GENOA.
For many miles before arrival, we could, from the railway carriage windows, descry the ‘superb’ city with its tall lighthouse standing like a sentinel in advance. But one loses much in arriving by railway instead of by sea. The view had upon entering Genoa for the first time by sea is always spoken of as magnificent, and it must necessarily be very striking. The large natural basin which forms the port, protected by two long moles or breakwaters, emanating from each side like two arms, forms a semicircle nearly two miles in diameter, the east end terminated by the lighthouse, said to be 520 feet high above the level of the sea, and the west end crowned by the large and lofty Church of St. Maria de Carignano. From the harbour, filled with shipping, the ground rises all round to a height of 500 or 600 feet in steep slopes, upon which the city is built; a line of warehouses or other great white buildings, connected no doubt for the most part, if not altogether, with the trade of the port, forms the front rank, and gives an imposing facing to the whole. The buildings on the west side, however, exhibit but a slender cordon: the compact mass of the city lies upon the hill-slopes and hills of the east side, which extend outward considerably to the south of the east mole. The view, therefore, on arriving by sea, must be that of looking upon one-half of the sloping tiers of a gigantic amphitheatre; while backward from the city, which is surrounded by a double wall or line of fortification, the Apennines rise in still higher slopes, bold and stern, and probably afford some protection from the north winds.
Thus looks the famous city, once thriving by commerce, and powerful, till a spirited foreign policy led, as its natural consequences, to expensive wars, to weakness and decay. It revived, however, in time, and manifests a scene of peaceful busy industry, conferring upon it the position of being the first commercial town of Italy.
The façade of the railway station is one of great elegance. It is built of white marble, with beautiful columns surmounted by rich sculptured entablature. In the large open space or piazza in front, in the midst of shrubbery, there has been placed a beautiful monumental statue of Christopher Columbus, on a high round pedestal which rests on a large square base. The circular part, forming the upper portion of the pedestal, adorned by prow heads of an ancient or conventional type, is surrounded by four allegorical seated figures, one at each corner, representing religion, geography, strength, and wisdom, and by bas-reliefs delineating events in the hero’s life. Columbus stands pointing with his finger to a recumbent nude American-Indian lying at his feet. The whole is of white marble, and bears on the base a simple dedication.
It is a noble monument, and affords, as it were, at the very threshold of Italy, a remarkable specimen of Italian skill in sculpture, and particularly in graceful grouping of figures, and in designing a pleasing and handsome pedestal, from which those who have had charge of some recently-erected monuments at home might have done well to have taken a hint.
However, we had no opportunity then of studying either station or monument. We hastened to the omnibus of the Hotel de Gênes, and drove there with a large company of English, by whom this hotel would seem to be principally patronized. Some of the hotels in Genoa are planted in undesirable localities. This one is situated facing the open piazza, where in the morning market is held, and in the immediate neighbourhood of all the principal buildings and good streets, the principal theatre, Carlo Felice, being opposite, and the post office within a stone-throw. Like most of the buildings in Genoa, the hotel is of a somewhat palatial order, having wide lofty staircases and rooms, some of them oppressively large. A bedroom we had seemed to be about 30 feet long by about 20 feet high.
The day continued fine throughout, but heavy rain fell through the night, and the next morning was very cold. We drove about for two hours to see the town; but it became so cold, wet, and windy, that we had to give up further visiting for that day. Among other places we visited Santa Maria de Carignano, a great church, built by the munificence of a single Genoese citizen, which crests the eastern height overlooking the town; and from the terrace on the top of it there are magnificent views of the entire panorama—the harbour, the coast east and west, the city, and the mountains, which there lay, covered with a coating of snow, which no doubt had fallen through the night, and gave a very bleak appearance to the surroundings. I could gladly have remained up for a long time (the others had not ventured), but the cold was so great that I could only take a momentary glimpse. We had also from the opposite extremity of the town a different view, looking from the harbour near to the lighthouse upward to Genoa, rising in crescent form line above line from the basin of the port. The street itself, which surrounds the port, is for the most part noisy, bustling, and dirty—by no means, therefore, attractive. At some parts the passage is nearly blocked by loiterers, who may perhaps, by a stretch of charity, be supposed to be actively prosecuting some busy calling, just as may be seen on the street of a country town at home on a market day.
The following day was dry, but cold, and afforded an opportunity for going about a little on foot, and seeing some of the large churches and the streets of grand palaces for which Genoa is famous. These palaces (some of them now used for purposes other than those for which they were built) are principally situated in a line of streets, called the Vias Balbi, Nuova, and Nuovissima. Like those of many of the Italian towns, these vias are paved with large flat blocks of stone, neatly, closely, and uniformly laid. The palaces themselves are massive stone buildings of the elegant Italian style now so often adopted by our architects in designing banks and public offices, the walls generally in rustic work, and the cornices rich and heavily projecting, the large windows protected from assault by thick outside iron gratings and stanchions, imparting a very prison-like look. The palaces are lofty and handsomely built, and the entry is generally by a large gateway to an inner court, round which further buildings are placed. Wide handsome staircases, quite a marked feature, conduct to the upper floors. The streets which are lined by these palaces are so narrow that the elegance of design is greatly lost to the eye. On this the occasion of our first visit, we had only opportunity of seeing the Palazzo Brignole, which contains a fine collection of paintings by the great masters Vandyke, Guido Reni, and others. Among them we observed a particularly good St. Sebastian by Guido. In the following year we visited some additional palaces,—viz., first, the Palazzo Durazzo on the Via Balbi, a magnificent house with a much-noted staircase. Notwithstanding the family were then residing in this palace, we were shown through about a dozen rooms, in which the hangings were of superb elegance, and the walls richly adorned with pictures. Thence we went to the Palazzo Balbi, a fine mansion, but not equal to the Durazzo; and thence to the Palazzo Reale, one of those royal palaces which the King of Italy seldom visits, but which he nevertheless appears compelled to maintain. The rooms are beautiful, the queen’s bedroom particularly rich and dazzling. The facilities afforded for seeing these palaces, which no one going to Genoa should, if possible, omit to visit, are very commendable. A fee of 1 franc to the attendant is all that there, as elsewhere in Italy, is expected.
The churches of Genoa are, like all Italian churches, very dark and very dirty—purposely ill-lighted, no doubt, to produce a dim religious light, and dirty because it is part of an Italian’s religion in church to spit upon the floor and otherwise to consider that cleanliness is next to ungodliness. The Cathedral of San Lorenzo and the neighbouring Jesuit Church of San Ambrogio are large buildings, especially the cathedral, and possess fine altars, surmounted by show pictures, and otherwise are richly adorned. The Church of San Annunciata, on the way to the railway station, is profusely gilded.
In the afternoon we walked to the Aqua Sola, a public park, which is evidently a place of resort of the Genoese gentry. Being a winter day, there were not many going about; but we saw a number of handsome equipages with Italian horses, their long flowing tails touching the ground. A very curious kind of curricle, such as we saw nowhere else, was constructed with high wheels, and seated, like a country mail cart, for one person only. This was drawn by one horse at full speed, and between two of them a race was run round and round the park. We had seen a good many of the women walking about town, having a mantilla or veil depending from the head—a graceful Genoese fashion, although one would hardly think it could afford much protection from either cold or heat. But here, for the first time, we saw some of the grand Italian nurses, who are generally dressed in a most peculiar and magnificent attire, their hair fantastically decked with large pins, very gorgeous to behold. There were evident degrees of magnificence, dependent, I suppose, to some extent upon the condition of the family in whose service the nurses were. The children also in their charge were attired in costumes more or less brilliant and rich, everything in Genoa being, I presume, from a palace to a hair-pin, necessarily ‘superb.’
Next morning we resolved to proceed to Spezia, but before going, drove out to the famous Campo Santo. It is situated about a mile and a half out of town, and the road to it is by no means choice; but the place itself is remarkable. The cemetery covers a good many acres of ground, and, judging from the inscriptions on the tombs, is little more than a quarter of a century old; but the mode in which it is laid out is peculiarly Italian. It was the first of the kind I had seen. We subsequently visited others in different parts of Italy; but there was not one which could be compared, for combined grandeur and tasteful, refined elegance, with that of Genoa. The main portion of the grounds is laid out in a large square, enclosing a piece of open ground, probably, speaking roughly and from recollection, six or eight acres in extent. This open ground apparently is used for the more common burials, and is in no way extraordinary, except for the contrast it affords to the enclosed portions. The monuments, thickly planted in it, are of the paltry, frippery kind,—little tumble-down, uneasy-looking crosses, gewgaw wirework, top-heavy miniature lanterns pending from poles agee,—mingled with tawdry remains of immortelles and withered flowers, so commonly seen in Roman Catholic grounds abroad, though, to do the Genoa burying-ground justice, it is much more tidy in this respect than is customary. A colossal statue of the Virgin stands in the centre of the open space. Round three sides of this ground (besides the fourth regarding which anon) there have been built, in white marble,—of which material there are quarries in the neighbourhood of Genoa,—two long, parallel, spacious enclosures or vaults. In the outer of these vaults, monumental tablets are ranged down the side walls row above row in great uniformity, recording the names (with usual dates) of the deceased persons who have been, or are presumed to have been, buried in cells of which these are the outer ends or sides. The tablets are all of white polished marble, and black lettered. There is nothing particularly striking about this part except its extent and, to our eyes, novelty. But the inner aisle or arcade and all the corners or prominent parts are devoted to statues and figures, and sometimes representations in alto relievo—all cut out of white marble, and erected in memory of the more eminent or more opulent citizens of Genoa, or members of their families, who are buried there. The monuments evidence possession not merely of the beautiful material out of which they are produced, but of great natural capability on the part of the Italian sculptors, and of a taste on the part of the public, either natural or educated, in that direction. Without according indiscriminate admiration, one may say that there was scarcely a piece of sculpture of which our best artists at home could reasonably be ashamed. On the one side of each arcade the memorials are, for the most part, mural; on the other, which opens by arches to the Campo, the principal monuments are placed one under each arch. The general character of the mural monuments is stately repose, some exceptionally being in action. But under the arches, between the supporting columns, the figures are often in startling resemblance to life. For example, one group is of a lady sitting up in bed, with an earnest fascinating or fascinated look, grasping the right hand of another in a long garment, loose from the neck to the feet, whose left arm and forefinger of the hand are pointing upward. In another, a charming female figure appears soaring with an angel upward resting on clouds, the group being pervaded, like so many more, by a marvellous grace and freedom of execution. Another is a mother with a babe in each arm. But it would be endless to describe them, the more especially as to do so effectively one would require to make each monument a special study—not to be recommended, because the vaults are cold, and it is not safe to linger in them. Only the west of the three sides of the quadrangle, and part of the south side, were then so occupied.
The fourth side of the square lies upon the slope of a hill, and advantage has been taken of this natural feature of the ground for the formation of terraces, in the centre of which, at the top of a magnificent flight of marble steps, a large circular church of white marble has been built, upon entering which we look upon a majestic row of black marble pillars, standing in a stately circle round vacancy as yet. When we saw it last, the church was not completed, and evidently would not be for a long time to come, for no expense seems to be spared to render it in every respect the grand complement of its beautiful surroundings. Upon the arcaded terraces, stretching away right and left from the church, we found some of the choicest groups of sculpture in the whole place. They are large and costly, and harmoniously graceful embellishments of the symmetrical structure. Behind these arcades, vaults have been built akin to those on the other three sides; while beyond, to the north, open ground on the hill-slope has been laid out for interments,—as yet sparsely dotted by monuments.
A burial-place such as this would at home cost such an enormous amount of money as practically to remove from our thoughts the possibility of erecting it. I presume it is only possible in Italy from the circumstance that the sculptor’s occupation is more common, and is less handsomely remunerated; but much also is due to the proximity of the material, and to an appreciation on the part of the public of the forms of high art. In regarding this wonderful enclosure, a mingled feeling will in many minds arise; for its solemn impressiveness, its silent grandeur, its touching monuments and bas-reliefs, its very unadorned inscriptions, carry us away in thought and sympathy to sad scenes of death and sorrow; while the brightness and purity, and the exquisite forms and seraphic tranquillity of the sculptured white marble, point to that beatific life beyond the tomb, where all is bright and pure and exceeding lovely—where the spirits of just men made perfect, in serene, undisturbed calm, dwell for ever in the rapture of heavenly joy, and, arrayed in the beauty of holiness, are surpassing glad amidst the burning thrill of boundless love and the celestial beams of ineffable glory, and the sweet music of angel song—for, they stand in the presence of God.