It is unnecessary to detain the reader with any attempted description of the art treasures of Bologna and Florence and Rome, where also the weather, although pleasant, was by no means warm. Rome is not disappointing: it is really grand. Its churches, with St. Peter’s at their head, are extremely rich, and beautified with all manner of precious stones, and gold, and silver, and mosaics, and pictures in abundance; but still its ancient ruins are by far the grandest of all.
St. Peter’s, like every building I think which is highly finished, is at first disappointing as to size, and rendered still further so, perhaps, by the wide-spreading base of the Vatican and other buildings forming its approach. Its vastness is however apparent when seen at a distance, towering high above all the buildings of the city. Inside St. Peter’s there is again the same unconsciousness of its vast height. Every part is so perfect in proportion and finish that, as has been often remarked, it is only realized by comparison with the height of the human figures moving about on its paved floor. Perhaps there is also an architectural reason which in a large degree accounts for this difference between apparent and actual height. Thus in St. Paul’s, London—of a style somewhat similar—I have felt it impossible to realize its well-known great dimensions of altitude. The horizontal lines of its walls inside are so numerous and so strictly carried along the entire fabric, that no single pier, column, or upright line is left bold or unbroken on which the eye can rest.
Of course I could not appreciate Michael Angelo nor the merits of the “Grand Pictures,” but a few of them did impress me as really great. I may instance as such Guido’s “Aurora,” a beautiful fresco painted upon the ceiling of a gallery, and especially Leonardo’s fresco of the “Last Supper,” painted upon the wall of an old convent, at Milan, and which I was surprised to find in a most deplorable state of decay. But notwithstanding, nothing in Art has impressed me so much with its greatness as this work, except indeed the equally defaced Sphinx of the Egyptian Pyramids. Of the Paintings, I came to appreciate in some measure “The Transfiguration,” “The St. Agnes,” one of the “Madonnas,” and the “Ecce Homo”—Guido’s I think. Of Sculpture the Greek Statuary was, I thought, very beautiful. In works of Art the wealth of Italy is enormous.
Naples, where we stayed for a week, appeared a much larger city than I had supposed—much the largest in Italy—and for the first time I was struck by the changed aspect of everything around—mosquito netting for our beds, a temperature which felt warm even in January, and already everything beginning to assume an Eastern aspect.
All are familiar with the surroundings of Naples—Vesuvius, Pompeii, Herculaneum, the celebrated Bay of Naples, Capri, Sorrento—altogether a landscape which has excited the rivalry of poets to describe. Of these, the ruins of Pompeii are peculiarly interesting, and the jealous care with which they are protected from pilfering relic-seekers, by the Italian soldiers in charge, is a model of watchfulness as remarkable as it is rare.
The Neapolitans seem a pleasure-loving and still somewhat a lawless people, especially those living in the district south-west of Vesuvius. We witnessed a visitation ceremonial by the Archbishop, in the large Cathedral—imposing for its show if not interesting from its teachings. Its once famous, or rather infamous, dungeons are no longer in use for political offences. The Neapolitans owe much to William Gladstone, as well as to Garibaldi.
Our point of embarkation for the East proper was Brindisi, a small ancient-looking town near the heel of the “Boot,” with a good pier and a new hotel, and amply supplied with churches—old, dusty, and gloomy. Here being joined by the Overland India passengers and mails, we sailed for Egypt on the 1st February, on board the P. & O. steamer, embarking during a wonderful evening sky phenomenon, prognosticating a storm.
The voyage to Alexandria is nearly 1000 miles. Our first morning at sea showed the rocky coast of Greece on the left, and soon afterwards the Island of Crete in the distance—all barren, and white, and lifeless, as the rocks in the Mediterranean seem to be. This is occasioned partly by the nature of the rock—which is (like almost all the mountains we saw in the East) of limestone formation, more or less pure—and by the fact that there are no tides in the Mediterranean, and consequently no marine vegetation except under the surface. The voyage, which lasts three or four days, was, except on the second one, moderately pleasant. The Mediterranean is by no means as smooth as a lake. Storms somewhat violent arise suddenly, but rarely last over a day or two.
Our first glimpse of Africa was far from pleasing—nothing but dreary barren sand, or rather mud-looking mounds, formed its frontier, with very few traces of habitation except numerous windmills on the hilltops—which are of no great elevation. Vegetation there appeared to be none. By-and-by, however, we entered upon the magnificent Bay of Alexandria, for shipping one of the largest and finest in the world.