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work, and confined him in a prison for the remainder of his life; the story, indeed, assigns a baser motive for his supposed detention, saying it was "because he might not build such a curiosity in any other city." The second opinion is, that the obliquity of the tower has been produced by a lapse in the soil; and, indeed, Forsyth says, that the observatory, and a belfry in the neighbourhood, have declined in the same manner. We did not ascertain the fact. It must be granted, this opinion seems the more probable; it is fair to suppose that even though the architect might think proper to make an experiment upon the ugly and irregular, he would still have preferred comfort to uneasiness, and would surely have made his platforms parallel to the horizon, so that the visitor would not need to wish his legs would shift alternately from short to long, as he wound up the ascent. It may deserve to be remarked, with reference to the obliquity of other buildings, that the baptistry, and the cathedral, the first probably thrice, the second ten times the weight of the leaning tower, and both situated within a few paces of it, do not appear to have swerved the breadth of a line from the perpendicular. Of these two buildings we shall say nothing, since we can say nothing new; they both, however, merit the traveller's attention.

The Campo Santo is a large cloistered rectangle, faced with Gothic arcades, and inclosing a cemetery. The cloisters nearly all round are painted in fresco, and these paintings, though they have been ex

posed to the open air for four centuries, are but little injured. Their subjects are sometimes taken from Scripture, sometimes from the legendary lives of saints, but occasionally they embody the wildest phantoms of Catholic theology, and demonology. Painters of old had a pretty wide range of subjects; earth, heaven, and hell; men, angels, and devils.*

In these frescoes, all these subjects frequently enter into one picture; we remember one particularly, where there was on earth a gaping multitude marveling at a saint; men, women, and children, religious and secular, exulting in heaven among bands of angels, and ditto ditto groveling in hell, tormented by hundreds of devils, tailed and horned in the regular manner. There was a monk, in the same picture, in a very ticklish situation, being at the same time pulled different ways by an angel and a devil; the former trying to carry him up to Heaven, the latter tugging him down to hell. The devil. seemed to have the best of it. The old Italian painters and writers were accustomed to treat the clergy with very little ceremony; indeed the Italians, with all their reverence for religion, neither have, nor have ever had much reverence for its professors: in this they are very different from the Spaniards and Portuguese, who at any period would have been ready to burn any man who dared to say such shocking things of the religieux as Boccaccio and others have said, or to place them in such disgraceful or ludicrous situations as those so often chosen for them by Italian painters. The chief treasures

The frescoes of the Campo Santo from their immense size will easily admit a large number of figures, and a variety of subjects, but we once had the pleasure of seeing all the subjects we have enumerated wedged, as it were, into a picture which did not measure more than twenty-two inches by sixteen. We met with this little jewel in an Auberge in Haute Bourgogne, where we stopped one morning to breakfast. This picture was divided into three compartments,-earth, heaven, and hell: on the earth, there was a battle between the French and English; or rather there had been a battle, for the English were seen in the distance scampering away as fast as their legs would carry them, and the French were masters of the field. On the left hand side, the French soldiers, all young and gay and without a scratch, their swords drawn, their guns shouldered, and their flags, inscribed with mille Victoires, flying in the air, were seen marching up a staircase to heaven; where the Almighty, dressed in a flame-coloured robe de chambre turned up with blue, was waiting to receive them; on the opposite side, the English soldiers, without flag or gun or sword, old, ragged, and maimed, and half of them on crutches, were hobbling down a ladder to the devil. We observed a few anachronisms, and other blemishes, in this excellent picture; but, as we would not be invidious, we shall not mention, any more than that some of our generals, known by their names being written under them, were put in hell by anticipation; and that the English soldiers spoke French.

of the Campo Santo are contained in a chapel at one end: there are several pieces of the earliest painters, the very first essays of the arts after their introduction; it is the infancy of painting, and it is an infancy of no promise. The figures are tame, stiff, ungraceful, ill-coloured things; without motion, without passion, without meaning, looking as though they were asleep with their eyes open; the faces are generally round and pretty, but they are never shaded or lighted up by thought. Gold is lavished over them with a prodigal hand; sometimes on grounds, sometimes in ornaments on robes and girdles, and always with a bad effect. These pictures are all done on boards, as indeed all the early pictures are, whence probably is derived the Italian denomination for a picture, tavola. The painters of these pictures were the legitimate successors of the Greek daubers who came into Italy about the beginning of the 13th century. In Italy painting was afterwards carried to the highest pitch of excellence: in Greece it seems to have remained almost stationary. We saw not long ago, several pieces by a living Greek artist, a man of some reputation in his own country, and really they were counterparts to those in the Campo Santo; the same hard lines, the same want of design, the legs tied together, the arms fastened to the sides, the same gold grounds, the same tone and colour. We must not forget to observe that there are, in the little chapel of which we have been speaking, several pieces of considerable merit, and belonging to the best age of painting. In the cloisters there are several old sarcophagi and some modern monuments; in a corner is one of plain white marble, erected to the memory of Pignatti, a native of Pisa, the author of" Favole," and of many elegant didactic miscellaneous poems, all of which are written in a very amiable spirit. After walking several times round the cloisters, we at length left the sacred ground, regretting that we could not devote more time to the examination of this extraordinary place. On returning towards our lodging, we passed a shop, where a great quantity of ornamental figures, worked in alabaster, attracted our attention: we entered the shop, and

had some conversation with the master, whose name is Ranieri; he is clever fellow, and an excellent workman; nay more, he is an artist, for some of his pieces would really do honour to a sculptor; but, though very ingenious and industrious he is poor, and we suppose will always remain so, unless he can find his way to a richer city than Pisa. The poverty of the place compelled him to employ himself generally upon trifling things of little price, and, as he could not avoid feeling they were unworthy of his talents, he had sunk into the true artist's melancholy; he told us the best alabaster is dug at Castellini Maritimi, but that he often used that found at Valterra, though rather yellow, because it was cheaper. There are few things which an artist feels more bitterly than being obliged to use inferior materials.

Pisa is one of the cheapest cities in Italy, and it is said to be very healthy, but it is sad and silent: there is no bustle, no throng of men, no thunder of trade, and almost every face wears a grave and melancholy air: it would be a very agreeable residence for stu dents, and would be particularly advantageous for those who purposed to travel into Greece, as there is a college of Greeks here, a great many students, and every facility for acquiring a knowledge of modern Greek. The amiable old Bishop of Pisa is an admirable Greek scholar, and is easy of access; he expressed the rather singular opinion that modern Greek would by cultivation become superior to the ancient. We talked with one of the Greek students, of whom there are a great number in Pisa, a young man full of animation and intelligence; he was born on the promontory of Leucadia. There are a great many Greeks studying in different parts of Europe; it is said 100,000; one meets them every where: this system has probably: produced the revolution, and if it be persevered in, the Turks, we apprehend, must finally succumb. We slept at Pisa at an excellent inn, and the next morning, when we rose, we found the day fine, but the wind still contrary; after a little debate, we determined that the vessel would not sail that day, and that therefore we might as well go and see Lucca. The re

gular coach road to Lucca is about fourteen miles, but as we travelled by the Cavalli di San Francisco, we went by a short cut, not exceeding eight miles, across the mountain of San Giuliano, which, by the bye, is the one to which Dante refers in the following passage of his Conte Ugo lino:

Questi pareva a me maestro e donno, Cacciando 'l lupo e i lupicini al monte, Perchè i Pisan veder Lucca non ponno.' Inferno, Canto xxxiii.

We found the ascent steep and breathing, and the side of the mountain stony and naked. From the summit the view is extensive, and rather fine; a wide plain, cut here and there by narrow canals, or by the Arno, stretches backward to the sea, the City of Leghorn standing on its extremest edge; before and beneath us lay Lucca, walled and ramparted, and the Lucchese territory all fertile, and all well cultivated. We descended by a path as rough as that by which we had got up, and soon reached the gates of Lucca; on entering, two half-soldier and half-citizen looking fellows, with rusty guns on their shoulders, stopped us, and asked for our passports. We were rather disconcerted by this question, but, after a moment's consideration, we answered we were Englishmen; that our passports were in the police at Leghorn; that we had been to see Pisa, and had come on to have a peep at his city, without supposing that a passport was at all necessary. "How," said the fellow, "don't you know that this is a different state? a different government?" We told him we had not once thought of that circumstance, but that if we had, we still should not have thought a passport necessary. The clown thought this was a slight on his government, or else a disrespect of the laws of states; he knitted his brows, pronounced an emphatic word of two syllables, which often salutes the ear of the traveller in Italy, and even talked about our being sent back to

Leghorn with an escort; here, however, his brother in arms, who was either of a gentler or of a more covetous disposition, prit le mot, ob served we were Viaggiatori Inglesi, galanteuomini, &c. &c, and that, perhaps, permission might be obtain ed for our entrance. We slipped a few paoli into his hands, and begged him to see what could be done: he retired within the gate, and in a short time returned, accompanied by a tall meagre personage, who after some tedious questions settled the following preliminaries: 1st, That we should leave our names, qualities, whence we came, whither we were going, &c. &c. in writing, with him: 2d, That we should take an officer with us to the inn at which we put up. All this was agreed to; and we entered, with a corrected sense of its importance, into the serene city of Lucca. Our first care was to satisfy our hunger; our walk over the mountain had given us, as they say, a charming appetite, indeed too charming, for it kept us at table a couple of hours; and here, once for all, we may observe what a pity it is that travellers are not exempted from the common imperfections of humanity, such as hunger, thirst, drowsiness, and fatigue. How provoking and how humiliating it is to detect ourselves thinking about roast fowl, or fish, or mutton cutlets, while in the very act of entering an old and magnificent city; but so it is, with shame and sorrow we confess it, we feel all those vulgar wants just like any common person; we have no particular dispensation, not we. so late before we could spare time to stalk up and down, and stare about us, that we can say but little of Lucca: it is more populated than Pisa, and its palaces and buildings are still grander, still more signorili, The walls, for which it is famous all over Italy, run round the city, and being level and extremely broad, form a fine run for carriages, and an excellent promenade, and command

This one, methought, as master of the sport,
Rode forth to chase the gaunt wolf, and his whelps,
Unto the mountain which forbids the sight
Of Lucca to the l'isan.

Cary's Translation.

It was

On this passage a solemn commentator on Dante observes, that such is really the fact that if Mon S. Giuliano were removed the inhabitants of either city might see the towers of the other. Such silly observations are not uncommon among commentators.

very pleasant views of the neighbourhood, the whole of which is most admirably cultivated. The women are pretty, and there is an air of douceur and politeness in every body one meets. While we were walking about, the beat of two or three crazy drums announced the Uscita of the reigning Princess from her palace: she passed us in a shabby old carriage, the blinds of which were drawn, so that we had not the pleasure of seeing her. She was going to visit some favourite church. Every person to whom we spoke about her complained that she was for ever in church, or else closeted up with a parcel of priests; that she was a devotee, and a devotee of a gloomy creed; but this is the family complaint.

At four o'clock in the afternoon we set off for Pisa, returning the same way by which we came; and as we met with no adventure worth relating on our return, you may as well imagine us at once in the very point whence we set out, to wit, strolling up and down in the square before the Governor's house, at Leghorn.

We soon became very anxious for the sailing of the vessel, but we found the captain was just as unwilling, as we were willing, to go: in fact, he was loitering about here in order to pick up some freight. As this fellow's character opened upon us, we found it composed of very pretty elements; cowardice, falsehood, and dishonesty; avarice, meanness, and insolence; nature had made him obstinate in his designs, and habit had made him patient of reproach, indifferent to the scorn and ill-will with which he was looked upon by all who knew him; he "kept the even tenour of his way," praying, lying, swearing, and cheating, in infinite good humour with himself, and armed in apathy that the sting of ridicule could but rarely pierce. He told us one day, when we were quarreling with him, that if he chose he could set up his rest at the Torre del Greco, his native place, and walk about with a gold-headed cane in his hand for the remainder of his life; and, said he, "though you think nothing of me, in my own town I am looked upon as a little king." We have no doubt that this was true,

for he had five vessels of his own on the sea; three were employed in fishing at the mouth of the Tiber, and two were employed in commerce; the cargo of his vessel, consisting of rice and cheese, belonged to himself, and he had several bags of dollars on board, which he had not had occasion to employ; but notwithstanding his hoard of dirty gain, he was haunted by a strong and fixed unwillingness to take up the smallest part of it for his pleasures: he would never buy a cigar, though he was fond of smoking; to be sure, he never scrupled to beg or to steal one, and while we were with him he was never absolutely driven to extremity: his business often took him to the Café, where he sometimes had occasion to remain two or three hours, but he never had the spirit to order a whole glass of punch at once, though, perhaps, in that time he drank eight or ten half glasses. We were, of course, very impatient to be gone, and our impatience increased every hour, for we had no amusement to divert our thoughts from the consideration that we were most miserably wasting our time. Leghorn seems the very home of vulgarity and dulness; it contains nothing fine in art or nature, no antiquity, no curiosity; the only thing which deserves any attention is the English burial ground, where marble tombs, in the green shade of solemn cypresses, serve as memorials of the pride which clings to man's heart in his darkest hour, which follows him to the "narrow house," and makes him seek distinction even in the dust. There is a plain and modest monument here to which every Englishman repairs: a thousand names are scratched upon it, sure, though unsightly testimonials, that no common dust lies there. Poor Smollett! the ocean rolls between his country and his grave; but, perhaps, he is fortunate, for here he will be remembered, and there he will not be forgotten. On the opposite side lies his wife; we would rather have seen them together, but it matters not much. We never remember Smollett without calling to mind the fine verse in which he personifies Independence, and which seems to us to be worth pages of most modern poetry:

Thy spirit, Independence, let me share :
Lord of the lion-heart and eagle-eye;
Thy steps I follow with my bosom bare,
Nor heed the storm that howls along the
sky.

Few persons could say this with more truth than Smollett; but we forget ourselves; we have no time to talk about poetry. There is an epitaph here, which is, perhaps, the most ridiculous one that was ever inscribed on marble; it is one written by a lady for herself, and placed there in compliance with her express and positive directions: we shall not copy it, for we have no wish to scandalize or give pain to any lady; but we must say, we should be glad if some "Old Mortality' would kindly go and erase this record of folly, so that if people more thoughtless, or more merry than we, should ramble thither, they may not be tempted to affront the jealous ghost by involuntary éclats de rire. The burial-ground is really very touching, and very pretty; and one would be quite contented with it if one had not seen the Pere de la Chaise, which, in its own kind, we must fairly confess we do not hope to see equalled. It is the most remarkable object in all France, and it is the most singular outbreak from national character that we ever witnessed.

It would, perhaps, be impossible to spend time in a more unprofitable manner than that in which we spent ours at Leghorn: the place was so stupid, the weather so dreadfully bad, and our companion so unintellectual; he had gone to Pisa and Lucca to oblige us, and he thought, after such an effort as that, it was our duty in turn to oblige him, which we did, by what? by doing nothing. We could not walk about, we could not write, we could not read; we blush to remember how our time was wasted. In the morning we rose at nine, and went to the Café Minerva, an excellent café it is, by the bye, there we sipped our chocolate, read the papers, or listened to the Babylonish conversation, now Turkish, now Greekish, Italian, English, or French : anon, our eyes rest upon a whiskered infidel, who, in the pride of his heart, takes cigar after cigar, smoking each out in four and a half, or five whiffs, and while clouds roll from his mouth, like the thick and smoky breath of a volcano,

he looks round in solemn scorn upon the effeminate people of these parts, who cough, and spit, and pant, during the prodigious performance. In making our escape from this, we overhear at the door a whispering bargain about some contrabbando, or, perhaps, a modest difference of opinion, touching the value of a commodity, agitated between the buyer and seller, the offer and the demand bearing the proportion of 10 to 20, or 5 to 15. On coming out, we probably met with our captain, and amused ourselves in quarreling with him for an hour, and soon after noon, by some chance or other, we constantly found ourselves seated in a snug box in the Trattoria del l' Orso: our cares vanished amid the odours of flesh, and fish, and fowl, or were lost among the rush-bound flasks of Tuscan wine.

But let us make an end of this history of unwilling jollity and sloth: our captain at length informed us he was ready to go, and that the vessel was clearing out of the harbour. We went on board, and in the evening the captain came, bringing with him two passengers, one a native of the Torre del Greco, captain of a vessel employed in the coral fishery off the coast of Barbary; the other an Englishman, perhaps the strangest that ever wandered so far from the white cliffs of his native shore. This odd creature did not understand a word of any language but his own, and of that little more than the jargon of his own county; he thought Italy far below Yorkshire in natural beauty, and Florence inferior to Scarborough. What had possessed him with the itch of travel we know not, but the man had travelled, and not a little; he had been in France, Germany, and Denmark, aud he was going to Russia, but being advised by the mate of a vessel trading in the Baltic to go to Constantinople, he had turned his face southward, and had arrived hither on his way. Of all that he had seen he remembered nothing but the petty and the useless: he had no memory for mountains or seas, for characters or manners, but he could recollect in a moment how much he lost on a given evening at put, or loo, or twenty-one, at Scarborough, or Elsinore, or Florence. The perversity of this man's understanding was 80 extraordinary, that while all that

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