The Voyages, Travels, and Experiences of Thomas Trotter.
CHAPTER XXV.
Journey toward Venice.—Water-scenery.—The vettura.—Slow travelling.—Fig-trees.—Ascent of the Apennines.—Night on the mountains.—Blazing earth.—Farewell to Tuscany.—Bologna.—Leaning towers.—Arcades.—Paintings.—Lack of education in the people.—Bologna sausages.—Ferrara.—A deserted city.—Empty palaces.—Whims of travellers.—Cause of decay in these countries.
So agreeable did I find the residence at Florence, that my stay there, which I designed should be only a fortnight, became prolonged to four months. It was the middle of September when I left that city for Venice, by way of Bologna. The road crosses the Apennines, and is more or less hilly for the whole distance to the latter city. The heat of the summer had somewhat embrowned the landscape, yet the aspect of the country was everywhere inviting. The vineyards and olive-trees were abundant. Groves of oak, and hills picturesquely tufted with cypresses, clumps of chestnuts and conical firs, poplars, walnuts, and other trees which I did not know by name, gave a perpetual variety to the beautiful scenery along the road. There were no large streams of water, but little rivulets here and there murmured along among the broken hills. In water-scenery, Italy, except in the north, is very deficient: it has nothing to be compared with the little lakes or ponds of New England, which form so beautiful and striking a characteristic of our landscapes. The streams, moreover, have hardly ever the clear waters and well-wooded banks of the American rivers. The Arno, the Tiber, the Nar and the Garigliano, which I had already seen, were turbid and muddy; the Po, which I saw afterward, was still more so. The Clitumnus appeared to be the only clear stream in the country, and this little brook has been famed from all antiquity for the transparency of its waters.
Finding it impracticable to perform the journey on foot, on account of the quantity of baggage which I had by this time collected, I was forced to take passage in a vettura, or common travelling coach. This vehicle much resembles an American stage-coach in shape, but it is commonly in a shabby and crazy condition. The driver never changes his horses on the journey, in consequence of which the rate of travelling in these conveyances is none of the most expeditious. They start with the first peep of dawn, and travel till eleven in the forenoon, then lie by three or four hours to avoid the heat of the day, start again in the middle of the afternoon, and continue till sunset. This is the common mode of travelling all over Italy, and has been so, time out of mind. They never run their horses down a steep hill, like our Yankee stage-drivers, but lock the wheels. On a hilly route, therefore, which is the greater part of the time, the speed does not average more than a brisk walk. I often got out of the carriage and walked ahead, strolled into the fields, or climbed a fig-tree which hung over the road, and helped myself to a ripe fig. The figs appeared to be abundant this season, and as they are a fruit which are not preserved in this part of the country, but must be consumed fresh, they are not valued higher in the villages than the crab-apples of our farms. A ripe fresh fig is a delicious fruit, but too sweet and luxurious to be relished alone. It is common to eat bread and figs together: this is as good as bread and honey, and not so cloying. On the journey I commonly made my dinner in this way.
The road became steeper and steeper, and at length brought us to the top of the Apennines. On this wild and lofty spot, I found a lonely post-house, where we were to pass the night. There were no other houses near, and the spot looked not at all inviting. I was told, moreover, that it had been a famous place for robbers in its day, having long served as a rendezvous for a gang of banditti that were the terror of the whole country. These troublesome gentry, however, were all extirpated, and the driver assured me we should be just as safe here as in the midst of Florence. I comforted myself with this assurance, and saw that my pistols were in order. A little prudent precaution is never superfluous in a place that has a bad reputation, especially on a lonely mountain-top, where you have no good neighbors to call in. However, we passed the night without any molestation, and in the cool air of this elevated region I had a sound night’s sleep.
The morning dawned beautifully, showing the blue ridges of the mountains at a distance, the shaggy woods of the neighboring steeps, the rocky cliffs, dark dells and green swelling hills that stretched away in the distance as we looked down from the lofty Apennine. I could not behold this prospect without some pangs of regret: it was my last view of ever-beautiful Tuscany. We were now about to descend the northern slope of the Apennines, into the Roman territory. Just before reaching the frontier, we came to the village of Pietra Mala, where we were stopped at the custom-house: during this delay, I went to visit a singular spot about half a mile off, known here by the name of the woodfire. It is at the foot of a steep mountain, and surrounded by cornfields. The first view I obtained of it, was that of a body of flickering flames rising about a foot above the ground. On approaching nearer, these flames were found to issue from ten or twelve spiracles, and rose without the least sparkling or noise. In stormy weather, however, I was told they made a great crackling, and rose six or eight feet. The whole space they occupy is not more than fifteen feet in diameter. There is no smell of sulphur, but sometimes an odor of nitre arises from them, particularly when the ground is stirred. When the flame is extinguished by choking up one of the spiracles, it breaks out again in a few seconds. It is probably caused by subterranean gases. There is a phenomena somewhat similar on the shore of lake Erie, where a lighthouse is maintained from a source of this nature.
Still descending the slope of the Apennines, we came in sight of the great plain of northern Italy, extending towards Milan, and bounded by the distant Alps. This wide extent of level country is considered the garden of Italy, in regard to fertility, though for picturesque and variegated scenery, it will not compare with Tuscany or Naples. The region through which we were travelling, however, continued broken and hilly: the soil was stony and poor, and the hills so steep, that we had frequent occasion to lock our wheels. Chestnut trees were abundant, and none of these are ever cut down, as the inhabitants of the hill country subsist chiefly on the fruit. They have no bread except what is made of chestnut meal: the soil is too thin and poor to raise grain. As we descended into the more level tracts, the cultivation improved, and we passed some fields where wheat had been harvested. On approaching Bologna, the land became a level plain, and ere long, we came in sight of the leaning towers and curious antique spires of that ancient city.
A lofty wall of brick runs round the whole city, above which the spires, domes, and towers, rise loftily into the air, with an imposing effect. Passing through the gate, we were struck with the antique and venerable appearance of the place, which, though not ruinous, but on the contrary very well preserved, has an air of old age that contrasts strongly with the modern freshness of Florence. The streets are furnished with arcades, supported by handsome columns. There is one arcade, or covered portico, of stupendous dimensions, being no less than three miles long, extending from the city wall to a church in the neighborhood. It was erected for the purpose of affording a comfortable walk to the churchgoers in winter, at which time, the weather here is cold and rainy. The whims of the Italians are singular and extravagant. They pass their lives in the want of many comforts and conveniences without which we should think existence hardly supportable, yet will bestow enormous sums of money upon an object which we cannot help regarding as most frivolous and unimportant. Here is an incredible amount of treasure lavished upon a structure, the only use of which is to save people occasionally the use of a cloak and umbrella.
The churches and palaces of the city I need not describe; but there are two singular leaning towers, which attract every traveller’s curiosity. One of them is nearly four hundred feet high, and leans over its base a little more than three feet. This small inclination, however, in a building of such enormous height, gives it a most threatening aspect. I went to the top, from which I had a pleasant view of the neighboring country, bounded by the Apennines in the south, with the city of Modena in the west, and Ferrara in the north. This tower was originally of the incredible and dangerous height of four hundred and seventy-six feet; but after an earthquake in 1416, the inhabitants began to be frightened, as well they might, and took down about a quarter part of it. There is enough of it remaining, I should think, to be dangerous still, especially in a country subject to earthquakes. The Italians are not considered a courageous people, yet it is surprising what hazards they will encounter sometimes, and that, too, without necessity. After seeing a powder-mill on Mount Vesuvius, it did not much surprise me to find leaning towers nodding their lofty heads over a populous city. The other tower is only one hundred and forty feet high, and inclines six feet and a half. The same erroneous belief, as in the case of the tower of Pisa, prevails with regard to these structures, namely, that they were built upright, and leaned afterwards by the sinking of the foundations. They were all erected in the twelfth century, the commencement of the era of modern architecture, when the ingenuity and taste of artists ran into strange caprices.
The reader perhaps will be surprised that I have given no description of the splendid paintings for which this country is so celebrated. Every large city abounds with them, and there is not even a small town or village without some considerable objects of the kind. Pictures, however, must be seen; they cannot be described. I can only say, that their number is infinite, and caused me to wonder where these people found heads to design, or hands to execute, so many beautiful works of art. The quick and keen perception of beauty seems to be an inherent and natural quality of the Italians, by which they are distinguished from other nations as much as the Greeks of antiquity.
Bologna has a famous university; yet the population are, in the mass, as ignorant as if the college were the other side of the Alps. Education has never been extended to the middling or lower classes, and, in a country like this, there might be a dozen seminaries of learning in every town, while the bulk of the population could not write their names. Popular education is not promoted by the government at present, although during Napoleon’s reign, the foundation of a general system of popular instruction was laid, and a strong desire to possess the accomplishments of writing and reading was manifested by all classes. The restoration of the papal government, however, put a stop to this undertaking, and the peasants and mechanics plod on in their old, ignorant, and hopeless way.
It would be unpardonable in me to leave this place without saying a word of sausages, for which Bologna is as famous all over the civilized world as our own Taunton is for alewives, Hingham for buckets, or Boston for notions. It is a good thing for a place to have something to boast of, as it keeps up character and ambition. The Italian cities are remarkable for their characteristics, not only in manner and language, but in productions. Naples bears the palm for soap and macaroni, Florence for oil, Parma for cheese, Padua for learning, and Bologna for sausages. It seemed to me, however, that most of the Italians care more for sausages than for science. Under a better government, their taste in this matter might be altered for the better.
Leaving Bologna, the appearance of the country improved. The cottages of the peasantry were neat and comfortable; the soil was under good cultivation, and its fertility reminded me of the rich borders of the Connecticut. I saw large fields of Indian corn, which ripens well here, but does not grow so tall as in America. The kernel too is smaller, but the meal is equal in sweetness to any I ever tasted. Fields of hemp were abundant, growing very tall and luxuriant. At Malalbergo, we came to a canal, being the second I had seen in Italy: the first one connecting Pisa with Leghorn. Both are only a few miles in length: this one unites the Po with the little stream which runs from this place into the Adriatic. It appears to have no great amount of navigation. A few miles farther brought us to Ferrara, a fine large city, but almost deserted. It is regularly built, with spacious streets and sumptuous palaces, but the streets are grass-grown, and the palaces are lonely, without doors, windows, or furniture. Nothing gave me more impressive sensations than to wander through the silent solitudes of this beautiful city, where nothing is ruinous but all is deserted. In the quarter bounding on the river were some houses inhabited by a few mechanics, laborers and boatmen; but in all those streets which were lined with lordly palaces and stately piles of architecture, no living beings were to be seen except cows, quietly feeding upon the grass which had overgrown the pavement.
I went into many of these empty palaces, which, of course, any one may do, without invitation. The appearance corresponded with what I saw without. Colonnades, sculptured staircases, galleries and ornamented walls were overgrown with ivy, and other trailing plants. Moss and green foliage decked the terraces and roofs. Great marble vases, containing jasmines and pomegranates, stood on the terraces, abandoned, nobody knows how long, and left to flourish in luxuriant neglect. They had spread themselves on every side, and hung down full of flowers over the marble cornices and balustrades. What a spectacle!—and this not in one place or two, but all over the better part of the city. What is the cause of this melancholy desolation? Not pestilence, famine, war, earthquakes, storms, inundations, nor any hostility of nature or the elements. The soil of the neighborhood is rich, the air is pure, the sky is mild, the elements tranquil, and the country has been long at peace. The inhabitants do not lack genius, and require only the application of the proper means to become intelligent and industrious. What then is the cause that this fine city is desolate and falling to ruin? I answer, bad rulers—a government that neglects two great things—education and industry in the people.
Mr. Stephens, the ingenious traveller, on visiting one of the volcanoes of Guatemala, wished he could transport it to the United States, as he could have bought it for ten dollars, and, the fire having gone out, he could have made his fortune by showing it for a sight. Had I the power of removing mountains and other great tracts of country, I should choose to bring home something better than a dead volcano, which might come to life some day, and make my house too hot for me. I would rather select some of the magnificent cities of the old world, that lack inhabitants as much as we lack fine buildings. How I longed to transport the city of Ferrara, with its empty palaces and grass-grown streets, to the state of Massachusetts! I would soon turn the cows out and put the inhabitants in. There is many a man in the United States who could buy it, and the owners would willingly sell out. Unfortunately, this cannot be done, and this fair city, which might accommodate, most nobly, all the inhabitants of Boston, will remain deserted, with cattle pasturing in her streets and ivy mantling her walls, for many a year to come. Nothing but a political renovation of the country will save it from crumbling to ruin.
