its details now; for though admirable, it is yet far excelled by the other. In the sacristy are other injured small pictures by Fra Angelico, beautiful as far as they can be seen. In a very dim aisle of the church, we were shown a large painting of the Adoration of the Magi, whose author was doubtful; but it was a great work. Gentile da Fabriano or Bonfigli is supposed to be the artist. Often these pictures are thought to be composed by several artists together, and the verger said this one was.

But the other treasure of St. Domenic is a small masterpiece of Perugino, called St. Columba. Underneath it is written a verse from the Canticles, in Latin: "Show me thy face, my dove, my beloved, at the threshold of the door," or something to that effect. St. Columba stands in the Domenican habit, holding a dove, and round her veiled head is a wreath of white daisies. The Domenican habit is a white under-vest, with a black chasuble that goes over the back of the head, and falls in folds over the figure. The face is divinely beautiful; divine in ex-

318 NOTES IN ITALY.

pression, and perfectly beautiful in feature, with a pure, silvery color, like that of the dove she holds in her hands. The head inclines to the left a little. It is entrancing beauty combined with heavenly purity, and there is a something for which there are no words, in the deeply religious pictures of that age, before which we must bow in silence. It is something that transcends mortal capacity, and must have affected the artist as it affects us who look at his work. I cannot doubt that Perugino was awe-struck by this face and presence; for his prayer and his faith brought down from heaven into it, what was not in pencil or palette, nor in his own consciousness. To the great state of St. Columba's innocence, let kings bow their crowned heads. She is as inaccessible in her lily spotlessness as the moon riding in the blue abysses. Let the stars wait upon her as well. I am wholly baffled in trying to describe her, for she is ineffable.

We tried to find San Pietro in Martire, said to contain a famous Madonna of Perugino, but we could not succeed, and so we went to a height overlooking a grand sweep of mountain and vale, to watch the sun set, before dinner. The clouds were sultry, and we did not witness so fine a pageant as we expected, though it was worth looking at; and the snow-crested Apennines carried me off into dreamland. After dinner we thought we would go and watch the moon rise, but it became so cloudy we gave it up.

ROME TO FLORENCE. 319

May 28th.--We tried to do without a guide to-day, but finally were obliged to submit to one, after several weary efforts to find places alone. We first strayed to an outlook, different to the one we found last evening, which commanded even a more magnificent scene; and while solacing ourselves with it, a young man saluted us, and asked if we wished to see the Sala di Cambio. As this was the identical "Sala" we had been seeking for an hour, we concluded to let him take possession of us, at least to the entrance of that.

I expected a very large hall, but it was a small and low apartment, long ago used as an exchange, but now left to the kings, prophets, sibyls, and gods of Perugino and Raphael. One compartment of the walls contains the six sibyls and six prophets, and the Eternal Father above them. On another are heroes and philosophers, with virtues enthroned over their heads. Opposite the door of entrance are the Nativity and Transfiguration. Cato is on one side of the door. On the roof are exquisite arabesques, and the gods, as the planets, in chariots drawn by nymphs, birds, and animals, Apollo in the midst. Among the prophets, Perugino has placed Raphael as David, the sweet singer of Israel. It is one of those portraits of Raphael which Perugino alone could paint, and Raphael alone could inspire. An infinite grace in the head and movement, a wondrous, princely beauty,--recalling his other portrait of Raphael in the great picture of the Resurrection in the

320 NOTES IN ITALY.

Pinacotheca of the Vatican. In that, he is one of the sleeping soldiers, his beautiful head reposing on one arm, and the profile of his face given. As David, he looks straight forward. A portrait of Perugino, by himself, hangs on a pilaster, between the kings and heroes. His Socrates is ideal. The beloved old snub nose is omitted. Indeed, all are ideal except Raphael, and he is ideal in his real beauty. A rich, sweet fancy it was that brooded and traced such forms and faces for these illustrious men--such as they ought to have, according to their historic fame. As to the roof, it is plain enough that Raphael held the pencil there. After seeing the loggie of the Vatican, I knew his cunning hand in those labyrinths of grace, wreaths of wild arabesques encircling the gods and goddesses--not wild "beyond the reach of art" and beauty of beauty. Who is like Raphael? He is the perfect flower of the old schools, the rose of past time, the opal of jewels. As we were about leaving most reluctantly, the custode of the hall invited us to enter what he called the chapel. It is small and covered with frescoes by Giannicola, and a Baptism of Christ by Perugino. There saints and doctors, all living, with fine expressions, and one sibyl of great beauty--the Persican, I think. A young artist was sitting there, copying the groups and single figures with a lead-pencil, in an extraordinary manner, and with the utmost fidelity. He, and others as accomplished and faithful, should be commissioned to save in

ROME TO FLORENCE. 321

imperishable lines the vanishing masterpieces of fresco-painting, so that at least the designs and expression may not be lost, though the color elude seizure. There was some wood-carving in the Sala, but I do not know what it was, I was so absorbed by the frescoes; but as it was designed by Perugino, it must be worth study.

We then went to Sant Agostino, where are a good many oil-pictures by Perugino, but many of them much injured. Two, however, are entirely preserved. They hang on each side the entrance, one the Baptism, and the other the Nativity of Christ. Both are fine, but the Baptism pre-eminent. The figures of Christ and St. John are of delicate proportions and very graceful. John looks up to heaven as he is about to pour the water upon the sacred head. Christ looks down, with hands folded, I think, upon his breast. One such picture only ought to be seen in a day, and I have seen so many! I remember well the ecstatic reverence and joy of St. John as Christ bids him "fulfil all righteousness." One has "a shade the more," but both have a divine expression, and both are in fresh, early manhood. The holy dove opens the realms above, and behind each kneels or stands an angel. The angel attendant upon St. John is the most celestial of the two. When Perugino painted angels, I am sure they must have come down to him for portraiture, so wonderfully does he leave out time and sex, and give "Thrones, Dominations, Princedoms, Virtues, Pow-

14*

322 NOTES IN ITALY.

ers," in what can hardly be called human form, so dimmed has become "God's own image" in man.

In the Nativity, the Joseph is fine, and Mary most lovely, gazing in adoring wonder at the newly-born babe lying on the ground before them. We looked at all the works said to be by Perugino, or Pietro, as the old sacristan called him; for his name was Pietro Vanucci, and the cognomen he goes by is as if one said "the Perugian."

We tried to get into the Palazzo Staffa then, but that and the Palazzo Baldeschi were shut, and so we came home to go again after lunch with Ada in addition, as I felt very uneasy not to have her see all that we did. We told the guide to be at hand at half-past two--and he came duly, and we went first to the Church of San Francesco dei Conventuali. It was the hour of siesta, and the monks were so fast asleep that our guide found it difficult to rouse them; and meanwhile we were occupied in looking at a remarkable façade of the Confraternita of St. Bernard, by Agostino della Robbia. It is all in colored marbles, carved in figures of saints and angels, with wreaths of flowers and fruits, and every possible invention, as various as fancy could make them. At last an evil-looking friar appeared, and admitted us. We saw a martyred St. Sebastian, painted by Perugino when an old man; but I cannot characterize that, because all the pictures in that church are so completely extinguished by one on the right of the chief entrance. It is a large composi-

ROME TO FLORENCE. 323

tion of several saints, St. Sebastian being one, and this St. Sebastian surpasses all other conceptions of him within my present experience. He is not here transfixed with arrows, but stands, in the prime splendor of youth, a perfect heroic form, in a rich corselet and sandals, like an archangel, and a marvellous helmet of open tracery, which I cannot forgive myself for not sketching, as it is altogether unique for airy elegance, unlike any other device that was ever put upon a head,--and now I have lost it forever. It presses lightly on the fair golden hair, and gives the crowning charm to a face so attractive and winning in its princely state, that in my heart I pronounced him the ideal cavalier, the gentlest, the bravest, the truest; while, added to all this, the hand of the master has sanctified him with heavenly grace, and he stands confessed a holy saint as well as a hero. It is a transfiguring of human elegance into divine beauty, such as I could not have conceived possible, and such as a Co-Raphaelite or a Pre-Raphaelite only could have delineated. I thought it must be St. George of Cappadocia, and insisted upon it; and that what they called an arrow was a spear; but the monk and guide objected, and I now find that Murray calls him St. Sebastian also. It afflicted me so much to know that I should never see him again, that I gazed with a trembling eagerness, and took no time to glance at the other saints.

There was, on the opposite side of the nave, an admirable copy of Raphael's Entombment, which 1

324 NOTES IN ITALY.

could really bear to look at. The original belonged to this church, and I think it an unpardonable robbery of Paul V. to have taken it away, and put a copy in its place. He was a Prince Borghese, and stole it for his own palace, where I saw it in Rome. Why should a Pope steal any more than a private person? Does his position as Head of the Church make the crime less? I should think he, of all persons, should obey the commandments.

We went into the Sacristy to see some curious pictures by Pisanello of the life of St. Bernardin. They are composed of small figures in the costumes of Pisanello's times, which the guide said were "molte gentili." There was great spirit in the attitudes and heads, and I should have liked to examine them minutely, as I would Hogarth's, but there was no time for it.

We also went to Santa Maria Nuova, and of all I saw there, the archangel Gabriel, in an Annunciation, made most impression upon me. It is supposed to be by Bonfigli, the master of Perugino. The angel kneels, with hands folded upon the breast, in one of which is the branch of lilies. The beautiful, large lids are cast down, the face is very fair, the bend of the head most stately and graceful. Its presence makes a broad circle of light around, and while the celestial messenger pays homage, he also commands it, by the singular majesty of his bearing. Two lesser Princedoms wait upon his state behind. I see by this how Perugino was taught to paint arch-

ROME TO FLORENCE. 325

angels and angels; but who taught Bonfigli? and must not religious faith have inspired both equally? After the mechanics and technics of the art were learned, sincere devotion effected the rest, I believe.

An Adoration of the Magi by Perugino, in his best manner, hangs beside this Annunciation, in which he has painted himself, and our guide and the priest had a fierce battle over it, disputing which was the portrait of the artist. The priest had a long pole in his hand to point with, and I began to fear they would proceed to batter one another, in the very presence of the infant Prince of Peace. The early style of Perugino is not so simple as the later one.

We then went to San Severe, to find Raphael's first fresco. It represents Christ, with saints below, and the Lord with angels above; but it is so very much defaced that we could not see it well. All that was visible showed the peerless hand, however.

This afternoon we found entrance into the Palazzo Conestabili Staffa, where is the celebrated Staffa Madonna of Raphael, a very small and exquisite picture, as highly finished as a miniature. The Prince has enclosed this most precious gem in a case, with thick plate-glass over it, locked with a padlock. I was well acquainted with it through a good copy of it in Rome, by Mr. Thompson; so good, that the Prince himself was highly pleased with it, and said it was the only worthy copy that had yet been made, and that no one before had caught the peculiar delicacy of the infant's head. Mary is reading,

326 NOTES IN ITALY.

and the child turns to look on the book, and puts his little hand on the open page. It is as perfect as a work of art can be; not one careless touch in it all. Mr. Thompson's copy is good, but what can be said of Raphael's creation? How could wise and great Mr. E. say such a preposterous thing as that it was just as well not to travel as to travel! and that each man has Europe in him, or something to that effect? No, indeed; it would be better if every man could look upon these wonders of genius, and grow thereby. Besides, after Mr. E. had been to Europe himself, how could he tell? Would he willingly have foregone all he saw in Italy? It was mere transcendental nonsense--such a remark.

A peace that passes all understanding breathes from this little picture. The lovely head of the young mother has the sky for background, and a delicate landscape stretches far away, with a fairy tree in the middle distance. The pure, noble, serene brow, the downcast lids--half-moons, fringed with shadows--the soft bloom of the oval cheeks, the mouth, gently closed in full, rich curves, as fresh as the dawn, all blended into an expression of earnest thought, combine to make this Madonna the Regina Angelorum. The wonderful face is crowned with a high head-dress, encircled with a glory; and the robe is deep crimson embroidered with gold, with a blue mantle. The elaborate finish of the group recalled to me the illuminated missal, of tiny size, which the Countess of Waldegrave showed me at

ROME TO FLORENCE. 327

Nuneham Courtney, when we went to see her while we were at Oxford. It was the cunning work of Raphael, and the miniatures were as brilliant as jewels. The missal was not more than three inches square, and the pictures in it were in proportion. The diligence of Raphael seems superhuman, when I think of all he accomplished in so few years, in such a finished manner too--no hurry and no carelessness--and he himself so beautiful and sweet, that his creations were the inevitable flowering of his nature. He was the culmination of art. No one would dream or pretend to excel him, and to equal him who would succeed?

We saw in the Staffa Palace a beautiful Santa Rosa, by Sasso Ferrato. She is a Perugian saint, and in the Domenican habit, I think.

Our guide also took us to the University, where was nothing particularly interesting till we came to the Pinacotheca, but it was worth any amount of toil to see there the chef-d'oeuvre, or one of the chefs-d'oeuvre, of Pinturicchio, in which I saw at last a head and face of Christ which I entirely liked. He has bowed Himself and given up the ghost, but the glory of the soul still sheds light on the body which was so pure that it was almost spirit. In this, at last, I found consummate beauty without feebleness, noblest dignity with perfect grace, holiness with majesty, peace with strength. The apostle says we "are temples of the living God," but this was the only form which was worthy to be completely filled

328 NOTES IN ITALY.

with that Presence, and Pinturicchio has pictured it. I wonder I have never heard it spoken of. Alas! I am even now losing the vividness of it, and by and by I shall not recall it, I fear; but I will remember that it struck to my heart with its divine power, sweetness, and greatness. This is the artist who, in Rome, frames his Madonnas in cherubic heads--roses of God, whose calyces are wings; but many of the ancient masters were in the habit of embroidering the air with these flowers. They illumine the clouds also, as if to show that Our Father is present even in what seems to us to be shadows. What a tender manner of teaching this eternal truth! They also enrich the glories round the heads of saints,--beaming faces, that embody and make apprehensible to human perception the encircling, divine love that answers to faith and good works. If painters now were holy men, and dedicated their genius to heaven, perhaps angels and cherubs would still live to their imagination, and so to our eyes, through their pencils. But what watery, theatrical, unspiritual, impossible angels we have now-a-days! In the University halls we saw a very singular work. I supposed it to be an engraving of Raphael's Belle Jardiniere, but the custode told us that it was all composed of almost microscopically small words, written with a pen.

May 29th.--We went to Saint Domenico after breakfast to see St. Columba, and to pay the sharp,

ROME TO FLORENCE. 329

ferret-eyed sacristan. The pilasters were hung with crimson-damask, in preparation for the festival of Corpus Christi, next Thursday. After looking long at the sculptured tomb of Benedict XI., which is a very celebrated work of the Renaissance, the sacristan, who had been assisting at mass, in St. Orsola's chapel, came to unveil St. Columba.

* * * * * *

We afterward found the Madonna of Perugino we had been searching for, in a palace, where it had been taken to be copied, and we were disappointed in it. Mary sits with the infant, and six monks kneel in white habits, each side of her. Perhaps it was not placed at advantage, but I could not find it so exquisite as it is described. Ada and I then set forth by ourselves to see the city, and suddenly we arrived at the Cathedral of St. Lorenzo, and thought we would go in to rest. A great Function was proceeding. A Cardinal was on his throne, and several prelates round him, and the altar