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After St. Giovanni, we passed through Portici, the home of Masaniello and his poor sister Fenella. Here there are delightful villas, with gardens sloping down to the bay, and close to it lies Resina, where the ascent of the mountain on horseback begins. There used to be a fine carriage road as far as St. Salvator, which is about an hour’s ride up the mountain, but the lava streams of the great eruption of 1859, have entirely destroyed it. We had not been more than ten minutes on our horses, when we came to these formidable traces of the last great eruption of the volcano. In broad thick masses the lava had flowed down the sides of the mountain into the blooming orchards and fruitful vineyards, to which the dark, dead rivers of stone presented a striking contrast.

These lava streams have a strange and diverse appearance. Sometimes the surface is roughly even and resembles immense masses of curiously twisted burnt trunks, and branches of trees. At other places it is more like a roughly ploughed field that by a sharp frost has become still more broken up than by the plough. Between the lava are large beds of ashes and cinders.

The ride to the foot of the cone, which lasted about an hour and a half, presented no difficulty, for the road rises very gradually and is broad, and lava presents a rough surface on which the horses’ feet do not slip. The cone must be climbed on foot, and is a very tiring piece of work even with the assistance of two guides, the one to pull you up with the help of a band fastened round his waist, the other pushing you up by placing one of his hands against your back. As climbing does not easily tire me I wanted to walk up, to which my husband however objected; so I had to sit down in a chair in which the guides carried me up. One guide in front held the two poles which were fastened to the chair in his hands, two men behind carried each one on his shoulder, and thus kept the chair in a horizontal position. It must be very hard work indeed to carry any body for an hour up so steep an ascent; for my husband, although he was assisted in the already described manner by two guides, found it very tiring indeed. The men did it however cheerfully, and with less appearance of fatigue than I had expected. When we had reached the top, and my husband and the men had rested awhile, we walked to the brink of the crater, and now I saw, with my own eyes, the strange and grand spectacle to the description of which I remember to have listened with almost incredulous wonder when a little school girl, and which to see I had longed for ever since we had passed Mount Etna and Stromboli.

The volcano was in a very fair state of activity. Thick volumes of smoke issued from it, and about every two minutes there was a loud report as of thunder or cannon, and then flames appeared, and ashes and stones were ejected flying high up into the air, and falling down with a rattling noise. It must not however be thought that we stood close to the terrible opening out of which rose the flames and smoke. Within the large crater from the brink of which we witnessed the spectacle, rises, what looks a Vesuvius on a smaller scale, and on the top of this, which is however below the level of the place where we stood, is the real crater. It is very fascinating to watch the eruptions, and we found it difficult to turn our backs upon it, and look a little at the scene around us in the beautiful world below.

The top of Vesuvius looks terribly dreary; the dread abode of horror and destruction. Nothing but the dark lava stones and ashes all around. There is of course no trace of animal or vegetable life visible anywhere. The sad monotony is however a little relieved by the different colours of the lava and the stones; especially by the bright yellow of the sulphur one sees in large quantities. This hideous image of death and destruction rises abruptly out of Elysian plains and vallies; its foot is washed by the azure sea dotted with emerald islands, and above smiles a limpid sky.

The view is very extensive, because Vesuvius is a mountain of considerable altitude; yet as it rises so abruptly out of the plain and sea, the view has the distinctness of no great distance, which adds much to its charm. It is lovely on all sides; but from the point that overlooks Naples, the Bay and its lovely shores, the Mediterranean, and the islands of Capri, Ischia and Procida, it is deservedly considered one of the most lovely in the world.

In going up the volcano the guides had chosen a stony, rough stream of lava, which affords a safe footing; in going down, on the contrary, they chose a bed of fine cinders and ashes, and ran or slid rapidly down. What it had taken us an hour to ascend, my husband descended in six minutes, and I, chair and all, took only about double that time. It is a very dusty affair, the black ashes whirl up under the feet of the men, and envelope one completely. Never was a tepid bath more refreshing than the one I enjoyed in the evening after I had come home from my visit to Vesuvius.

The guides had pointed out to us the lava streams of the different eruptions, and the immense stones and pieces of rock which were ejected by the volcano in 1822. In looking at these formidable pieces of rock, of which some were at a great distance from the crater, one gets an idea of the power that is working within it, and the fate of Herculaneum and Pompeii becomes intelligible. The latter place we had visited the day before. All I felt there is expressed in those few words: “Sic transit gloria mundi.” But never before had I realized so fully what the instability of all earthly greatness means. In this city of the dead I felt far, far removed from the present, and my mind for a moment seemed to realize what the future really means. A time, when the lovely city I had just left would have disappeared from the face of the earth, and its old site be a matter of doubt and uncertainty, when the language of Dante would survive perhaps in his book only, when the very features of sea and mountain around me might be changed; for had not eighteen hundred years ago, the waves of the gulf washed the walls of Pompeii that now lies far inland, and another Vesuvius burned than the one we ascended? And I saw with my mind’s eye the proud city across the sea, which I had left a few months before, as Macaulay, thinking of a time to come, describes it, a heap of ruins; and a traveller in a strange dress, speaking a language which is not yet formed, sitting on a broken arch of London Bridge, meditating like me at that moment on the truth of the words, “Sic transit gloria mundi.” We did not, as Murray recommends, enter Pompeii by the Strada dei Sepolcri, but through the Porta del Mare, and I liked it better, as the Strada de Sepolcri forms the fittest finale of the town.

I have heard of people who have been disappointed in Pompeii, others have said the same of the Acropolis. I cannot understand such people. They must be more dead than the very stones there, for they spoke to me, and what they said moved me deeply. When I first entered the city of the dead, I felt strange and bewildered like in a dream. Surely “reality is stranger than fiction.” What can be more strange than that the sun should shine again into the streets, and light up the painted walls and mosaic pavement of Pompeii. And yet so it is. That very old Pompeii, that lay for nearly eighteen centuries buried, is risen again. We walk through its streets, and tread the very stones worn out by the footsteps of Roman citizens, and by the wheels of their chariots.

We see their houses, their temples, their judgment halls, their baths and theatres, their gardens and court-yards, in which however the little fountain is silenced for ever. In walking into their houses we seem to become strangely familiar with their former inhabitants; we see everywhere traces of their being, of their virtues and vices, of their greatness and their folly. I daresay by night the spirits of the departed haunt the silent town; but it was by broad cheerful daylight that I visited it, and therefore it seemed inhabited only by pretty little lizards, which I saw flitting about on every wall, and between the delicate ferns that grow in the silent streets of Pompeii.

Of our journey from Naples to Leghorn, there is not much to be said, although it was very pleasant. We went with the Italian steamer “Principe Umberto,” which was filled with passengers, most of whom were going like ourselves to Florence, for the Dante festival, which was to be celebrated there on the 14th, 15th, and 16th of May. Several of the passengers were deputies sent to Florence from different towns in Calabria. The company was lively and merry. The piano in the saloon sounded almost the whole day, but being touched by skilful fingers it did not annoy me like the performances of the young ladies from Constantinople, or the quadrilles of the young English officer.

We arrived at Leghorn on the 13th of May, after a journey of twenty-four hours, there we remained the night, not daring to proceed to Florence, for we knew that all the hotels were over-crowded, and that we should find it difficult to get a room if we arrived late at night.

After a stroll through the town, which is a well built modern place, we went to rest, in order to be better able to bear the fatigues, and enjoy the pleasures of the days to come.

CHAPTER V.
THE DANTE FESTIVAL AT FLORENCE

 
“Del bel paese la dove il si suona.”
 

Dante.

And now the great day had come, the 14th of May, 1865! I had to rise very early, for we intended to leave by the first train, which started from Leghorn at four o’clock in the morning. Although rather averse to early rising in England, it cost me no effort here. The thought of going to Florence roused me, besides the warm bright twilight of an Italian May morning lighted up my bedroom, and the street was already full of people, all in holiday dress, and taking the road towards the station, in order to secure places in the train that was to take them to Florence.

We were not the last in the crowd, and three hours after, arrived at Florence, where Italy was going to celebrate on that day the sixth centenary anniversary of the birth of Dante. Truly this solemn event happened “in the fulness of time,” and every thing concurred to make it as splendid and happy a festival as any nation has ever celebrated. Now, for the first time, the grand idea of Dante, a free and united Italy, has almost become a complete reality, and the hearts of all his people rejoice that from the Alps to Mount Etna, one law now reigns, and hopefully trust that the other great thought of Dante, the deliverance of the Church from the burden of temporal power, will ere long also become a reality. The disappointment and irritation the Italians felt at the loss of Savoy and Nice, has almost entirely passed, while what they have gained has still all the charm of a new possession, and something of the passion and enthusiasm of honeymoon-love in it. Is it therefore to be wondered at that the people of Italy rejoiced on the 14th of May? that every countenance wore a smile, and that their lively eyes sparkled with joy!

The festival happening in Spring-time was also a favourable circumstance. Dante, near the entrance of Hell, felt comforted because it was “la bella stagione,” was it therefore not natural that it added much to the splendour and enjoyment of a fête in “blooming Florence!” Had the anniversary happened in December or January, where could the flowers have come from, and the glory of the golden sunshine round Dante’s statue. A pelting rain might easily have damped the enthusiasm of his countrymen, as it would most certainly have spoiled the pretty bonnets of his fair compatriots, that made so nice a show in seats round the Piazza Santa Croce.

Most favourable for the celebration of the anniversary of Dante’s birth, was lastly, that it happened at Florence, the very town in all the world best adapted for the celebration of such an event.

Fancy a national festival at Paris or London! The size of those towns does not admit of a general decoration; but even if such a miracle could be performed, nobody would ever see a tenth part of it, as one would be nearly dead with fatigue getting half way from the Marble Arch to St. Paul’s. Another serious drawback are the immense multitudes that inhabit these monster towns, and create unpleasant crowds, which, to all that have not nerves of iron, and great physical strength, destroy all feeling of enjoyment. None of these unfavourable conditions existed in Florence. It is but a little place, though such a gem of a town, and can therefore be uniformly decorated, changed into a gigantic palace, through whose halls and corridors the inhabitants and visitors, that do not number by millions, gaily move. And such a place Florence appeared on that day. All the houses had red, green, or yellow silk hangings falling down from their windows, and were besides richly decorated with pictures, busts, flags, flowers, and evergreens. The noble architecture of the town, the nice clean streets, which are neither too narrow to look sombre, nor too broad not to be easily spanned by garlands of flowers, all united to produce the happiest effect. On all the principal places, statues of great Italians had been placed, or trophies in remembrance of some great national event, which happened on that particular spot. There was a great number of them; for the Florentines boast, and not without some reason, that if a stone were to mark every glorious memory of the town, there would hardly be a stone in Florence that did not deserve special distinction. I could not attempt to find out what all the statues and trophies meant, but even if I had looked at them all, and remembered every inscription, I could not enumerate them here, else what is to be but a chapter would become a volume.

I must however mention a fine statue of Galileo, on the Piazza Santa Maria Novella, with the following inscription:—

 
“A Galileo.
Finirà la tua gloria
quando il genere umano
cessi di vedere il sole ed abitare la terra.”⁷
 

Near the Ponte alla Carraia, there was a statue to Goldoni, the great writer of comedies, and on the Piazza del Duomo, those of the famous architects Arnolfo and Brunelesco. On the houses where celebrated men were born, lived, or died, tablets were placed recording their names and deeds, ornamented with banners, wreaths of flowers and laurels, and often with the bust or portrait of the illustrious dead.

The Bruneleschi palace, where Michael Angelo lived and died, and which still contains his books, furniture, etc., interested me much. On a house in the Corso, I noticed the following inscription:—

 
O voi che per la via d’amor passate
volgete uno sguardo alle mure
ove naque nell’ aprile del 1266
Beatrice Portinari,
prima e purissima fiamma,
che accese il genio
del Divino Poeta
Dante Alighieri.⁸
 

The house of Giovanni Battista Strozzi, named the Blind, the great scholar and philosopher of the 17th century, was beautifully decorated. I remarked also Frescobaldi’s, the friend of Dante, which stands in the Via Maggio, and not far from it, on the Piazza Santa Trinità, the house in which Robert Dudley, an English mathematician of the 17th century lived, whose memory still survives in Florence.

In Sta. Maria Maggiore, I observed a tablet which marks the spot where Brunetto Latini, Dante’s master, is buried. Under the name was written the following line from the Divina Comedia, which is deservedly considered a grander and more lasting monument than any that could be erected in marble:

 
“M’insegnavate come l’uom s’eterna.“⁹
 

On the Piazza del Duomo, is the “Sasso di Dante,” a stone upon which the great man often sat in meditations, as lofty and grand as the glorious Dome on which he was silently gazing.

In a niche in the wall over that spot, was placed the bust of Dante, surrounded by laurel wreaths and flowers. The Piazza dei Signori, looked magnificent and most beautiful of all that part which is formed by the Loggia dei Lanzi, under whose noble arches are placed some of the finest works of art: the Theseus by Benvenuto Cellini, the Rape of the Sabines by Giovanni di Bologna, and others. This gem of architecture is at all times splendid, but now its walls were covered with the most exquisite Gobelin tapestry, after designs by Michael Angelo. They represented the history of Adam and Eve, from their creation to their expulsion from Paradise.

The greatest care had however been bestowed on the decoration of the Piazza Santa Croce, where the inauguration of the national monument to Dante was to take place. This piazza is a large oblong space, whose houses were covered with flowers and rich red silk hangings, and the background was formed by the splendid marble façade of the church of Santa Croce. The piazza had been boarded and carpeted all over, and raised seats were erected for the spectators who had obtained tickets. When these seats and the windows round the piazza were all filled, principally with ladies, in the most elegant spring toilets, the effect was the gayest imaginable.

Behind the seats were placed thirty-eight paintings imitating bas-relief, illustrating the life of Dante. The first represented him when, nine years old, he first saw Beatrice, in the house of her father; the last showed his burial in Ravenna. There were also the portraits of about forty celebrated contemporaries, translators, or commentators of Dante.

Round the piazza were placed rich banners of Florence and Tuscany, the poles of which were festooned with wreaths of laurels and flowers. On the pole of each banner was placed a tablet with some verses from the great poem of Dante; many of which anticipated the great political and religious events of the day, for the accomplishment of which 550 years ago, Dante had longed with passionate desire. I noted down a few, which I will transcribe here.

 
Soleva Roma, che’l buon mondo feo,
Duo Soli aver, che l’una e l’altra strada
Facean vedere, e del mondo e di Deo.
L’un l’altro ha spento, ed è giunta la spada
Col pastorale: e l’un coll ’altro insieme
Per viva forza mal convien che vada.¹⁰
 

Purgatorio, Canto 26.

 
Di oggimai, che la chiesa di Roma
Per confondere in sè duo reggimenti
Cade nel fango, e sè brutta e la soma.¹¹
 

Purg. Canto 26.

 
Ahi, Costantin, di quanto mal fu matre
Non la tua conversion, ma quella dote,
Che da te prese il primo ricco patre!¹²
 

Inferno, Canto 19.

 
Non fu nostra intenzion, ch’a destra mano,
De’nostri successor parte sedesse,
Parte dall’altra, del popal cristiano,
Nè che le chiavi, che mi fûr concesse,
Divenisser segnacolo in vessillo,
Che contra i battezzati combattesse.¹³
 

Paradiso, Canto 27.

 
Lo maggior don, che Dio per sua larghezza
Fêsse creando, ed alla sua bontate
Più conformato, e quel ch’ei più apprezza,
Fu della volontà la libertate
Di che le creature intelligenti,
E tutte e sole, furo e son dotate.¹⁴
 

Paradiso, Cant. v.

Through the happy crowd that thronged the festive streets of Florence, we wound our way to the Piazza St. Croce, after having rested a little while at the house of a friend, who had kindly invited us to stay with him during the festival, as it was almost impossible to get any good accommodation in the over-crowded hotels.

We arrived at the Piazza soon after ten o’clock, and found a place near to the throne, erected in the centre of the Piazza, on which the King took his seat during the ceremony. I could therefore understand much of what the Gonfaloniere and Father Giuliani said when they addressed him.

We had not waited long, when the ringing of the bells of the Palazzo Vecchio, announced that the procession had begun, and before long the music of the band was heard. The guards on horseback, who rode in front of the procession, appeared and cleared the way. Then came a band of music, followed by the representatives of the Italian press, who were succeeded by those of the Italian artists, among which were several ladies, the only females who took part in the procession. Foremost among them I noticed Mdme. Ristori, who walked along with the grace and dignity of a queen.

The ladies wore, as a head covering, instead of bonnets, the pretty and becoming black Italian veil. And then came an endless procession of deputations from every town in Italy, occasionally intercepted by bands of music. Each deputation carried a banner, the beauty and elegance of which surpassed anything of the kind I had ever seen.

When the whole procession had arrived, and ranged itself round the Piazza, and more than three hundred silk banners waved and glittered in the sunshine, the sight was magnificent beyond description. The beautiful banners were, after the ceremony, presented by the different deputations to the municipality of Florence, and will be kept as a remembrance of the 14th of May, 1865.

The deputations of the different towns and provinces followed each other in an alphabetical order, with the exception of the municipal bodies of Florence and Ravenna, representing Dante’s birth-place, and the town where he died and was buried; these were the last in the procession. The red fleur-de-lis of Florence was loudly cheered, so were the arms of Ravenna, and the same honour was bestowed on the sign of the Wolf suckling twin boys, which was carried by a deputation from Rome. This banner had crape attached to it. The cheers became most enthusiastic when the winged Lion of Venice appeared, also with the sign of mourning, and followed by a long train of exiles from that unhappy place. The generous and easily moved Italians were loud in their expression of sympathy; the men shouted and clapped their hands, the women burst into tears and waved their handkerchiefs.

I noticed also a deputation from Trieste. I am no politician, so I may be mistaken; but I thought Austria had an undeniable right to that province, and therefore looked upon its deputation rather as an intruder. And I must not forget to mention two Dominican Friars, who had come with us from Naples, and were sent from some fraternity there. The banner they carried bore the inscription “Roma per Capitale,” and they received many signs of good-will as they passed in the procession, being the only priests that had taken any part in the festival, or shown any feeling that was not indifference or even hostility to it.

The priesthood of Florence behaved in a most ungracious manner. All the beautiful churches of Florence, which thousands of eager strangers wished to see, were closed, except for a few hours daily when mass was said; and money, which usually opens those doors so readily, was of no avail; so that many who could not stay after the festival was over, saw but few, and those often at great inconvenience, being obliged to profit by the short time of service when they were open.

Soon after the procession had ranged itself round the Piazza, and the bands were playing joyful tunes, loud cheers announced the approach of the King, the first King of Italy, the representative of its unity and liberty! The Rè Galantuomo took his seat opposite the veiled statue, and was, as soon as the cheers had subsided, addressed by the Gonfaloniere, who was, like the rest of the municipal body, dressed in his robes of office, which closely resemble those worn by the magistrates at the time of Dante. The moment he had concluded his speech, the covering dropped, and there stood in the midst of his people, indescribably grand, with an expression both austere and kind, sad and happy, Dante the divine. There was a long pause, then a murmur, then loud cheering. It was a moment never to be forgotten. I looked at the statue again next day, and found some fault with it; it takes too wide a stride, the right arm is thrown too far backwards, but at the moment of uncovering I observed none of those defects; it appeared grand and imposing, and the expression of the face worthy of the great soul that once had animated its features.

But where was at that moment Italy’s Hero; he, who had done more than any one living or dead for the realization of the great thought of Dante’s life; he, who resembled the great dead more than any living Italian, in his unselfish, undying love of his country, in his pure and blameless life? A solitary exile, on a bare rock of Caprera sat Giuseppe Garibaldi on that joyful day. Close by the side of the King, as when he entered the Cathedral of Naples, there Italy ought to have prepared a seat for him. But he seemed forgotten by every body. No where did I see a bust that portrayed his noble features; I heard no voice raise the cry, “Evviva Garibaldi!”

Thus let it be! But surely the day will come, as came the Dante day of Florence, when Italy will pay her tribute of honour to her Hero, as she did that day to her Poet. Then will multitudes flock together, and men looking at his noble image, will call out with beating hearts, “Behold our deliverer,” and women will weep, and lifting up their children will cry, “To him we owe it, that we are Italians.” And I missed the presence of another man, of one who, although in another way, laboured as earnestly and successfully for his country. But Camillo Cavour after a life of toil and trouble, rests peacefully at Santena. He saw but the dawn of the bright day that has now arisen over his country. When the king and the people had for some time gazed at the figure that had appeared so suddenly in their midst, Padre Giuliani made a short speech, of which the words “Onorate l’altissimo Poeta, la sua grand anima è placata,”¹⁵ made a deep impression. Amidst the sounds of a joyful chorus, singing a hymn to Dante, I left the Piazza Santa Croce.

In the coolness of the night, after having rested from the fatigues of the morning, we took an open carriage for a drive through the illuminated town. I had never seen an illumination abroad, and was enchanted. Oh how little do we understand such things in England! I had always thought the blazing gas-stars, crowns, Prince of Wales’ feathers, and V. R.’s, stuck against some dark shapeless building, very meaningless and hideous, and for the last ten years nothing could ever persuade me to turn out on an illumination night. It was in Florence I learned that such a spectacle can be imposing and lovely. We commit two glaring faults in our illuminations in England. The first is that we employ gas, instead of oil lamps, which glares and dazzles instead of illuminating; secondly, instead of lighting up our buildings architecturally, we stick some ornament against them, which is perfectly unmeaning and arbitrary. I wonder that any one who is not a child, can care to look at a thing only because it is bright. The Florentines had illuminated their beautiful town, especially its most imposing buildings, with lamps arranged in a way to bring out every outline in a blaze of light. The stones of the walls appeared transparent, as if the light which was merely reflected by them, proceeded from them. The wonderful structures of the Palazzo Vecchio, the Palazzo della Podestà, the Palazzo Pitti, and of the Duomo, served as a scaffolding for the fairy palaces that burned through the night. And if possible the effect they produced was even surpassed by the illumination of the Lung’ Arno, where the long rows of innumerable lights along the banks, and round the arches of the bridges, were reflected in the placid waters of the Arno, in which they formed long lines of golden light, and wonderfully increased the effect of the illumination above. How I wish that we could be treated to a similar sight in London. Why are the noble mansions, for instance the Club-houses in St. James, not lighted up in this way, instead of being actually disfigured by senseless ornaments, which I hear are nevertheless very costly? Will none of the honourable members of those clubs, who have seen and admired an illumination of St. Peter’s at Rome, or of the Pitti Palace at Florence, treat the London sightseers to such a spectacle? To hope that such a thing should be done with the houses of Parliament, or St. Paul’s, is perhaps too bold a wish.

In the principal squares of the town were stationed bands of music and choirs; and thus a happy crowd that behaved with a gentleness and politeness, which astonished me as much as the illumination, moved along through the cool pleasant night to the sounds of joyful music. And thus ended the first day of Dante’s great festival.

On the second day there was a matinée musicale, where a “Hymn to Beatrice,” a chorus called “Dante’s return to Florence,” and other pieces, were sung, and in the evening there was a grand concert in the Teatro Pagliano, where a “Dante Symphony,” the “Ave Maria” of Dante, and other appropriate pieces were executed, but as I was present at neither, I cannot say any thing about them. I spent several hours that day in the Palazzo della Podestà, and examined the “Espositione Dantesca.”

Its object was to make us as much as possible acquainted with all that related to Dante and his time. There was a large collection of portraits of Dante, of which an excellent copy of one by Giotto, pleased me most. There were also several pictures of which he was the subject, but they had little intrinsic value. Among the paintings illustrating some part of the Divina Comedia, I noticed but one good picture, a modern one by Benvenuto d’Arezzi. It represents Ugolino and his sons; it is however, not so good as the one by Reynolds, at Knole House, and which depicts this terrible story almost as powerfully as the twenty-third Canto of the Inferno. But there were seventy-four pen and ink drawings, illustrating the Inferno, by Professor Scarramuzzo of Parma, which, in my opinion, were the gems of the whole exhibition. Fine photographs of these beautiful drawings were exhibited with them. My husband wrote for copies of them to Parma, as they could not be bought in Florence; they were sent, and are the most precious remembrances to me of the Dante festival.