Part 7

At Fréjus we quitted the coast, for I was tied, for better for worse, to the letter-bags. Our road now lay across a hilly and far from inviting country to Draguinan. We had the cork and the olive for companions, the latter having suffered severely by the frosts of the previous winter. This was the commencement of the mountainous and retired region into which Napoleon plunged when he marched from Antibes, and in which he was lost to observers, for a few days, previously to his brilliant _coup de main_ at Grenoble. Hitherto I had seen little of the real rusticity of France, for everything around Paris and on the great roads leading to it is conventional and _maniérée_. Draguinan proved to be literally _une ville de province_, but we got a reasonably good dinner.

From Draguinan to Aix it was, again, night-work; though we got to the latter place in time to enjoy a bed for a few hours. Aix is an ancient and a celebrated town, but it offers little to interest a stranger. I passed a few hours in it, undecided whether to pursue the road to Paris, or to turn again towards the coast, where, I was given to understand, the object of my journey could be effected as well as in the capital. I fear a longing for the blue Mediterranean had its influence on the decision, for I had turned my back on it reluctantly; about noon I got into a _diligence_ and was on my way to Marseilles. I saw little of the beauty of Provence, for a less attractive region than that we drove through is seldom seen. Indeed, I feel persuaded that few countries offer less to the eye of the mere passer-by than France; the tastes of the people being little given to the picturesque, and, like the cookery, in which bad imitations of art mar the natural qualities of the viands, the provincial attempts to resemble Paris destroy the country without properly substituting the town. Nothing, in short, has the simplicity and nature of rural life until one gets as low as dirty _blouse_ and _sabots_. Between coarseness and mannerism the chasm is wide indeed.

It was _Mardi Gras_, and as we drew near Marseilles, we met the population making the usual promenade on the highway; there being a sort of _corso_ just without the town. There was the usual number of buffoons and patched faces, a good line of plain carriages, and very many pretty women. Indeed, the women of this town struck me as being much handsomer, generally than those of the North of France.

I remained ten days at Marseilles, which is little besides a commercial town; but which, by its pretty port, beautiful coast, and its movement, offers enough to amuse one for a short time. The new town is built in a good style with wide straight streets; but the old town, like all the places of the middle ages, is narrow, crowded, and dirty. The port is natural, but has all the appearance of an artificial dock, the gates excepted. The entrance does not exceed two hundred feet; and yet the basin within, which lies surrounded by the town, will contain five hundred sail,--vessels of any size, I believe, finding sufficient water. There is a good roadstead, almost a port, outside of this again, and capital anchorage behind an island, on which stands the Lazaretto. As the quarantine laws of this sea are extremely rigid, it is something to enjoy moorings so secure and picturesque.

An Egyptian frigate of French construction, however, was lying in the port; and certes, if such cruisers are fobbed off on the Pasha, he may look forward to many more Navarinos; this being one of your regular wafer-sided and spider-kneed crafts.

I might write a long description of Marseilles--and the place merits it in its way; but such is not my cue,--which, you will always remember, is rather to deal with things that others have omitted. The time was spent in preparations to return to Florence, and, anxious to be afloat again on the Mediterranean, I looked out for something about to sail in that direction. Luckily a large English brig offered, and I took passage in her.--This vessel was of four hundred tons burthen, had a crew of eighteen men, and was commanded by a half-pay naval officer, who was, in part, owner. She had just been in the French transport service, in the expedition to Greece; as, indeed, had been the case with several American vessels in the port. One needs no better evidence than this fact, of the want of aptitude for the sea in the people of the country; the government not being able to transport a few thousand men across a small and tranquil sea, without drawing on the maritime enterprise and resources of foreigners, and in our instance, of a people in the other hemisphere!--One such circumstance is worth a folio on political economy, and, coupled with the fact that France lies between two seas, sufficiently proves that the bias of the national character is _terra firma_.

One of the _mauvaises plaisanteries_ of Jack is to sing songs at the expense of the soldiers. Our crew were heaving round on the capstan, accompanying their tramp with some pretty rude poetry, one line of which was, “A soldier’s wife is a sailor’s ----.” You will judge of my surprise at hearing this well-known and pathetic sentiment suddenly travestied by the substitution of “Yankee’s” for “soldier’s,” and “Englishman’s” for “sailor’s.” A young Englishman on board felt ashamed of this coarse proof of national antipathy, and he endeavoured to explain it by saying, that the people of the brig had had a quarrel with the crew of an American which lay within hearing. It might have been so; but abuse of America flows so easily from the English tongue, that it was probably owing to the old grudge. I felt gratified, however, in the reflection that on board an American of the same size such coarseness and vulgarity in the people would not have been tolerated. I question if it would have been so in this brig, had the master been on board; but, at the moment, he was ashore; for though a good hater as respects America, he kept up a manly discipline.

We were towed out of the harbour some distance into the roads, when the brig was cast, with a light but fair wind from the north-west. This was the commencement of a _mistrail_,--a breeze that has much reputation in this part of France on account of its freshness, as well as for its invigorating properties. We took things leisurely however, aboard the brig, and the night had passed before we were up with Toulon. The next morning on turning out, I found a gallant breeze, and our vessel rolling through it as fast as a kettle bottom, a narrow spread of canvass and short masts would permit. Being in light ballast, we got along about seven knots, with the wind over the taffrail, while I am persuaded the brig had nine in her.

It is at all times a delicate matter to give a hint to a sea-officer; but I could not refrain making some inquiries about the light sails. The boom-irons were not on the yards, with a fair wind, and fifteen hours out! By dint of jokes, however, I got an order to have them put on. This was about ten in the forenoon. At meridian two were on, and then the order was countermanded. The master had methodically and deliberately taken the sun, and worked up his longitude; and, judging from his position, he thought we should reach Leghorn in the night, if we carried more sail.--While he was at work with his quadrant, we had the peaks of the Maritime Alps, and those of Corsica, both glittering with snow, in plain sight.--The chart lay spread on the companion-way, and taking the bearings of the land by the eye, I guessed our position--if guess it might be called--within ten miles. Now all this an American master would have seen at a glance; and, I will engage, his quadrant would not have budged, though all his cloth would have been spread.--Not so with our methodical mariner; he took counsel of his instruments, and the boom-irons were sent down again, in spite of several broad hints from me, that one might always lie-to after he had made his run, and that Gorgona would be a capital land-fall; if he was afraid of overrunning his reckoning in the dark. It would not do, however; the irons were sent down, and instead of making more sail, we unbent a top-gallant-sail to mend it. The wind began to fall, and just at sunset we were up with the head of Corsica, with the topsails flapping against the masts. Belonging to another parish, I could only shrug my shoulders. It is too late in the day to deny the seamanship of the English, who, in some particulars, are probably our betters; but the _go-ahead_ properties of the Yankee, and the go-by-rule habits of the Englishman, are every day lessening the distance between the wealth and power of the two people.

The evening was pleasant, and as we gradually rolled past the land, I had a calm pleasure in looking at it. The northern extremity of the island is an attenuated bluff, low in comparison with the ice-covered mountains behind it, seemingly sterile, and with but few signs of habitations. A small rocky island forms an advanced work. Against this, and against the bluff itself, the sea was beating in sullen surge; and we were near enough to see its spray, and to note the marine birds hovering over their nests. The sun set while I was lost in the contemplation of this scene, and of the rocky and indented coasts beyond.

The master of the brig was a respectable man, and he endeavoured to compensate for his want of energy by entertaining me with the marvellous riches of the “nobility and gentry,”--a subject of which Englishmen of his class seldom weary.--He commenced with an account of the value of the plate of the Duke of Northumberland, who had just been appointed lord-lieutenant of Ireland, and who had paid a premium of 90,000_l._ to get it insured between London and Dublin. As the rate was a half per cent. this made the plate itself worth 1,800,000_l._ But Englishmen of this class do not often stick at trifles on such a subject,--and yet they coolly accuse us of exaggerating! Another of the tales of my shipmate was an account of a Mr. W---- P----, who had got 500,000_l._ a year by his wife, and who was in the habit of losing whole streets in London on a game of cards. And yet this man, with all his imagination about guineas, never bethought him of the necessity of a ship’s having boom-irons to make a passage, which is making money. We can talk more “dollar” than the English in a given time, I believe; but we have no parallel to their cool accumulations of tens of thousands a year in the way of incomes.

I got into my berth about nine, and waking up in the morning, I soon discovered that we were pitching instead of rolling. Going on deck, I found the brig under double-reefed topsails, on the wind, and Gorgona just visible in the haze on our weather-bow, the vessel heading to the eastward. In other words, the wind was blowing hard, directly in our teeth. The boom-irons would have carried us up to our port before this change occurred. An hour later, we passed an English brig running before it, and the master manifested a wish to follow her, as she was in ballast,--a sign that freights were scarce in Leghorn; but I encouraged him to stand in, with the assurance that Monte Neve would give timely notice of the dangers of the coast. By three the wind had moderated, so that we carried whole sail, and it hauled sufficiently to enable us to head up to the point where I thought the town lay; though it became so thick, we could not see half a league. Suddenly, the coast appeared; our master became alarmed, and hove-to his brig. At that moment, a boat came in sight, and a pilot soon jumped aboard of us. Had we stood on, we should have made the mole without fail. Instead of shortening sail, the pilot steered straight for the mole-head, under both topsails.--We weathered it by about fifty yards, and shot in astern of a tier of vessels that lay moored behind it. These vessels were Americans and English, and they rode by anchors ahead, while they were steadied by fasts run out to the mole. These fasts were slackened as we came sweeping in, and we ran over them, gradually losing our way by backing the maintopsail, and fetching up on the bights of the hawsers. I never witnessed a bolder or better handling of a vessel of that size, for we came up to the mole-head with four knot way on us. Nothing was parted. A hawser was thrown upon the mole; a line or two, fastened to the ties, steadied us, and brought us head to wind; a kedge was carried off into the port, up to which we hauled where we dropped a bower-anchor, and by hauling in on the stern-fasts we were moored. We could not take the outer berth, for it was occupied, and we thus became the fourth vessel in the tier. Altogether, I repeat, it was one of the prettiest things I ever witnessed, albeit it was performed by an Italian. I fancy that Columbus must have had some such men with him.

The public coaches of Italy are peculiar. If a sufficient number of passengers are ready, (in our case four sufficed,) a small carriage is sent off with them, drawn by post-horses. In this mode I got up to Florence next day, paying about five dollars for myself and man, a distance of sixty miles.

FOOTNOTES:

[2] Festivals, bread and the gallows.

LETTER IX.

Spring at Florence.--Villas in the vicinity.--Prospects from the Belvederes.--A popular Tuscan air.--A fig after soup delicious.--Effect of Church Bells.--The _patois_ of the Peasants.--A Funeral.--Stroll in a Carthusian Convent.

The season soon became sufficiently advanced to give us a sight of an Italian spring. The birds of passage had flown, some north and some south, but all in quest of pleasure. The members of parliament had run up to London to take their seats, the peers excepted, for they can do their duty by proxy. As for the Russians and French, they had chiefly gone to Naples, or taken refuge in the mountains. The poor political exiles, of whom Florence has a large number, are still seen walking on the shady sides of the streets, but filled with lassitude and _ennui_. The town is as hot as Philadelphia.

We left our Palazzo within the walls, and went to a villa, called St. Illario, just without them.--All the eminences around Florence are dotted with these retreats, many of which are large and princely. That we occupy is on a smaller scale; but it has numerous rooms, is near the town, and has many conveniences. Among other recommendations, it has two covered belvederes, where one can sit in the breeze and overlook the groves of olive-trees, with all the crowded objects of an Italian landscape.

But, to give you some idea of the region in which we dwell: The valley of the Arno, though sufficiently wide, and cultivated chiefly with the spade, is broken by many abrupt and irregular heights, the advanced spurs of the ranges of the Apennines that bound it. On nearly all of these eminences, stands a stone edifice topped by a belvedere; sometimes with and sometimes without terraces; here and there a tree, and with olive-groves beneath. The whole country is intersected by narrow roads leading up the heights; and these lanes usually run between high walls. They are commonly paved to prevent the wash of the rains, and nothing can be less attractive than the objects they present; though we find the shade of the walls beginning to be necessary as the season advances. To obtain a view, one is obliged to ascend to some one of the look-outs on the hills, of which there are a good many; though the rides and walks on the level land, that lies above and behind us, occasionally furnish us glorious glimpses. We are much in the habit of going to one of these places, which is rightly enough called _Bellosguardo_, for a better bird’s-eye view of a town is not often had than this affords of Florence. In addition, we get the panorama of the valley and mountains, and the delicate lights and shades of the misty Apennines. Some of the latter I rank among the best things in their way that I have seen. These mountains are generally to be distinguished from the lower ranges of the Alps, or those whose elevation comes nearest to their own, by a softer and more sunny hue, which is often rendered dreamy and indolent by the sleepy haziness of the atmosphere. Indeed, everything in these regions appears to invite to contemplation and repose at this particular season. There is an admixture of the savage and the refined in the ragged ravines of the hills, the villas, the polished town, the cultivated plain, the distant and chestnut-covered peaks, the costumes, the songs of the peasants, the Oriental olive, the monasteries and churches, that keeps the mind constantly attuned to poetry.

The songs of Tuscany are often remarkable. There is one air in particular that is heard on every key, used to all sorts of words, and is in the mouth of all the lower classes of both sexes. The soldier sings of war to it, the sailor of storms and seas, the gallant of his adventures, and the young girl of her love. The air is full of melody, a requisite of all popular music, while it has the science and finish of a high school, and is altogether superior to anything of the kind which you might fancy in use by the same classes of society at home. It is withal a little wild; and has a _la ral lal la_ to it, that just suits the idea of heartiness, which is perhaps nesessary, for the simplicity of such a thing may be hurt by too much sophistication.

I first heard this air in the town, at a particular hour every evening. On inquiry, I found it was a baker’s boy singing it in the streets, as he dispensed his cakes. I often hear it, as I sit in my belvedere, rising from among the vines or olives, on different heights: sometimes it is sung in falsetto, sometimes in deep bass, and now and then in a rich contr’alto. Walking to Bellosguardo, the other day, I heard it in a vineyard in the latter key, and getting on a stone that overlooked the wall, I found it came from a beautiful young _contadina_, who was singing of love as she trimmed her vines: disturbed by my motions, she turned, blushed, laughed, hid her face, and ran among the leaves.

This is not the only music I get gratis. One of the narrow lanes separates my end of the house from the church of St. Illario and the dwelling of the priest. From the belvedere, which communicates with my own room, we have frequent passages of civility across the lane with the good old _curato_, who discusses the weather and the state of the crops with unction. The old man has some excellent figs, and our cook having discovered it, lays his trees under contribution. And here I will record what I conceive to be the very perfection of epicurism, or rather of taste, in the matter of eating. A single fresh fig, as a corrective after the soup, I hold to be one of those sublime touches of art, that are oftener discovered by accident, than by the investigations of knowledge. I do not mean that I have even the equivocal merit of this accidental discovery, for I was told the secret, and I believed French ingenuity had got pretty near it already, in the way of the melons. But no melon is like a fig; nor will a French fig, certainly not a Paris fig, answer the purpose at all. It must be such a fig as one gets in Italy. At Paris you are always offered a glass of Madeira after the soup, the only one taken at table; but it is a pitiful substitute for the fig. After communicating this improvement on human happiness, let me add that it is almost destructive of the pleasure derived from the first, to take a second. _One_ small, greencoated, fresh fig, is the precise point of gastronomic felicity in this respect.

But the good _curato_, besides his figs, has a pair of uneasy bells in his church tower, which are exactly forty-three feet from my ears, and which invariably ring in pairs six or eight times daily. There are matins, noon-tide, angelus, vespers, and heaven knows what, regularly; to say nothing of extra-masses, christenings, funerals and weddings. The effect of the bells is often delightful when, heard in the distance, for they are ringing all over the valley and on the heights, morning, noon, and night; but these are too near. Still, I get, now and then, rare touches of the picturesque from this proximity to the church. The _contadini_ assemble in their costumes beneath my belvedere, and I have an excellent opportunity of overlooking, and overhearing them too.

The _Lingua Toscana_ applies rather to the people of the towns than to the rural population, I fancy; for these worthy peasants speak a harsh _patois_. Walking in sight of the _duomo_, lately, with a gentleman of Florence, I desired him to put a question to a group of peasants; and I found that, while he was perfectly understood, he had great difficulty in understanding them. The aspirated words of Florence itself are well known to all who have been in Italy. We had a droll proof of this just before we left the town; for desiring my man to give our address to a shopkeeper, he gave, “Il Signor ----, _Hasa Rihasole, via del Hohomero_.”[3]

One of the most picturesque of our relations with the church arises from the funerals. Lounging in the clerical belvedere lately, we saw torches gleaming in a distant lane. Presently the sounds of the funeral song reached us; and these gradually deepened, until we had the imposing and solemn chant for the dead echoing between our own walls, as if in the nave of a church. It is necessary to witness such a scene to appreciate its beauty, on a still and dark night, beneath an Italian sky.

In one of the dreamy walks that I take in company with a Florentine, I strolled near a league along the road to Rome. The country is broken; the road winding among naked and abrupt hills, that constantly remind me of the scenery that one usually finds attached to subjects painted from Holy Writ. On a small bit of table-land, that rises in one of the valleys, is a Carthusian convent; and finding ourselves beneath its walls, my companion proposed entering.