let them recollect that it is not alone the visible picturesque of Italy which thus intoxicates; it is not only her fervid skies, her sunsets, which envelope one-half of heaven from the horizon to the zenith, in living blaze; nor her soaring pine-clad mountains; nor her azure seas; nor her fields, "ploughed by the sunbeams;" nor her gorgeous cities, spread out with all their domes and towers, unobscured by cloud or vapours;—but it is something more than these, something beyond, and over all—
The light that never was on sea or land
The consecration, and the poet's dream!
Genoa, 30.—We arrived here late, and I should not write now, weary, weak, sick, and down-spirited as I am, did I not know how the impressions of one day efface those of the former; and as I cannot sleep, it is better to scribble than to think.
As to describing all I have seen, thought, and felt in three days, that were indeed impossible: I think I have exhausted all my prose eloquence, and all allowable raptures; so that unless I ramble into absolute poetry, I dare not say a word of the scenery around Sarzana and Lerici. After spending one evening at Sarzana, in lingering through green lanes and watching the millions of fire-flies, sparkling in the dark shade of the trees, and lost again in the brilliant moonlight—we left it the next morning about sunrise, to embark in a felucca at Lerici, as the road between Spezia and Sestri is not yet completed. The groves and vineyards on each side of the road were filled with nightingales, singing in concert loud enough to overpower the sound of our carriage-wheels, and the whole scene, as the sun rose over it, and the purple shadows drew off and disclosed it gradually to the eye, was so enchanting—that positively I will say nothing about it.
Lerici is a small fishing town on the Gulf of Spezia. Here I met with an adventure which with a little exaggeration and embellishment, such as no real story-teller ever spares, would make an admirable morceau for a quarto tourist; but, in simple truth, was briefly thus.
While some of our party were at breakfast, and the servants and sailors were embarking the carriages and baggage, I sat down to sketch the old grey fort on the cliff above the town; but every time I looked up, the scene was so inexpressibly gay and lovely, it was with difficulty and reluctance I could turn my eyes down to my paper again; and soon I gave up the attempt, and threw away both paper and pencil. It struck me that the view from the castle itself must be a thousand times finer than the view of the castle from below, and without loss of time I proceeded to explore the path leading to it. With some fatigue and difficulty, and after losing myself once or twice, I reached the top of the rock, and there a wicket opened into a walled passage cut into steps to ease the ascent. I knocked at the wicket with three strokes, that being the orthodox style of demanding entrance into the court of an enchanted castle, using my parasol instead of a dagger,[Z] and no one appearing, I entered, and in a few moments reached a small paved terrace in front of the fortress, defended towards the sea by a low parapet wall. The massy portal was closed, and instead of a bugle horn hanging at the gate I found only the handle and fragments of an old birch-broom, which base utensil I presently applied to the purpose of a horn, viz. sounding an alarm, and knocked and knocked—but no hoary-headed seneschal nor armed warder appeared at my summons. After a moment's hesitation, I gave the door a push with all my strength: it yielded, creaking on its hinges, and I stepped over the raised threshold. I found myself in a low dark vaulted hall which appeared at first to have no communication with any other chamber: but on advancing cautiously to the end I found a low door in the side, which had once been defended by a strong iron grating of which some part remained: it led to a flight of stone stairs, which I began to ascend slowly, stopping every moment to listen; but all was still as the grave. On each side of this winding staircase I peeped into several chambers, all solitary and ruinous: more and more surprised, I continued to ascend till I put my head unexpectedly through a trap-door, and found myself on the roof on the tower: it was spacious, defended by battlements, and contained the only signs of warlike preparation I had met with; videlicet, two cannons, or culverins, as they are called, and a pyramidal heap of balls, rusted by the sea air.
I sat down on one of the cannon, and leaning on the battlements, surveyed the scene around, below me, with a feeling of rapture, not a little enhanced by the novelty and romance of my situation. I was alone—I had no reason to think there was a single human being within hearing. I was at such a vast height above the town and the shore, that not a sound reached me, except an indistinct murmur now and then, borne upwards by the breeze, and the scream of the sea-fowl as they wheeled round and round my head. I looked down giddily upon the blue sea, all glowing and trembling in the sunshine: and the scenery around me was such, as the dullest eye—the coldest, the most unimaginative soul, could not have contemplated without emotion. I sat, I know not how long, abandoned to reveries, sweet and bitter, till I was startled by footsteps close to me, and turning round, I beheld a figure so strange and fantastic, and considering the time, place, and circumstance, so incomprehensible and extraordinary, that I was dumb with surprise. It was a little spare old man, with a face and form which resembled the anatomy of a baboon, dressed in an ample nightgown of flowered silk, which hung upon him as if it had been made for a giant, and trailed on the ground, a yard and a half behind him. He had no stockings, but on his feet a pair of red slippers, turned up in front like those the Turks wear. His beard was grizzled, and on his head he wore one of the long many-coloured woollen caps usually worn in this country, with two tassels depending from it, which nearly reached his knees. I had full time to examine the appearance and costume of this strange apparition as he stood before me, bowing profoundly, and looking as if fright and wonder had deprived him of speech. As soon as I had recovered from my first amazement, I replied to every low bow, by as low a courtesy, and waited till it should please him to begin the parley.
At length he ventured to ask, in bad provincial Italian, what I did there?
I replied that I was only admiring the fine prospect.
He begged to know, "come diavolo," I had got there?
I assured him I had not got there by any diabolical aid, but had merely walked through the door.
Santi Apostoli! did not my excellency know, that, according to the laws and regulations of war, no one could enter the fort, without permission first obtained of the governor?
I apologized politely: "And where," said I, "is the governor?"
Il Governatore son io per servirla! he replied, with a low bow.
You! O che bel ceffo! thought I—"and what, Signor Governor, is the use of your fort?"
"To defend the bay and town of Lerici from enemies and pirates."
"But," said I, "I see no soldier; where is the garrison to defend the fort?"
The little old man stepped back two steps—"Eccomi!" he replied, spreading his hand on his breast, and bowing with dignity.
It was impossible to make any reply: I therefore wished the governor and garrison good morning; and disappearing through my trap-door, I soon made my way down to the shore, where I arrived out of breath, and just in time to step into our felucca.
If there be a time when we most wish for those of whom we always think, when we most love those who are always dearest, it must be on such a delicious night as that we passed at Sarzana, or on such a morning as that we spent at Lerici; and if there be a time when we least love those we always love—least wish for them, least think of them, it must be in such a moment as the noontide of yesterday—when the dead calm overtook us, half way between Lerici and Sestri, and I sat in the stern of our felucca, looking with a sort of despairing languor over the smooth purple sea, which scarcely heaved round us, while the flapping sails drooped useless round the masts, and the rowers indolently leaning on their oars, sung in a low and plaintive chorus. I sat hour after hour, still and silent, sickening in the sunshine, dazzled by its reflection on the water, and overcome with deadly nausea: I believe nothing on earth could have roused me at that moment. But evening so impatiently invoked, came at last: the sun set, the last gleam of his "golden path of rays" faded from the waters, the sea assumed the hue of ink; the breeze sprung up, and our little vessel, with all its white sails spread, glanced like a white swan over the waves, leaving behind "a moon-illumined wake." Two hours after dark we reached Sestri, where we found miserable accommodations; and after foraging in vain for something to eat, after our day's fast, we crept to bed, all sick, sleepy, hungry, and tired.
We leave Genoa to-morrow: I can say but little of it, for I have been ill, as usual, almost ever since we arrived; and though my little Diary has become to me a species of hobby, I have lately found it fatiguing, even to write! and the pleasure and interest it used to afford me, diminish daily.
Genoa, though fallen, is still "Genoa the proud." She is like a noble matron, blooming in years, and dignified in decay; while her rival Venice always used to remind me of a beautiful courtezan repenting in sackcloth and ashes, and mingling the ragged remnants of her former splendour with the emblems of present misery, degradation, and mourning. Pursue the train of similitude, Florence may be likened to a blooming bride dressed out to meet her lover; Naples to Tasso's Armida, with all the allurements of the Syren, and all the terrors of the Sorceress; Rome sits crowned upon the grave of her power, widowed indeed, and desolate, but still, like the queenly Constance, she maintains the majesty of Sorrow—
The coup-d'œil of Genoa, splendid as it is, is not equal to that of Naples, even setting poetical associations aside: it is built like a crescent round the harbour, rising abruptly from the margin of the water, which makes the view from the sea so beautiful: to the north the hills enclose it round like an amphitheatre. The adjacent country is covered with villas, gardens, vineyards, woods, and olive-groves forming a scene most enchanting to the eye and mind, though of a character very different from the savage luxuriance of the south of Italy.
The view of the city from any of the heights around, more particularly from that part of the shore called the Ponente, where we were to-day, is grand beyond description; on every side the church of Carignano is a beautiful and striking object.
There is but one street, properly so called, in Genoa—the Strada Nuova; the others are little paved alleys, most of them impassable to carriages, both from their narrowness and the irregularity of the ground on which the city is built.
The Strada Nuova is formed of a double line of magnificent palaces, among which the Doria Palace is conspicuous. The architecture is in general fine; and when not good is at least pleasing; the fronts of the houses are in general gaily painted and stuccoed. The best apartments are usually at the top; and the roofs often laid out in terraces, or paved with marble and adorned with flowers and shrubs.
I have seen few good pictures here: the best collections are those in the Brignolet and Durazzo palaces. In the latter are some striking pictures by Spagnoletto (or Ribera, as he is called here). In the Brignolet, the Roman Daughter, by Guido, struck me most. I was also pleased by some fine pictures of the Genoese painter Piola, who is little known beyond Genoa.
The church of the Carignano, which is a miniature model of St. Peter's, contains Paget's admirable statue of St. Sebastian, which Napoleon intended to have conveyed to Paris.
Beauty is no rarity at Genoa: I think I never saw so many fine women in one place, though I have seen finer faces at Rome and Naples than any I see here. The mezzaro, a veil or shawl thrown over the head and round the shoulders, is universal, and is certainly the most natural and becoming dress which can be worn by our sex: the materials differ in fineness, from the most exquisite lace and the most expensive embroidery, to a piece of chintz or linen, but the effect is the same. This costume, which prevails more or less through all Italy, but here is general, gives something of beauty to the plainest face, and something of elegance to the most vulgar figure; it can make deformity itself look passable: and when worn by a really graceful and beautiful female, the effect is peculiarly picturesque and bewitching.
It was a Festa to-day; and we drove slowly along the Ponente after dinner. Nothing could be more gay than the streets and public walks, crowded with holiday people: the women were in proportion as six to one; and looked like groups dressed to figure in a melodrame or ballet.
When once we have left Genoa behind us, and have taken our last look of the blue Mediterranean, I shall indeed feel that we have quitted Italy. Piedmont is not Italy. Cities which are only famous for their sieges and fortifications, plains only celebrated as fields of battle and scenes of blood, have neither charms nor interest for me.
On Monday we set off for Turin: how I dread travelling! and the motion of the carriage, which has now become so painful! Yet a little, a very little longer, and it will all be over.
Ch'a se par che n'inviti, e ne console.
Farewell to the lovely clime
Where the sunny valleys smile in light,
And the piny mountains climb!
Farewell to her fervid skies!
O many and deep are the thoughts which crowd
On the sinking heart, while it sighs,
"Farewell to the Land of the South!"
Was that bright land to me!
It enchanted my sense, it sunk on my heart
Like music's witchery!
In every kindling pulse
I felt the genial air,
For life is life in that sunny clime,
—'Tis death of life elsewhere:
Farewell to the Land of the South!
Have hallowed each grove and hill,
And the beautiful forms of ancient Faith
Are lingering round us still.
And the spirits of other days,
Invoked by fancy's spell,
Are rolled before the kindling thought,
While we breathe our last farewell
To the glorious Land of the South!
Romantic Italy!
Thou land of beauty, and love, and song
As once of the brave and free!
Alas! for thy golden fields!
Alas! for thy classic shore!
Alas! for thy orange and myrtle bowers!
I shall never behold them more—
Farewell to the Land of the South!
Turin, May 10th.—We arrived here yesterday, after a journey to me most trying and painful: I thought at Novi and afterwards at Asti, that I should have been obliged to give up and confess my inability to proceed; but we know not what we can bear till we prove ourselves; I can live and suffer still.
I agree with —— who has just left me, that nothing can be more animating and improving than the conversation of intelligent and clever men, and that lady-society is in general very fade and tiresome: and yet I truly believe that no woman can devote herself exclusively to the society of men without losing some of the best and sweetest characteristics of her sex. The conversation of men of the world and men of gallantry, gives insensibly a taint to the mind; the unceasing language of adulation and admiration intoxicates the head and perverts the heart; the habit of tête-à-têtes, the habit of being always either the sole or the principal object of attention, of mingling in no conversation which is not personal, narrows the disposition, weakens the mind, and renders it incapable of rising to general views or principles; while it so excites the senses and the imagination, that every thing else becomes in comparison stale, flat, and unprofitable. The life of a coquette is very like that of a drunkard or an opium eater, and its end is the same—the utter extinction of intellect, of cheerfulness, of generous feeling, and of self-respect.
St. Michel, Monday.—I know not why I open my book, or why I should keep accounts of times and places. I saw nothing of Turin but what I beheld from my window: and as soon as I could travel we set off, crossed Mount Cenis in a storm, slept at Lans-le-bourg, and reached this place yesterday, where I am again ill, and worse—worse than ever.
Is it not strange that while life is thus rapidly wasting, I should still be so strong to suffer? the pang, the agony is not less acute at this moment, than when, fifteen months ago, the poignard was driven to my heart. The cup, though I have nearly drained it to the last, is not less bitter now than when first presented to my lips. But this is not well; why indeed should I repine? mine was but a common fate—like a true woman, I did but stake my all of happiness upon one cast—and lost!
Lyons, 19th.—Good God! for what purpose do we feel! why within our limited sphere of action, our short and imperfect existence have we such boundless capacity for enjoying and suffering? no doubt for some good purpose. But I cannot think as I used to think: my ideas are perplexed: it is all pain of heart and confusion of mind; a sense of bitterness, and wrong, and sorrow, which I cannot express, nor yet quite suppress. If the cloud would but clear away that I might feel and see to do what is right! but all is dark, and heavy, and vacant; my mind is dull, and my eyes are dim, and I am scarce conscious of any thing around me.
A few days passed here in quiet, and kind Dr. P** have revived me a little.
All the way from Turin I have slept almost constantly, if that can be called sleep, which was rather the stupor of exhaustion, and left me still sensible of what was passing round me. I heard voices, though I knew not what they said; and I felt myself moved from place to place though I neither knew nor cared whither.
All that I have seen and heard, all that I have felt and suffered, since I left Italy, recalls to my mind that delightful country. I should regret what I have left behind, had I not outlived all regrets—but one—for there, though
The passion and the life whose fountains are within;
all feeling was not yet worn out of my heart: I was not then blinded nor stupified by sorrow and weakness as I have been since.
There are some places we remember with pleasure, because we have been happy there; others, because endeared to us as the residence of friends. We love our country because it is our country; our home because it is home: London or Paris we may prefer, as comprehending in themselves, all the intellectual pleasures, and luxuries of life: but, dear Italy!—we love it, simply for its own sake: not as in general we are attached to places and things, but as we love a friend, and the face of a friend; there it was "luxury to be,"—there I would willingly have died, if so it might have pleased God.
Till this evening we have not seen a gleam of sunshine, nor a glimpse of the blue sky, since we crossed Mount Cenis. We entered Lyons during a small drizzling rain. The dirty streets, the black gloomy-looking house, the smoking manufactories, and busy looks of the people, made me think of Florence and Genoa, and their "fair white walls" and princely domes; and when in the evening I heard the whining organ which some wretched Savoyard was grinding near us, I remembered even with emotion the delightful voices I heard singing "Di piacer mi balza il cor" under my balcony at Turin—my last recollection of Italy: and to-night, when they opened the window to give me air, I felt, on recovering, the cold chill of the night breeze; and as I shivered, and shrunk away from it, I remembered the delicious and genial softness of our Italian evenings—
22.—No letters from England.
Now that it is past, I may confess, that till now, a faint—a very faint hope did cling to my heart. I thought it might have been just possible; but it is over now—all is over!
We leave Lyons on Tuesday, and travel by short easy stages; and they think I may still reach Paris. I will hold up—if possible.
Yet if they would but lay me down on the road-side, and leave me to die in quietness! to rest is all I ask.
24.—St. Albin. We arrived here yesterday—
The few sentences which follow are not legible.
Four days after the date of the last paragraph, the writer died at Autun in her 26th year, and was buried in the garden of the Capuchin Monastery, near that city.—Editor.
THE END.
FOOTNOTES:
[A] First published in 1826.
[B] It must not be forgotten that this was written ten years ago: the aspect of Paris is much changed since then.
[C] By Christian Friederich Tieck.
"Rousseau, Voltaire, our Gibbon, and De Staël,
Leman! those names are worthy of thy shore."
Lord Byron.
[E] The sentence which follows is so blotted as to be illegible.—Ed.
[F] This was indeed ignorance! (1834.)
[G] Hail, O Maria, full of grace! the Lord is with thee! blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, even Jesus. Holy Virgin Mary, mother of God! pray for us sinners—both now and in the hour of death! Amen.—Ed.
[H] The family of the Cenci was a branch of the house of Colonna, now extinct in the direct male line. The last Prince Colonna, left two daughters, co-heiresses, of whom one married the Prince Sciarra, and the other the Prince Barberini. In this manner the portrait of Beatrice Cenci cane into the Barberini family. The authenticity of this interesting picture has been disputed: but last night after hearing the point extremely well contested by two intelligent men, I remained convinced of its authenticity.
[I] TRANSLATION, EXTEMPORE.
Love, by my fair one's side is ever seen,
He hovers round her steps, where'er she strays,
Breathes in her voice, and in her silence speaks,
Around her lives, and lends her all his arms.
Love is in every glance—Love taught her song;
And if she weep, or scorn contract her brow,
Still Love departs not from her, but is seen
Even in her lovely anger and her tears.
When, in the mazy dance she glides along
Still Love is near to poize each graceful step:
So breathes the zephyr o'er the yielding flower.
Love in her brow is throned, plays in her hair,
Darts from her eye and glows upon her lip.
But, oh! he never yet approached her heart.
[J] Poor Schadow died yesterday. He caught cold the other evening at the Duke of Bracciano's uncomfortable, ostentatious palace, where we heard him complaining of the cold of the Mosaic floors: three days afterwards he was no more. He is universally regretted.—Author's note.
[K] A chasm occurs here of about twenty pages, which in the original MS. are torn out. Nearly the whole of what was written at Naples has suffered mutilation, or has been purposely effaced; so that in many parts only a detached sentence, or a few words, are legible in the course of several pages.—Editor.
[L] Was the letter addressed 'Alla Sua Excellenza Seromfridevi,' which caused so much perplexity at the Post Office and British Museum, and exercised the acumen of a minister of state, from Salvador to his illustrious correspondent?
[M] Quid times? &c.
[N] Wordsworth.
[O] Beyond Fondi I remarked among the wild myrtle-covered hills, a wreath of white smoke rise as if from under ground, and I asked the postilion what it meant? He replied with an expressive gesture, "Signora,—i briganti!" I thought this was a mere trick to alarm us; but it was truth: within twenty hours after we had passed the spot, a carriage was attacked; and a desperate struggle took place between the banditti and the sentinels, who are placed at regular distances along the road, and within hearing of each other. Several men were killed, but the robbers at length were obliged to fly.
[P] It is understood that this beautiful group has since been executed in marble for Sir George Beaumont.—Editor.
[Q] Written on an old pedestal in the gardens of the Villa Pamfili, yesterday (March 29th).
[R] See the admirable and eloquent "Essays on Petrarch, by Ugo Foscolo," which have appeared since this Diary was written—Editor.
[S] Corilla (whose real name was Maddaleno Morelli) often accompanied herself on the violin; not holding it against her shoulder, but resting it in her lap. She was reckoned a fine performer on this instrument; and for her distinguished talents was crowned in the Capitol in 1779.—Ed.
Othello—Thou mak'st me call what I intend to do
A murder,—which I thought a sacrifice.—
[U] Sestini died of a brain fever at Paris in November, 1822.—Ed.
[V] The allusion is to La Francia. When Raffaelle sent his famous St. Cecilia to Bologna, it was intrusted to the care of La Francia, who was his particular friend, to be unpacked and hung up. La Francia was old, and had for many years held a high rank in his profession; no sooner had he cast his eyes on the St. Cecilia, than struck with despair at seeing his highest efforts so immeasurably outdone, he was seized with a deep melancholy, and died shortly after.—Ed.
[W] Forsyth complains of some celebrated Madonnas being unimpassioned: with submission to Forsyth's taste and acumen—ought they to be impassioned?
[X] Dr. Holland once told me, that when travelling in Iceland, he had heard one of Mozart's melodies played and sung by an Icelandic girl, and that some months afterwards he heard the very same air sung to the guitar by a Greek lady at Salonica. Yet the son of that immortal genius, who has dispensed delight from one extremity of Europe to the other, and from his urn still rules the entranced senses of millions—Charles Mozart, is a poor music master at Milan! this should not be.
[Y] What Beccaria said in his day is most true of ours, "on paie les musiciens pour émouvoir, on paie les danseurs de corde pour étonner, et la plus grande partie des musiciens veulent faire les danseurs de corde."
"With dagger's hilt upon the gate,
Who knocks so loud and knocks so late?"—Scott.
TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES
Some minor punctuation, spelling inconsistencies, and typos have been changed from the original publication to reflect the authors' intent:
P. 7 oclock—o'clock (Saturday Night, 11 o'clock)
P. 23 dissapointed—disappointed (edifices in general disappointed me)
P. 25 on—or (martyrdom, or rather assassination)
P. 28 reman—remain (by his birth should remain unchanged)
P. 30 pehaps—perhaps (perhaps after all)
P. 33 Cavigliajo—Covigliajo (Covigliajo, an uncouth dreary)
P. 44 maitresse—maîtresse (fait de maîtresse)
P. 50 Madonas—Madonnas (Raffaelle's Madonnas.)
P. 51 Appenines—Apennines (Apennines with light clouds)
P. 52 creatons—creations (fancy's fairest creations)
P. 56 sungly—snugly (a drawing-room snugly carpeted)
P. 57 appeartance—appearance (the general appearance)
P. 57 rathers—rather (rather grows upon me)
P. 59 Appenines—Apennines (Apennines, rose just over Tivoli,)
P. 60 Russel—Russell (Lady Louisa Russell)
P. 65 Changed " to ' (nested quotes) ('Armis vitrumque canter,')
P. 66 chef d'œuvre—chef-d'œuvre (hyphenated for consistency)
P. 77 San Gioralmo—San Girolamo (San Girolamo della Carità)
P. 79 senerade—serenade (serenade was evidently)
P. 80 comtemplate—contemplate (contemplate the coliseum)
P. 81 valls—walls (walls, and the stream)
P. 90 enthusiam—enthusiasm (to whom enthusiasm is only another name)
P. 118 Wet—We (We met many begging friars)
P. 120 acessible—accessible (pleasant, accessible, and very private)
P. 126 thought—though (the afternoon, though not brilliant, was)
P. 126 amosphere—atmosphere (the atmosphere was perfectly)
P. 127 Appennines—Apennines (Alban Hills, and the Apennines)
P. 152 in—it (it affects the mind)
P. 155 Added closing quotes ("ploughed by the sunbeams;").
P. 157 Removed unnecessary opening quotes (The little old man).