rance; but I would ask, where in that collection are the paintings of power to strike the heart or thrill the frame, or to reach the fountains of tears? I have asked a distinguished artist the question, and he did not name one. Now all the arts-eloquence, poetry, music, sculpture, painting-are nothing else but modes of addressing the mind. And the three first-named arts can all furnish many productions that do address the mind with all the thrilling and subduing power, that I expected to find in this celebrated collection of fine paintings in Florence. Ought it not to be stated, in fact, as the distinctive merit of the Pitti Gallery, that it has remarkably few poor paintings, that it exhibits a vast deal of the finish and perfection of the art, but not of its highest power? Thus much I distinctly perceive and feel, but no more. deed, there are to me much more powerful paintings in the Gallery of Florence, than in the grand duke's palace.

In

The churches of Florence I like not at all; neither the outside nor the inside, neither the form nor the finish. They are of no known style of architecture; neither Grecian, nor Gothic, nor anything else. They are built, the most of them, in the cathedral form; that is, with a high central nave, and a lower range, or nave, on either side; and they require the Gothic finish and decoration, to bear out, or to relieve the essential deformity of this kind of structure; but they have it not—not one of them. Then the finish and aspect of the interior is generally tawdry; altars of various coloured marbles, and Virgin Marys dressed out in silks, and satins, and spangles; and, worst of all, the heads in many of the paintings having miserable tin, or possibly (it is all the same) silver crowns stuck upon them. The interior of the cathedral is indeed an exception; the pillars are of dark-coloured stone, and the general aspect is grave and solemn. But then the exterior is as monstrous a mass of ugliness as I ever saw; a huge mountain of a thing, checkered all over, if it can be credited, with intermingled white and black strips of marble. It is very much as if you should attempt to beautify a mountain by dressing it with checked gingham. The architect must have got his idea from some mantuamaker, or magazin des modes. And yet the York Minster could not have cost one-tenth as much as this cathedral.

Indeed, there has been a rage for praising Florence, which I cannot understand. I give my impression as it is-thinking honesty and independence absolute duties in a traveller. It may be because I have seen Florence under autumn clouds, or under some other clouds; but certainly I have been tempted to ask whether there be not some extraneous cause for this unequalled admiration, either in its history, or its great men, or in the fact that it is the first grand specimen of antiquity that meets the traveller coming from the north; or in a fashion getting currency in the world, nobody can tell why. For the houses and public buildings of Florence are not beautiful (I except the Campanile, and the tower of the Palazzo Vecchio); its squares are not beautiful; its streets are not beautiful; its environs-with the exception of a single ride down the Arno-are not beautiful. It reposes rather gracefully, indeed, in the lap of surrounding hills; but those hills are covered over there are no stately trees-covered over with the least beautiful foliage in the world, that of olive trees. There are some vineyards too; but these vineyards are, like those in Germany and Switzerland,

perfectly uninteresting. The olive and the vine are names of romance to us in America; but they compare not at all with our orchards and our meadows.

I have been to-day to "the top of Fiesole"-to the monastery where Milton spent some weeks. Went into a chapel near by, said to have been a temple of Bacchus. The foundation and pillars of such a temple may have been left here, to experience the singular fate of being consecrated to this new purpose; for Fiesole was an ancient Roman town, and some ruins of it are still to be seen. Cataline's army, at one time, had its camp at Fiesole. The view from the top, of an extensive country, dotted over with white houses, amid the dark olives, is very striking. Both the produce must be great, and the mode of living frugal, one would think, for so dense a population to be sustained upon this tract of country.

November 1.-I rode a mile or two down the vale of the Arno to-day -the country too low, and too level; and certainly not to be compared, for a moment, with the intervals of the Connecticut or Housatonic; nor with twenty districts of country in England or Scotland.

The churches are filled with fresco and other paintings, the most of which I cannot be made to believe are worthy of much attention. They are either ordinary, or in bad lights, and the frescoes, most of them, are high away up in domes, where the eye cannot reach to discern their expression, if they have any. There are, however, some frescoes of Massacio, in the church del Carmine, and a Madonna of his in the cloister of the church del Annunciata, that are much admired, and are to me the best in fresco that I have seen. The cloisters, I may observe here, are not the secluded places I had been led to expect. On the contrary, they are open to the public. They are around an open and hollow square, within the monastery, and built in the form of Alcoves, or recesses, under the arches of which are paved walks. Here the monks walk; there is always a sunny side in a cool day, or a shady side in a hot day; and here anybody enters who pleases, to look at the fresco paintings with which the walls are usually covered. Some of these paintings represent, in series, the life of a saint; his conversion, sufferings, miracles, &c.; others are employed upon other sacred themes. Sad places they seemed to me, when I considered the solitary, weary lives that are worn out here-a single cypress, standing in one of the squares, with its dark foliage, and tapering, isolated form, seemed to to me the very genius loci—the emblem of humanity in these desolate cloisters.

The monks, however, as they pass about the streets, do not look like an unhappy set of people. The Franciscans, especially (though they do take their name from such a dismal saint as the painters, at least, have represented St. Francis), appear very cheerful, and are said to be in great favour with the people. The monkish dress consists of a tunic or gown, and narrow strip of cloth hanging in front, called the scapulary, and a cape or cowl, as the case may be, falling on the shoulders. That of the Dominicans is white; that of the Franciscans brown: the fabric of both a coarse, thin woollen. Some of the monks come so near being barefooted, that they wear only sandals. They live partly on charity, and partly on old foundations- many of which, however, were broken up by Bonaparte-the great ravager, despoiler, robber of the

Continent. And yet pictures, busts, statues of him are everywhere, as if he had been the world's great benefactor.

November 2.-To-day I have seen two or three things that interested me greatly, but I can only note them: the wonderful exhibitions of the human form in wax, in the Natural History collections-every part, and every possible section of the human frame, said to be represented with perfect accuracy; a painting, by young Sabatelli of Milan (only twenty years of age) of a Catholic miracle, the object of which is to convince a sceptic of the real presence-I advise picture dealers to inquire for Sabatelli: and the studio of the sculptor Bartolini. Such beautiful statues are there, as persuade one that the glories of the ancient art may revive.

Yesterday was All Saints' day, and to-day, All Souls'. The bells have rung, scarce more constantly than they do other days-that could hardly be but they have rung in concert, in peals and chimes, till I have been utterly weary of them. What the sick do in such circumstances I cannot tell. Perhaps Florentine ears are so accustomed to the sound, that it makes no difference to them.

This evening, just at the close of twilight, as I stepped into one of the churches, I witnessed the singular spectacle, if spectacle it could be called, of a preacher addressing his congregation in almost total darkness. Perhaps it was considered as appropriate to the funereal character of the day; the object being, as I understand it, to pray for all souls in purgatory. Of the two, my sympathies, certainly, are entirely with All Saints' day. A festival to commemorate all saints, a day to remember all good men, a season around which is gathered the mighty host of those who, in faith and patience, in suffering and triumph, have gone to heaven-is one which it would be grateful to observe. I would not object to the invocation of saints, were I assured they could hear us. Why should it be thought a thing so monstrous, that I should ask some sainted friend that has gone to heaven-passed through all that I am suffering-to help me, or to intercede for me, if he knows my condition? I desire this of friends on earth-friends clothed with the weakness of humanity. Why might I not breathe such a thought to some angel spirit, whose wings may hover around me in mid air, though I see him not? But this would be the invocation of saints. I suppose it is the equivocal use of the word prayer, that creates a part of our Protestant horror of this practice. We say, it is praying to the saints; but the enlightened Catholic doubtless would say, it is not adoration-not praying, as to the Supreme.

CHAPTER XIV.

JOURNEY FROM FLORENCE TO ROME -THE DOMINICAN FRIAR-UPPER VALE OF THE ARNO AREZZO- PERUGIA ASSISI-VALE OF THE CLITUMNUSTERNI-CIVITA CASTELLANA-BACCANO-FIRST SIGHT OF ROME.

On the morning of the third of November, some time before daybreak, I took my seat in a coach for Rome. As the light dawned, it disclosed, opposite to me, the full but strong and manly features of a young Dominican friar. His amiable countenance and gentleman-like bearing, at once awakened an interest in me, which was not a little increased when I saw him, as the light became sufficient for the purpose, take his breviary, and with an eye losing all its fire in the deepest sadness, begin to read the lessons of the day. I think I never saw anything more touching than the sadness of that eye. There was sincerity, I could not doubt, but there was evidently great unhappiness. Yet it was not the unhappiness of conscious guilt; but it seemed to me the unutterable distress which an honest mind must feel, in performing heartless and reluctant devotions. Indeed, that it was a commanded service, and one that he was obliged by his vow to perform, he distinctly intimated to me in apology for thus occupying himself. After he had read about an hour, he suddenly shut the volume, clapping the covers together with both hands, like a schoolboy his spelling-book; and the closing of the breviary seemed to act as much like a spell upon him, as the opening. His eye instantly brightened, his countenance recovered at once all its cheerfulness and amenity, and we began to confer together like "men of this world." I inquired of him concerning his order, and its duties and pursuits; and learned that he was going to Rome to pursue his studies, though he was already so far advanced that he was permitted to preach. I told him that I too was un prete. "No," he said, un ministro." So here was an opportunity, I suppose, my Italian had served for it, to enter into the whole controversy be

if

tween the Catholic and Protestant churches.

66

But there was another question, I confess, in which, for the moment, I took a deeper interest; and that was about the effect of his duties upon his own character. When he understood what my objects in travel were, he said, "You are going to Rome for pleasure, but I am going for prayer. "But," I said, 'will you not see the ruins, the galleries, the pictures, and statues?" He seemed to look very indifferently upon these objects; said that he might see them, but that was not what he went for; and then repeated the declaration, that he went for prayer, while I was going for pleasure. "But," I said, “prayer is a pleasure." He replied emphatically, pointing to his heart, "With the mind-yes;" and then laying his hand on the breviary, "but with the book-no.' Poor fellow! he must nevertheless pray with the book, and with that eye of unutterable sadness, an hour every morning, and I know not how much beside. How difficult it is to settle the questions that arise between the form and the spirit of devotion! And is it not

impossible, in fact, to lay down any rule that shall suit all cases? I have no doubt, that, for almost all men, forms are good, to a certain extent but what that extent is, must depend on many considerations -character, education, temperament, circumstances. And it is not unfortunate, perhaps, that there are various dispensations of Christianity to meet these various wants. All could not, in the present state of men's minds, be interested in the same dispensation. Were it not better, then, that different sects, instead of keeping up a perpetual strife, should harmoniously consent to differ; and thus walk in brotherly love, each one in its chosen way, to heaven?

But to leave the consideration of the great pilgrimage, for our journey: I found the upper vale of the Arno a pleasanter country than any I had before seen in Italy, since I left Lake Maggiore. Yet there is in this country none of the autumnal beauty of our trees and forests; the variety of trees is wanting here, and probably the sharp and sudden frosts. As for variety, field after field, mile after mile, and day after day (for two or three days from Florence), presented scarcely anything but the olive and a peculiar species of poplar, planted and trimmed for the vine to run upon. For this purpose the trees are cut into the singular shape of cups; or, taking the trunk and branches together, of a wineglass.

We expected to reach Arezzo the first day, but stopped for the night ten miles short of it. The next morning we passed through Arezzo, and spent an hour or two in walking about it. It is the birthplace of Petrarch, and of the painter Vasari. We saw Petrarch's house, and the painting by Vasari, of the banquet of Ahasuerus. This painting is in the abbey of the monks of Monte Cassino, and in the church of this abbey is The Cupola in Perspective," a very wonderful painting by the Jesuit Del Pozzo. A flat ceiling is over your head; but you find it difficult to persuade yourself that it is not a dome of the depth of twenty feet. The cathedral of Arezzo is a fine building, and the interior, especially, is grave, solemn, and impressive. The entire ceiling is covered with paintings in fresco.

CORTONA we passed by, and came on to Passignano for the night. This village is situated on the Lake Thrasymene, the scene of the great battle between Hannibal and the Consul Flaminius-a battle so fiercely contested, says Livy, that although there was an earthquake that day, which was felt throughout Italy, and shook down houses in the cities and villages, not one of the combatants knew of it. The battle ground is clearly described, and plainly to be seen from the road. The lake is a large and fine sheet of water.

PERUGIA. The finest churches in Perugia are the cathedral, the church of the Dominicans, with a magnificent window of stained glass, and the church of San Pietro, filled with paintings. Among them are several of Perugino, the early master of Raphael, and several too of Raphael before he had escaped from the hard and dry manner of Perugino. Still there is about Perugino a softness of touch, from which Raphael doubtless derived that remarkable trait of his manner.

We passed Assisi, the birthplace of Metastasio, leaving it on the left. It is mostly inhabited by Franciscan monks; some of whom we saw in the church of the Madonna degli Angeli, looking dismally enough. The church was undergoing repairs, the dome having fallen; but amid