Chapter XXIV: Letter XXIII: Excursion to Amalfi

JULY 10TH.

I have always had a great desire to penetrate into the south of Italy, which I believe to be the most beautiful country in the world; joining the rich aspect of culture to the graces of nature,

“In all her wildness, all her majesty,
As in that elder time, ere man was made.”[41]

If I were a man, I know of no enterprise that would please my imagination more than seeking, in this district, for the traces of lost wealth, science, and civilisation. These blessings flourished in this neighbourhood at two distinct periods, apparently widely separated from each other; yet, if examined, we might find that the link had never been broken. Magna Grecia was the mother of many philosophers, and the richest portion of ancient Italy; and there is nothing violent in the supposition, that Amalfi, hemmed in by mountains, and Salerno, almost equally sheltered, should have preserved and extended, rather than originated, the trade and science which rendered them famous at a time when, all around, every effort of human enterprise was merged in offensive and defensive wars.

Amalfi was the first republic of modern Italy. As the power of the Roman Empire waxed weak, and the transplanting of the seat of empire to Constantinople, placed Italy in the novel position of a distant neglected province, frequently invaded by barbarians, the fabric of national government fell to pieces, while municipal communities remained. Two of these, from their happy position on the sea, and the great traffic there carried on by means of the Mediterranean, were eminently prosperous. One in the north, Venice, acquired power, and preserved its independence for centuries; the other in the south, Amalfi, was swallowed up by the kingdom of Naples, after having been pillaged by the Pisans in 1137—for thus early did municipal rivalry, the bane of Italy, begin to divide and ravage the peninsula. It seems to me that sound knowledge of the results of political institutions might be gathered from studying the state of society in a town whose citizens were, when free, intelligent and courageous—whose maritime laws, instituted at a time (the ninth century) when Europe was sunk in barbarism, has served as a basis for every subsequent commercial code—who covered the sea with their ships—who almost discovered the mariner’s compass. What are they now?

Their intelligence, their capacities, I am sure remain; their affections also must warm their hearts as kindly; must we not seek in their political history for the causes wherefore superstition and vice have replaced ardour for science and the virtues of industrious and brave citizens?

Though I could not fulfil in any way a favourite design of visiting Calabria, yet we have crept on as far as Amalfi. It had been my idea to spend a month in this town, when I could have told you more of the present state of its inhabitants. I was not able to do this; so, can only mention the impression made by the visit of a day.[42]

We had secured a boat to be ready for us at the Marinella, on the other side of the promontory, and set out on mules for the Scaricatojo, the name given to the descent from the mountain that overhangs the eastern sea. We reached the height which we had often before visited, whence a view is commanded of the two seas. To the west the Bay of Naples, landlocked, as we looked on it, by the islands of Ischia and Procida, and the promontory of Misenum; while, more to the north, the shining edifices of the city of Naples are distinctly visible, and in the depth of the bay, Vesuvius rises up immediately from the shore. On the other side, the eye plunged down from the height of the myrtle-clothed mountain on which we stood, to the sea far below, gleaming at the foot of the precipices—vexing itself against the rocks of the Syrens: eastward, the coast that runs in a long line to the south; the lowlands on which Pæstum is situated, with the back-ground of lofty mountains, was this day—as it almost always is—hidden in mist.

The descent of the Scaricatojo is very steep, and long and fatiguing. At first we made light of it; but as we went on under a burning sun, the path grew more craggy and precipitous: sometimes it was formed only of a rough sort of steps cut in the mountain side, or constructed of shattered masses of rock; or of zigzags, which grew shorter, more numerous, more precipitous, and more slippery, till we despaired of ever reaching the beach.

But all things human end; and at last—most agreeable change!—we were seated in a boat beneath the lofty inaccessible hills that rise almost sheer from the water, with here and there a little break, where a brief space of beach intervenes, and a town or village rises beside it. The voyage was not quite as agreeable as it might have been, for there was a swell of the sea, and our little boat was deeply laden with people. We were glad to see Amalfi open on us. Salvator Rosa best represents the peculiar beauty of the southern Italian coast; its steep promontories, the varied breaks of its mountainous shores, all green with forest-trees, adorned by isolated ruins, and clothed with a radiance which is the peculiar gift of the atmosphere of this clime; encircled by the lucid transparency of the tideless sea—for it was here that he often retreated, leading, some have said, a bandit’s life,[43] but most surely a lover and studier of nature; his landscapes are so many exquisite views taken from this part of the country. Look at them, wherever you can, and learn in what its loveliness consists. The landing-place of the town is open, busy, and cheerful. There is a Capuchin convent most beautifully situated near the sea; it was secularised by the French, and long served for an hotel. The mother of the present King of Naples often visited Amalfi, and slept at this inn. The expelled monks gathered round her, and led her to consider it a matter of conscience that they should be reinstated. She obtained this favour from her son before she died; the Capuchins are come back; and travellers are turned out from what may be fairly named the _most_ beautiful inn in the world. The present house, however, is by no means bad, and overlooks the Marina. We obtained good rooms and a tolerable dinner, being waited on by three sons of the host—handy little fellows, from ten to fifteen, who performed their duties promptly and quietly.

As soon as we had rested and were refreshed, we wished, though still much fatigued, to see something of the place. We visited the cathedral, an ancient edifice, built upon the site of a pagan temple, and rambled about the town, which is busy. Though fallen from the commercial prosperity it enjoyed twelve centuries ago, Amalfi carries on considerable traffic, and its citizens are well to do. There is a large manufacture of maccaroni, another of paper, another for working the iron of Elba. Every one can find work, living is cheap, and want is happily unknown.

The paper-mills are picturesquely situated in a ravine, shut in by lofty mountains, beside a cascade; it was not so far but that we might visit them during the evening. Two donkeys were brought to carry us thither. Accustomed to the excellent mules of Sorrento, we were not prepared for the poor little creatures, with things on their backs which it was ridiculous to call saddles. However, I and a young lady who accompanied me mounted. If you have the book, look at the vignette to “Italy” of Amalfi; you will perceive its situation, and how just behind the town the mountains are cloven and divided by a deep ravine—our way led up this narrow pass, down which sped a torrent, whose “inland murmur,” or rather dashing, was grateful to our ears, long accustomed only to the roaring of the surges of the sea.

The scene was wholly different from anything near Sorrento. The valley and the mountain sides were beautifully green and fresh—grassy uplands shone between groves of forest-trees, and villages with their churches here and there peeped out—while the torrent dashed over the rocks, sparkling and foaming—and dressing its banks, which grew higher and more rocky as we ascended the pass, in luxuriant and bright verdure. Our first visit was to a paper-mill, whence a view of the ravine is commanded—and then we clambered up the hill-side to the road above. Golden evening gave a refreshing coolness to the air, and picturesque shadows to the hills. It was a scene,—an hour,—when Nature imparts a quick and living enjoyment akin to the transports of love and the ecstacy of music—it touches a chord whose vibration is happiness. Faint from excessive weariness, yet with regret I consented to return. Night with her stars gathered round us, and with much difficulty our poor little stumbling animals carried us back to the town.

This same evening we wished to prepare for our excursion on the morrow; the plan of which was to visit Ravello, and then to descend the mountain to the sea-shore—take boat, and sail to Salerno, and after dinner to drive back to Sorrento.

Our evening’s experience showed that the poor little asses were not fit for such an expedition—we must have recourse to the other alternative, _portantini_,—arm-chairs placed on poles, borne by two men; we required three, for the three ladies of the party. P——, and his friend, were to walk.

We were told —— but, remember, I consider all that we heard as very problematical as regards truth—we had no time to learn the real state of things, and I relate the story more to show the sort of wild excuses the Italians make when they want to carry a point profitable to themselves—losing to us. We were told that the bearers of the _portantini_ all belonged to a village, Vettici, some miles up the mountain—that when these were wanted they were sent for the previous evening—locked up all night at Amalfi, to prevent them from being enticed away, I don’t why or by whom. We were told that we had arrived too late to get these men; that we must engage some of the town’s-people. We ought to have four bearers to each chair; thirty men came forward to claim the employment—and the _polizia_ begged us to choose twelve from among them. My friends went to the _polizia_ for this purpose—the scene was highly comic. Thirty men vociferating, insisting, supplicating—eager. Among these was the master of the boat who was to take us to Salerno, and his three sons—they were evidently respectable men, and at once selected—but among the rest who could choose? My friends could only laugh; they pointed out a dozen as possessing the best physiognomies.

We were to set out early, and therefore retired early. Night scarcely veiled the sea. The quay had been busy all day, lading ships with grain; several parties of men were still at work. It was a lively scene compared with the quiet of the Cocumella, yet so unlike were the tiny barks in the offing, and appearance of the men at work, lading and unlading vessels, from anything one is accustomed to that the ancient times of Magna Græcia, when the busy ports sent corn to Rome, occurred; or rather, I confess, that with me another association was awakened. When excited, the mind is apt to recur to the impressions of childhood—like sympathetic ink exposed to fire—the covert but not expunged pictures which the soul first received, revive and become visible. _Les Aventures de Télémaque_ recurred to my mind. I was haunted by the description therein given of the busy sea-ports of Tyre and Crete. The broad luminous sea before, the jutting headlands, the not inharmonious cries of the men at work, the frequent tread of their feet, formed a sort of picture which it seemed to me I had seen in childhood drawn by the pen of Fénelon. I went to sleep while it still flitted, as it were, beneath my closed eyelids.

The morrow came, and with it our guide, our chairs, our bearers—such a crowd. The thirty men had been disputing all night as to which among them had been chosen; the conclusion they came to was, that they would all go. Travellers often (I among the number) have had the whole pleasure of an excursion marred by a struggle with guides, muleteers, &c. It is often necessary to contest a thousand points, and to resist exactions, and the temper gets soured, and the divine influence of nature on the mind is marred. I was determined that I would not lose the pleasure I might snatch during my hasty visit to the outskirts of Calabria, by tormenting myself with these people; for being the one of our party most conversant with Italian, the brunt of the battle must fall upon me. I made up my mind at once that these fellows should have their way, and I would be entertained instead of annoyed by exactions of all kinds.

We had our guide—an erect old man, loquacious enough, with a very amusing assumption of dignity towards the other men. We had our thirty bearers, and in addition (recommended by the police, to keep so large a band in order) two police-officers, with unloaded muskets and cartouche-boxes innocent of ammunition. Eight men devoted themselves to my chair—the best of the number, I believe; and away we went, up the rocky path through the ravine, beside the torrent, beneath the chesnut woods, climbing higher and higher up the mountain side, the bright golden morning sun flinging long shadows from the hills.

The scenery is quite unlike Sorrento; as far as earth is concerned, it is far more sublime. The mountains are loftier, and more picturesque, parted by deeper and wider ravines, terminated in abrupter peaks, their sides clothed by magnificent forest-trees; and when we reached a summit and looked around—travellers visit Switzerland and speak of the sublime works of creation among seas of ice and avalanches and towering Alps, bare and craggy, crested with perpetual snow; there, nature is sublime, but she shows the power and the will to harm; here she is gracious as well as glorious; she is our friend, or rather our exalted and munificent queen and benefactress.[44]

From the height of Ravello we gazed on a wide and various panorama of vale and mountain, spread in picturesque and infinite variety around; deep below was a sunny beach, shut in by steep headlands, and a placid, widespread southern sea, basking in the noontide heat. The cathedral of Ravello is an ancient, venerable edifice. In the sacristy were some old paintings of what may be called the seraphic school, such as I had admired at Florence. Saints, whose countenances show that they are blessed; virgins, whose gentleness is full of majesty, whose humility is that of one who, placing herself last, shall be first. Since those days men have lost the power of portraying the passion of adoration in the countenance. Either in venerable age or beautiful youth, what specimens there are in the first painters of great and good beings absorbed by grateful, joyful worship of the greatest and best of all. One of the most charming of the pictures at Ravello was an Annunciation;—the beaming sweetness of the angel, the chaste joy of Mary, spread a halo over the canvas. They told us that an Englishman had wished to buy these pictures, but the Bishop had very properly refused to commit the sacrilege of selling them.

The unclouded sun shone hotly above; there was a breeze, however, and the landscape showed green and fresh. Sometimes our numerous party were clamorous among one another, disputing how their pay should be shared; when the confusion grew high, our old guide—sovereign over all in his own conceit—cried, “_Silenzio! silenzio!_” in an authoritative voice, and the stream of sound was, for a moment, checked. They were all well-behaved towards us. We asked our good-natured sbirri, with their harmless guns, whether there were any banditti now in Calabria? All, they assured us, was safe and quiet; or if there was any disturbance, they were sent, and order was restored—by what means I cannot guess, except that the aspects of these men were peculiarly placid and peaceful.

The descent was very precipitous, much of it being down flight after flight of steep steps, cut in the rock. It was far too warm and fatiguing to think of walking, and rather frightful to be carried down. However, by turning the chair, and riding backwards, we got through it without much alarm.

The Ponente had risen as we reached the beach. The sea sparkled fresh and free. The boat was large and commodious. The master-boatman had a great sense of his own respectability and that of his sons, and of the excellence of his vessel. He spoke his own praises in a sonorous voice, keeping time to his speech with the strokes of his oar:—“Sarete contenti di me, Signori. Io sono un’ galant’ uomo: miei figli sono galant’ uomini: la mia barca è buona e bella. Tutti i Signori forestieri sono contenti di me.”

As soon as we had made something of an offing, the sails were set, and we changed our marinaro’s rhapsody of self-eulogy to some national airs sung by his sons. Their voices were good, and our navigation was prosperous and pleasant.

We were thoroughly tired out when we arrived at Salerno, which is less picturesquely situated than Amalfi, the shore around being low. When Amalfi was a great commercial sea-port, the medical school of Salerno was famous for its knowledge of the healing art. The students went to study in Arabia and Spain; and they returned to their native town to dispense, among crowds of rich and noble patients, the treasures of their skill. Salerno in those days was regarded as illustrious among the cities of modern Italy—the women were beautiful, and the men were honest; thus Gibbon transcribes the praise of William of Apulia—

“Urbs Latii non est hac delitiosor urbe:
Frugibus, arboribus, vinoque redundat; et unde
Non tibi poma, nuces, non pulchra palatia desunt
Non species muliebris abest probitasque virorum.”

But we saw less of the remnants of this magnificence than even of Amalfi, for we arrived fatigued; and after a few hours’ repose and dinner, we set out in a carriage homewards. We drove through a beautiful valley towards Castelamare, between wooded hills. There is a very pretty hotel at Cava, where travellers often remain several weeks. I should prefer, however, the sea-shore at Amalfi. Castelamare is a busy town on the beach, in the very depth of the bay. Numbers of villas are scattered over the wooded sides of the mountains and through the shady valley. There is a good railroad to Naples: the distance, rather more than twenty miles, is performed in about an hour and a half. Castelamare is a more fashionable resort than Sorrento. The villas are more numerous and more elegant; the rides more diversified; the intercourse with the capital easier. It is not so well suited for a short stay, for the hotels are all in the midst of a noisy town; and the villas, which let at a high price, can only be taken for the season—six, or at least, four months. On the other hand, for excursions on the sea, Sorrento is very far to be preferred. Castelamare, at the depth of the bay, affords only a small lake-like basin for boating. To view the shores, or visit the islands, east or west, you must first reach Sorrento or Naples. In the former, you seem happily placed, as in a centre, to diverge at will in excursions on the water. Sorrento is in every way cheaper and more practicable for those who are not rich.

The road from Castelamare to Sorrento, about twenty miles, is excellent, constructed on the edge of the cliffs overhanging the sea. As we proceeded we gladly hailed our return to a familiar scene, and welcomed various glimpses of views which we looked on as peculiarly our own. We passed Vico—halfway—and then turning the shoulder of a headland, rattled down towards the populous plain of Sorrento—with its many villages, its orange gardens and sheltering hills—and reached our quiet hotel, where we were gladly welcomed. The Cocumella has become a home—it is a joy to return to our terrace, to breathe the fragrance of the orange-flowers—to see the calm sea spread out at our feet, as we look over the bay to Naples—while above us bends a sky—in whose pure depths ship-like clouds glide—and the moon hangs luminous, a pendant sphere of silver fire.

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Footnote 1:

In preparing these letters for the press, I have consulted some papers
entitled “Sketches of Bohemia and the Sclavonian Provinces of the
Austrian Empire,” by Henry Reeve, Esq., published in the 18th and 19th
vols. of the Metropolitan Magazine. They are admirably written, and it
is greatly to be regretted that they do not proceed to a greater
length, and are lost in a Magazine.

Footnote 2:

Mr. Reeve.

Footnote 3:

Life of Wallenstein, by Colonel Mitchell.

Footnote 4:

Rogers’s “Italy.”

Footnote 5:

Mr. Reeve.

Footnote 6:

Paradise Regained.

Footnote 7:

Milton. Do these lines, in the “Paradise Lost,” refer in the poet’s
mind to his first view of Florence? It seems very probable.

Footnote 8:

Wordsworth.

Footnote 9:

Addison.

Footnote 10:

On this subject only Murray’s Hand-book seems to run faulty—a lower
price for _voiture_ travelling is always named than I have found it
possible to attain. It is easy to allege that we were imposed upon. It
may be so; but it was difficult to believe this in some instances,
where the bargain was made for us by friends, natives of the country.
In the Hand-book of Italy this is the more remarkable, and I can speak
with greater certainty. I do not know how it may be with a single man
taking his place,—one among many, as it may chance,—but for a party,
like ourselves, taking a whole carriage, the expense in proportion is
far higher than he mentions.

Footnote 11:

Alison’s History of Europe.

Footnote 12:

AD SIRMIONEM PENINSULAM
Peninsularum, Sirmio, insularumque
Ocelle, quascunque in liquentibus stagnis,
Marique vasto fert uterque Neptunus;
Quam te libenter, quamque lætus inviso,
Vix mî ipse credens Thyniam, atque Bithynos
Liquisse campos, et videre te in tuto.
O quid solutis est beatius curis
Cum mens onus reponit, ac peregrino
Labore fessi venimus larem ad nostrum,
Desideratoque acquiescimus lecto?
Hoc est quod unum est pro laboribus tantis.
Salve, O venusta Sirmio, atque hero gaude;
Gaudete, vosque Lariæ lacus undæ:
Ridete quidquid est domi cachinnorum.

The above translation, from the verses of Catullus, is by Mr. Leigh
Hunt.

Footnote 13:

Rogers’s “Italy.”

Footnote 14:

De la Poésie Chrétienne.

Footnote 15:

I remember an instance of the sort of interference which occurred in
Tuscany, at the University of Pisa, during the mild and comparatively
liberal reign of Ferdinand. It is well known that during the Carnival
the people promenade in particular streets (in Pisa on the Lungo
l’Arno), the gentry in their carriages, and often masked. The students
at Pisa got up a masque of an elaborate kind, I think of heathen gods
and goddesses, or some such thing. The following Carnival, the
professors, wishing to turn this play to nobler uses, combined with
the students to get up a procession of masks personating all the
illustrious men of Italian history. Government considered this a
dangerous reminiscence of past glory, and forbade it.

Footnote 16:

All the aristocracy—or as they call it, the _famiglie tribunizie_ of
Venice, consider themselves descended from old Roman families of the
Equestrian order, and the names of several seem to attest the validity
of this pretension. Padua sent a colony to the island of Rivo Alto, or
Rialto, in 421; and the command for the building of the new city was
entrusted to Alberto Faliero, Tommaso Candiano, and Cenone Daulo, or
Dandolo. Hence it appears probable that the families of Faliero,
Candiano, and Dandolo are descended from the Roman patricians who were
present at the first building of the city of Rialto. In the ninth
century the seat of Venetian government was transferred from the
island of Rialto to Eraclea, and the independence of Venice was
established. Now, before and after that epoch it may be said Venice
was the only city in Europe, which from its foundation for fourteen
centuries never submitted to a foreign yoke; and it is said that the
old Venetian families have preserved in their lineaments the primitive
character of the race whence they sprung. Dr. Edwards having examined
carefully the portraits of the series of doges, and compared them with
the countenances of their actual descendants, comes to this
conclusion.

Footnote 17:

Shelley’s “Defence of Poetry.”

Footnote 18:

“What were the turkeys a pound?” asked our guide of some peasants
returning from the fair. “Seventeen quatrini,” was the reply. It
requires a complex sum to reduce this to English value. There are five
quatrini to a crazie—eight crazie in a panl—and a panl is about 5¼_d_;
in addition, the turkeys were bought alive with their feathers on, and
the Italian pound contains only twelve ounces. This was the market
price in the country. Every edible pays a duty on entering Florence.

Footnote 19:

“Paradise Regained.”

Footnote 20:

“The compunction of man’s heart—its aspirations towards God—the rapt
ecstacy—a foretaste of celestial beatitude—all that class of profound
and exalted emotions which no artist can represent without having
previously experienced them, formed, as it were, the mysterious circle
which the genius of Fra Angelico delighted to follow, and when ended,
he recommenced with renewed delight.”—_La Poésie Chrétienne._

Footnote 21:

“The Guide-Book of Florence,” by Fantozzi, is very complete, but it
wants an index of the names of the artists, with the numbers of the
pages in which they are mentioned, cited, to enable the amateur at
once to learn where to find their various works.

Footnote 22:

The eight which M. Rio mentions as having seen himself, and as forming
the glory of Raphael, as a painter of ideal and pure beauty, are—the
Virgin, of the Duke of Alba—purchased afterwards by Mr. Coswelt, and
brought to London.—The Virgin, known under the name of La Belle
Jardinière, now in the Louvre.—The Virgin of Palazzo Tempi, now at
Munich.—The Virgin of Canigiani, at Munich.—The two in the gallery of
Florence, which, for the lovers of this style, dim the glory of every
other picture—especially that named the Madonna of the Goldfinch.—Of
this M. Rio says, “It may be boldly affirmed that Christian art never
rose to a greater height.”—The Virgin of the Colonna Palace, now at
Berlin; that of the Palazzo Gregori; and the Madonna of Pescia, known
as the Madonna del Baldachino.

Footnote 23:

Rogers’s “Italy.”

Footnote 24:

The common prints taken from this picture are very unworthy of it;
they seem to substitute sensuality for sensibility, in the lines of
the countenance. Mr. Kirkup’s drawing, made for Lord Vernon, is
excellent. Unfortunately, in removing the whitewash or plaster, a
slight injury was done to the eye in the picture. The painter employed
by the Grand Duke has restored this; but Mr. Kirkup is indignant with
the restoration; and the print, taken from his drawing, exhibits the
blemish. I confess, that to me the restoration seems judicious. The
ball of the eye alone was injured; and as the colour of Dante’s eyes
was known from other pictures, the portrait has gained in expression,
and not lost in authenticity by its being repainted.

Footnote 25:

Colletta, Storia del Reame di Napoli, dal 1735, sino al 1825. Libro
vii. cap. 53.

Footnote 26:

A young aspirant was asked, during the progress of his initiation,
whether, if commanded by the society, he would put his own father to
death. He answered, “Yes.” He was taken to a room where, by some
contrivance it seemed to him that he saw his father sitting at a table
shading his eyes with his hand. A dagger was given him: “Your father
is a traitor to the sect,” he was told, “strike!” The weapon fell from
the youth’s hand; in an instant he was blind-folded—hurried away—set
free in some distant spot—rejected from the sect, as incapable of that
devotion to the cause which was demanded of its members.

Footnote 27:

The spots where the Carbonari assembled were called _Vendite_—or
Places for Sale—in accordance with the fiction of their being sellers
of charcoal. Thus, as we should write over a shop “Charcoal sold
here;” in Italian, the phrase is, “Vendita di Carbone.” Where there
was one Vendita, there could be no other within four miles;—if another
was established within these limits, a schism ensued, and every
endeavour was made to put it down.

Footnote 28:

Rogers’s “Italy.”

Footnote 29:

In the same manner his tragedy, lately published, “_Arnaldo da
Brescia_,” is a splendid protest against the temporal dominion of the
Pope and the abuse of the power of the church.

Footnote 30:

This work was first published at Palermo about two years ago, under
the title of “Un Periodo delle Istorie Siciliane del secolo 13^{mo}.”
The manuscript was of course submitted to the censor of the press, who
permitted its publication. It acquired universal reputation, and was
enthusiastically received in the kingdom of Naples. As soon as public
attention was excited, the police of that state grew suspicious and
fearful. The book was prohibited, the remaining copies were
sequestrated, and all notice of it in newspapers and periodical works,
which had already begun to praise the author and give an account of
his book, was forbidden. The persecution did not cease here;
influenced by some sinister, and, as is supposed, personal motive, Del
Carretto, director or minister of the police, gave orders that Amari
should be dismissed from an employment he held in a government office,
and sent to Naples. Signor Amari was warned in time, and convinced
that a long and severe imprisonment awaited him at the capital, he
preferred going into voluntary exile from his country, to falling into
the hands of a cruel enemy. Signor Amari is at present living in
Paris, where he published, about a year ago, a second edition of his
work, under the amended title of “Guerra del Vespro Siciliano,” with
corrections and additions. He is at present occupied in collecting
materials for the compilation of a history of Sicily, from the
occupation of the Saracens; for which, as he must consult Arabic
documents, he is studying with unwearied ardour; he thus adds another
proof that the Italians of the present day are capable of severe
application and learned research, in addition to the frequent gift of
remarkable talents.—1844.

Footnote 31:

Plato’s Ion. Shelley’s Essays.

Footnote 32:

M. Rio.

Footnote 33:

Maccabees, ii. 3.

Footnote 34:

Childe Harold, Canto IV.

Footnote 35:

Rome in the Nineteenth Century.

Footnote 36:

The want of conventual charities, whose funds, on the Reformation,
were greedily appropriated by the laity, forced Queen Elizabeth to
institute the Poor-Laws.

Footnote 37:

Arnaldo da Brescia.

Footnote 38:

“Ahi, la vedete;
Di porpora è vestita; oro, monili,
Gemme tutta l’ aggravano; le bianche
Vesti, delizia del primier marito,
Che or sta nel cielo, ella perdè nel fango.
Però di nomi e di blasfemi è piena,
E nella fronte sua scrisse; _Mistero_.
Ahi, la sua voce a consolar gli afflitti
Non s’ ode più; tutti minaccia, e crea
Con perenni anatèmi all’ alme incerte
Ineffabili pene; gl’ infelici,
Qui lo siam tutti, nel commun dolore
Correano ad abbracisarsi, e la crudele
Di Cristo in nome gli ha divisi; i padri
Inimica coi figli, e le consorti
Dai mariti disgiunge, e pon la guerra
Fra unanimi fratelli: è del Vangelo
Interprete crudel: l’ odio s’ impara
Nel libro dell’ amor.”

· · · · ·

——“il mondo ignora
S’ ella più d’ oro o più di sangue ha sete.
Perchè salì costei dalle profonde
Viscere della terra al Campidoglio?
Fu bella e grande nelle sue prigioni.”
_Niccolini; Arnaldo da Brescia._

Footnote 39:

“—— Nelle chiese—
I più astuti del clero a udir son posti,
Gli altrui peccati, e li sommesse, arcane
Parole mormorate ai proni orecchi
Sono alla nostra libertà fatali.
Perchè nuda e tremante al lor corpetto
Ogni alma è tratta dalle sue lattèbre,
E assoluto non è chi si confessa
Se gli altri non accusa.”
_Niccolini; Arnaldo da Brescia._

Footnote 40:

Mrs. Starke lived for some years at the Cocumella, at Sorrento. Her
account of the place and scenery around, is both accurate and well
written, and for this part of Italy she is an excellent guide. Mr.
Cooper, the author of “The Spy,” has written very agreeable
“Excursions in Italy,” the most interesting portion of which regards
Sorrento.

Footnote 41:

Rogers’s Italy.

Footnote 42:

Among modern historians Sismondi and Gibbon dwelt with pleasure on the
commerce and prosperity of Amalfi. It was an oasis where the mind of
the historian reposed, fatigued by barbarous wars and innumerable acts
of cruelty. Gibbon quotes the description given by Guglielmus Apulus—

“Nulla magis locuples argento, vestibus, oro,
Pontibus innumeris; hâc plurimus urbe moratur
Nauta maris cœlique vias aperire peritus.
Huc et Alexandri diversa feruntur ab urbe
Regis, et Antiochi. Quis hæc freta plurima transit.
His Arabes, Indi, Siculi nascuntur et Afri.
Hæc gens est totum prope nobilitata per orbem
Et mercando ferens, et amans mercata referre.”

Footnote 43:

Rogers’s Italy.

Footnote 44:

“Until that moment I was not fully sensible of the vast superiority of
the Italian landscapes over all others. Switzerland astonishes, and it
even often delights; but Italian nature wins upon you until you come
to love it as a friend. I can only liken the perfection of the scene
we gazed upon this evening to a feeling almost allied to transport; to
the manner in which we dwell upon the serene expression of a beloved
and lovely countenance. Other scenes have the tints, the hues, the
outlines, the proportions, the grandeur, and even the softness of
beauty; but these have the character that marks the existence of a
soul. The effect is to pour a flood of sensations on the mind, that
are distinct from the commoner feelings of wonder that are excited by
vastness and magnificence. The _refinement_ of Italian nature appears
to distinguish it as much from that of other countries, as the quality
distinguishes the scene of sentiment and intellect from the man of
mere interests. In sublimity of a certain sort—more especially in the
sublimity of desolation, Switzerland probably has no equal on earth;
and perhaps to this may be added a certain unearthly aspect which the
glaciers assume in particular conditions of the atmosphere; but these
Italian scenes rise to a sublimity of a different kinds, which, though
it does not awe, leaves behind it a tender sensation allied to that of
love. I can conceive even an ardent admirer of nature wearying in time
of the grandeur of the Alps; but I can scarce imagine one who could
ever tire of the witchery of Italy.”—C. F. Cooper; “Excursions in
Italy.” Vol. I.; Letter XIV.

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TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

Page│Changed from │Changed to

4│and trading Alstadt, and crossed│and trading Altstadt, and
│the bridge which │crossed the bridge which

11│words; schmuzig, or dirty, │words; schmutzig, or dirty,
│applied to the sheet │applied to the sheet

23│I should liked to have stayed │I should have liked to have
│some days at │stayed some days at

● Typos fixed; non-standard spelling and dialect retained. ● Used numbers for footnotes, placing them all at the end of the last chapter. ● Enclosed italics font in _underscores_. ● The caret (^) serves as a superscript indicator, applicable to individual characters (like 2^d) and even entire phrases (like 1^{st}).