XXXVIII.

ROME, _May, 1848_.

My voyage across the Atlantic was rather boisterous. We were exposed to the gale the night that the unfortunate ship Stephen Whitney was lost with upwards of one hundred passengers, near Liverpool, while we were approaching the port of Havre. We left Sandy Hook together, and reached the British and French coasts about the same time.

I found Havre much the same as I left it some years since, but instead of coasting along the beautiful banks of the Seine, by steamers, as formerly, to Rouen, and thence by diligence to Paris, I was whirled through in locomotive style in a few hours.

My stay at Paris was only sufficient to make preparations for my southern trip. I took my departure via Orleans, Tours, Bordeaux, Toulouse, Nismes, and Arles; the latter cities, with their vast collection of Roman ruins, are worthy of a visit. At all these places I made a short sojourn, not having touched them in my former travels in France. In my general voyages, I have adopted as a rule varying my route, in order to see the entire country, for which reason instead of going from Marseilles to Genoa by water, as formerly, I took land conveyance to Toulon in order to visit the great French naval station, and the prisons and workshops of the five thousand French culprits.

From Toulon I came to Nice, the city so celebrated for its salubrity of climate, where so many pulmonary patients are sent by their physicians to spend the winter, and where I designed also passing some months. But here I must be allowed to differ in opinion with the faculty, as far as I am at liberty to judge from my own experience. The approach to the city from Toulon, winding along the shore of the Mediterranean with its walled hills, amphitheatre-like, covered with a profusion of olive, lemon, and orange trees, laden with fruit, is truly enchanting. The mild and genial rays of the sun, with the light breeze from the sea, is most grateful, while one beholds in the distance the ranges of mountains covered with snow to their summits. The new part of the city is well built with spacious streets on both sides of the _river_ Paglione, or rather mountain torrent, but the old town is quite Italian, with narrow streets, tall buildings, and much filth. The rides and promenades along the coast and over the hills and mountains in the suburbs, can scarcely be surpassed; but the transition from the heat of the day to the cool of night, or from the exposure of the sun’s rays to the shade, is too severe for those of a pulmonary habit.

From Nice I took my departure along the coast to Genoa, and over one of the most interesting roads for the sublime and picturesque, I had yet seen. The shore is studded with small cities and fishing towns; elevated at times nearly to the summit of the mountains which project in the sea; the huge and elaborate tunnels are cut through solid rocks which are covered with snow; then a descent upon vineyards and orange groves, with a wide and expanded view upon the bosom of the sea, dotted with fruit and fishing vessels; and around the ever-varying costume of the peasantry and fishermen, the former engaged in gathering the olive and bearing loaded baskets of oranges, and the latter lazily lounging in the sun’s rays, or hauling their vessels on the beach, or mending their nets preparatory to a cruise.

From Genoa I embarked for Leghorn and Pisa, where I have passed some time, and where the climate seems more uniform and dry than any other part of Italy, and more desirable as a winter residence for those who have any pulmonary disposition. It is less subject to changes from the contiguity of mountains, as at Genoa and Florence, and is less humid than Naples or Rome. I am quite satisfied, however, that no climate in Italy for the winter residence of an invalid will compare with the West India Islands, or even with the southern part of the United States.

As far as my experience goes the climates of the islands of Sicily and Malta are more desirable than Italy, but Egypt, being dry and warm, is better still; however, I would advise those who are decidedly pulmonary to pass their winters in the West Indies.

The revolutions all about us, and the preparation and marching of troops, both regulars and volunteers, arriving from Naples and Leghorn, and departing from here, have been exciting. The frequent illuminations on the receipt of victorious news from the Italian army, and the tri-colored flags waving from every house in the city, with the roaring of cannon and “le feu de joie” from every window, continued until the authorities found it was best to keep their powder and prevent accidents.

One extreme always follows another; joy is changed into grief; the whole populace in tears at the loss of a battle, the massacre of their brethren--widows, sisters, and mothers are sobbing bitterly; the cathedral is clothed in black, and thronged with thousands, the transparencies in large letters at the ponderous brazen doors breathe vengeance upon the oppressor; the immense catafalque in the centre of the nave is covered with the uniforms, and flags, and all the instruments of war, and shrouded with mourning; the Te Deum is chaunted; the cry is again to arms. The priest in his long robes and girdled waist, and broad brimmed three-cocked hat, heads the movement, the crucifix in hand, for the holy crusade, amid the cries of “Death to Metternich,” “VIVA ITALIA, VIVA PIO NONO.”

I have spent a month in Rome, and have found no great changes since I was last here, except the political ones. It is pleasant to hear the cry of the newsboy, and see the groups of citizens at the corners of the streets, reading the news of the day; for which they are indebted to the liberal mind of the present Pope, Pius IX. I find fewer strangers at Rome during the services of the Holy Week than formerly, and in consequence of the revolutions about us, the English are afraid to travel, and are deserting the city rapidly, and taking passage by sea for their native isle.

The ceremonies of the church were quite as gorgeous as under Pope Gregory XVI.; the illumination of St. Peter’s with its thousands of lamps and torches, was quite as magical, but the Girandola, or fireworks of the castle of St. Angelo, did not take place, to the disappointment of thousands who had not seen it. Report says a conspiracy had been discovered, and several barrels of powder found intended for a general blow-up on the occasion. The Pope, who has a fine-looking person and an amiable face, appeared thoughtful and devout during all the services of Passion Week, pronounced the benediction to the thousands and thousands from the balcony of St. Peter’s, preached with dignity at the Feast of the Pilgrims, but I thought washed the feet of the latter with less humility than his predecessor Gregory.

We have been on the eve of civil war, having had a three days’ émeute. The Pope, who had headed the reform movement and acquiesced in the arming of thousands of Romans for the crusade against the Austrians, was, in his pious moments, after the Holy Week, prevailed upon by the perfidious counsels of the cardinals to proclaim against the war. As a natural consequence the whole population were interested; mothers, sisters, and lovers, whose friends had gone forth in good faith to fight the battle of national independence, were liable to be taken and shot or hung, without any privileges accorded to an enemy legally enrolled. The National Guard of twelve thousand strong took possession of all the gates of the city, inclosed the cardinals in their palaces to prevent escape from the city, and thus things remained for three days until a reconciliation took place, and a change of ministry.

The carnival season this year was rather dull in comparison with former times; but in addition to the usual parade of masquerades in carriages and on foot, with an ample supply of sugar rouberies which they throw furiously at each other in passing, and the avalanche of bouquets of flowers for the ladies, they have a custom at Pisa of carrying wax torches called Moccolo, which, as nightfall finishes the procession, are lighted, and then the whole line of the river Arno is illuminated with bonfires, which give an enchanting effect. The shout of “Moccolo, Moccolo,” from thousands of voices, as they endeavor to tear from each other the wax tapers, amid the shower of sugar-plums and bouquets, was an exciting scene, from which I was glad to make my escape with spotted garments.