Historic Buildings | Project Gutenberg (2025)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 74786 ***

As Seen and Described
by Famous Writers

EDITED AND TRANSLATED

By ESTHER SINGLETON

AUTHOR OF “TURRETS, TOWERS AND TEMPLES,” “GREAT
PICTURES,” “WONDERS OF NATURE,” “FAMOUS PAINTINGS,”
“PARIS,” “LONDON” AND “A GUIDE TO THE OPERA,” ETC.

With Numerous Illustrations

NEW YORK

DODD, MEAD & COMPANY

1903

Two principles of selection have guided me in the preparation of thisbook, the sixth of a series which has met with a cordial reception.One is the beauty or interest from an artistic standpoint; the other,the historical associations. If the reader should miss some famousedifices, he will kindly remember that a small volume cannot containa complete collection of all the historic buildings still standing,and that many other historic buildings have already appeared in myformer books of this series, Turrets, Towers and Temples andRomantic Castles and Palaces.

I have endeavoured to find descriptions that deal with both views,giving the history of the building itself, and a description of itsarchitectural features; and as this book contains, in consequence,a great variety of buildings of all periods and many countries, thestudent of both art and history will doubtless find pleasure incomparing these various styles of architecture and in composing amental picture of events that have occurred within their walls.

Some of the buildings will aid him in realizing more fully, perhaps,than before some of the various influences that have aided indeveloping certain races; for instance, a study of the text andpictures of the cathedrals of Monreale[vi] and Palermo will demonstratethe presence of Norman and Saracen in Sicily. In other instances, it isnot a long vanished race, but the still-felt presence of some strongpersonality like that of Shah Jehan, whose mosques and palaces and TajMahal stand as monuments not only to the great conqueror, but to themagnificence of his taste.

In this book, I have included several towers and fortresses as wellas castles and baronial halls, and the Certosa of Pavia and La GrandeChartreuse, from which later historic home the Carthusian monks ofFrance have lately been driven. In addition to the cathedrals andtemples which have been the scenes of memorable historical events,I have added the particularly sacred shrines of the Holy Sepulchre,the Holy House of Loretto and the Campo Santo, Pisa, which attractthousands of the faithful.

Many of the extracts I have translated expressly for this book, and Ihave taken no liberties with the text, except a little cutting for thesake of space limitations.

E. S.

New York, September, 1903.

Contents

Illustrations

THE JUMMA MUSJID
G. W. STEEVENS

Delhi is the most historic city in all historic India.

It may not be the oldest—who shall say which is the oldest amongrivals all coeval with time?—though it puts in a claim for arespectable middle-age, dating from 1000 B.C. or so. Ithas at least one authentic monument which is certainly fourteen orfifteen hundred years old. At that time Delhi’s master called himselfEmperor of the World, and emperors, at least of India, have ruledthere almost ever since. Mohammed, an Afghan of Ghor, took it in 1193;Tamerlane, the Mogul, sacked it two hundred years later; Nadir Shah,the Persian, in 1739; Ahmed Shah Durani, another Afghan, in 1756; theMarathas took it three years later. Half a century on, in 1803, GeneralLake took the capital of India for Britain. And British it has beenever since—except for those few months in 1857, when Mutiny broughtthe ghost of the Mogul empire into the semblance of life again; tillNicholson stormed the breach in the Kashmir Bastion, and dyed DelhiBritish for ever with his blood.

[2]

Look from the Ridge, whence the columns marched out to that lastcapture: the battered trophy of so many conquerors remains wonderfullyfresh and fair. It seems more like a wood than a city. The rolls ofgreen are only spangled with white, as if it were a suburb of villasstanding in orchards. Only the snowy domes and tall minarets, thecupolas and gilded pinnacles, betray the still great and populous citythat nestles below you and takes breath after her thousand troubles.

Let us go back to the city. Here at least is the Jumma Musjid, thegreat mosque, saved complete out of the storms—a baby of little morethan two hundred years, to be sure, but still something. It is said tobe the largest mosque in the world—a vast stretch of red sandstoneand white marble and gold upstanding from a platform reached on threesides by flights of steps so tall, so majestically wide, that they arelike a stone mountain tamed into order and proportion at an emperor’swill. Above the brass-mounted doors rise red portals so huge that theyalmost dwarf the whole—red galleries above them, white marble domesabove them, white marble minarets rising higher yet, with pillarsand cupolas and gilded pinnacles above all. Beside the gateways thewalls of the quadrangle seem to creep along the ground; then, at thecorners, rise towers with more open chambers, more cupolas and gildedpinnacles. Within, above the cloistered quadrangle, bulge three purewhite domes—not hemispheres, like Western domes, but complete globes,only sliced away at the base and tapering to a spike at the top—and aslender minaret flanks each side.

[3]

The whole, to Western eyes, has a strange effect. Our own buildingsare tighter together, gripped and focused more in one glance; over theJumma Musjid your eye must wander, and then the mind must connect theviews of the different parts. If you look at it near you cannot see itall; if far, it is low and seems to straggle. The West could hardlycall it beautiful: it has proportion, but not compass. Therefore itdoes not abase you, as other great buildings do: somehow you have afeeling of patronage towards it. Yet it is most light and gracefulwith all its bulk: it seems to suit India, thus spread out to get itsfill of the warm sun. It looks rich and lavish, as if space were of noaccount to it.

You have passed below the cloud-capped towers, out of the gorgeouspalaces—and here is Silver Street, Delhi’s main thoroughfare. Thepageant fades, and you plunge into the dense squalor which is alsoIndia. Along the houses run balconies and colonnades; here also you seevistas of pillars and lattice-work, but the stone is dirty, the stuccopeels, the wood lacks paint. The houses totter and lean together. Thestreet is a mass of squatting, variegated people; bulls, in necklacesof white and yellow flowers, sleep across the pavements, donkeys strollinto the shops, goats nibble at the vegetables piled for sale down thecentre of the street, a squirrel is fighting with a caged parrot. Hereis a jeweller’s booth, gay with tawdry paint; next, a baker’s, with theshopkeeper snoring on his low counter, and everything an inch thickwith dust. At one step you smell incense; at the next, garbage.

[4]

Inimitable, incongruous India! And coming out of the walls, stillcrumbling from Nicholson’s cannon, you see mill-chimneys blackeningthe sky. Delhi, with local cotton, they tell you, can spin as fine asManchester. One more incongruity! The iron pillar, the ruined mosque,the jewelled halls, the shabby street, and now the clacking mill. Thatis the last of Delhi’s myriad reincarnations.

We push our way on between large barges laden with fresh water fromFusina, in round white tubs seven feet across, and complicatedboats full of all manner of nets that look as if they could neverbe disentangled, hanging from their masts and over their sides;and presently pass under a bridge with the lion of St. Mark on itsarchivolt, and another on a pillar at the end of the parapet, a smallred lion with much of the puppy in his face, looking vacantly up inthe air (in passing we may note that, instead of feathers, his wingsare covered with hair, and in several other points the manner of hissculpture is not uninteresting). Presently the canal turns a littleto the left, and thereupon becomes more quiet, the main bustle ofthe water-street being usually confined to the first straight reachof it, some quarter of a mile long, the Cheapside of Murano. We passa considerable church on the left, St. Pietro, and a little squareopposite to it with a few acacia trees, and then find our boat suddenlyseized by a strong green eddy, and whirled into the tide-way of oneof the main channels of the lagoon, which divides the town of Muranointo two parts by a deep stream some fifty yards over, crossed only byone wooden bridge. We let ourselves drift some way down the current,looking at the low[6] line of cottages on the other side of it, hardlyknowing if there be more cheerfulness or melancholy in the way thesunshine glows on their ruinous but whitewashed walls, and sparkleson the rushing of the green water by the grass-grown quay. It needsa strong stroke of the oar to bring us into the mouth of anotherquiet canal on the farther side of the tide-way, and we are stillsomewhat giddy when we run the head of the gondola into the sand on theleft-hand side of this more sluggish stream, and land under the eastend of the Church of San Donato, the “Matrice” or “Mother” Church ofMurano.

It stands, it and the heavy campanile detached from it a few yards, ina small triangular field of somewhat fresher grass than is usual nearVenice, traversed by a paved walk with green mosaic of short grassbetween the rude squares of its stones, bounded on one side by ruinousgarden walls, on another by a line of low cottages, on the third,the base of the triangle, by the shallow canal from which we havejust landed. Near the point of the triangular space is a simple well,bearing date 1502; in its widest part, between the canal and campanile,is a four-square hollow pillar, each side formed by a separate slab ofstone, to which the iron hasps are still attached that once secured theVenetian standard.

The cathedral itself occupies the northern angle of the field,encumbered with modern buildings, small out-house-like chapels, andwastes of white wall with blank square windows, and itself utterlydefaced in the whole body of it, nothing but the apse having beenspared; the original plan[7] is only discoverable by careful examination,and even then but partially. The whole impression and effect of thebuilding are irretrievably lost, but the fragments of it are still mostprecious.

We must first briefly state what is known of its history.

The legends of the Romish Church, though generally more insipid andless varied than those of Paganism, deserve audience from us on thisground, if on no other, that they have once been sincerely believedby good men, and have had no ineffective agency in the foundation ofthe existent European mind. The reader must not therefore accuse me oftrifling, when I record for him the first piece of information I havebeen able to collect respecting the cathedral of Murano: namely, thatthe emperor Otho the Great, being overtaken by a storm on the Adriatic,vowed, if he were preserved, to build and dedicate a church to theVirgin, in whatever place might be most pleasing to her; that the stormthereupon abated; and the Virgin appearing to Otho in a dream showedhim, covered with red lilies, that very triangular field on which wewere but now standing amidst the ragged weeds and shattered pavement.The emperor obeyed the vision; and the church was consecrated on the15th of August, 957.

Whatever degree of credence we may feel disposed to attach to thispiece of history, there is no question that a church was built onthis spot before the close of the Tenth Century: since in the year999 we find the incumbent of the Basilica (note this word, it is ofsome importance) di Santa Maria Plebania di Murano taking an oath of[8]obedience to the Bishop of the Altinat church, and engaging at the sametime to give the said bishop his dinner on the Domenica in Albis, whenthe prelate held a confirmation in the mother church, as it was thencommonly called, of Murano. From this period, for more than a century,I can find no records of any alterations made in the fabric of thechurch, but there exist very full details of the quarrels which arosebetween its incumbents and those of San Stefano, San Cipriano, SanSalvatore, and the other churches of Murano, touching the due obediencewhich their less numerous or less ancient brotherhoods owed to St.Mary’s.

These differences seem to have been renewed at the election of everynew abbot by each of the fraternities, and must have been growingserious when the patriarch of Grado, Henry Dandolo, interfered in 1102,and, in order to seal a peace between the two principal opponents,ordered that the abbot of St. Stephen’s should be present at theservice in St. Mary’s on the night of the Epiphany, and that the abbotof St. Mary’s should visit him of St. Stephen’s on St. Stephen’s day;and that then the two abbots “should eat apples and drink good winetogether, in peace and charity.”[1]

But even this kindly effort seems to have been without result: theirritated pride of the antagonists remained unsoothed by the love-feastof St. Stephen’s day; and the[9] breach continued to widen until theabbot of St. Mary’s obtained a timely accession to his authority inthe year 1125. The Doge Domenico Michele, having in the Second Crusadesecured such substantial advantages for the Venetians as might wellcounterbalance the loss of part of their trade with the East, crownedhis successes by obtaining possession in Cephalonia of the body of SanDonato, bishop of Eurœa; which treasure he having presented on hisreturn to the Murano basilica, that church was thenceforward calledthe church of Sts. Mary and Donato. Nor was the body of the saint itsonly acquisition: St. Donato’s principal achievement had been thedestruction of a terrible dragon in Epirus; Michele brought home thebones of the dragon as well as of the saint; the latter were put in amarble sarcophagus, and the former hung up over the high altar.

But the clergy of St. Stefano were indomitable. At the very momentwhen their adversaries had received this formidable accession ofstrength, they had the audacity “ad onta de’ replicati giuramenti, edell’ inveterata consuetudine,” to refuse to continue in the obediencewhich they had vowed to their mother church. The matter was tried ina provincial council; the votaries of St. Stephen were condemned,and remained quiet for about twenty years, in wholesome dread of theauthority conferred on the abbot of St. Donato, by the Pope’s legate,to suspend any of the clergy of the island from their office if theyrefused submission. In 1172, however, they appealed to Pope AlexanderIII, and were condemned again: and we find the[10] struggle renewed atevery promising opportunity, during the course of the Twelfth andThirteenth Centuries; until at last, finding St. Donato and the dragontogether too strong for him, the abbot of St. Stefano “discovered” inhis church the bodies of two hundred martyrs at once!—a discovery,it is to be remembered, in some sort equivalent in those days tothat of California in ours. The inscription, however, on the façadeof the church recorded it with quiet dignity:—“MCCCLXXIV. a dì XIV,di Aprile. Furono trovati nella presente chiesa del protomartire SanStefano, duecento e più corpi de’ Santi Martin, dal Ven. Prete MatteoFradello, piovano della chiesa.”[2] Corner, who gives this inscription,which no longer exists, goes on to explain with infinite gravity, thatthe bodies in question, “being of infantile form and stature, arereported by tradition to have belonged to those fortunate innocents whosuffered martyrdom under King Herod; but that when, or by whom, thechurch was enriched with so vast a treasure, is not manifested by anydocument.”

The issue of the struggle is not to our present purpose. We havealready arrived at the Fourteenth Century without finding record of anyeffort made by the clergy of St. Mary’s to maintain their influence byrestoring or beautifying their basilica; which is the only point atpresent of importance to us. That great alterations were made in itat the time of the acquisition of the body of St. Donato is[11] howeverhighly probable, the mosaic pavement of the interior, which bearsits date inscribed 1140, being probably the last of the additions.I believe that no part of the ancient church can be shown to be ofmore recent date than this; and I shall not occupy the reader’s timeby any inquiry respecting the epochs or authors of the destructivemodern restorations; the wreck of the old fabric, breaking out frombeneath them here and there, is generally distinguishable from them ata glance; and it is enough for the reader to know that none of thesetruly ancient fragments can be assigned to a more recent date than1140, and that some of them may with probability be looked upon asremains of the shell of the first church erected in the course of thelatter half of the Tenth Century.

It is roofed by a concha, or semi-dome; and the external arrangement ofits walls provides for the security of this dome by what is, in fact,a system of buttresses as effective and definite as that of any of thenorthern churches, although the buttresses are obtained entirely byadaptations of the Roman shaft and arch, the lower story being formedby a thick mass of wall lightened by ordinary semicircular round-headedniches, like those used so extensively afterwards in Renaissancearchitecture, each niche flanked by a pair of shafts standing clear ofthe wall, and bearing deeply moulded arches thrown over the niche. Thewalls with its pillars thus forms a series of massy buttresses, on thetop of which is an open gallery, backed by a thinner wall, and roofedby arches whose shafts are set above the pairs of shafts below. On theheads of these arches rests the[12] roof. We have, therefore, externallya heptagonal apse, chiefly of rough and common brick, only with marbleshafts and a few marble ornaments; but for that reason all the moreinteresting because it shows us what may be done, and what was done,with materials such as are now at our own command; and because in itsproportions, and in the use of the few ornaments it possesses, itdisplays a delicacy of feeling rendered doubly notable by the roughnessof the work in which laws so subtle are observed, and with which sothoughtful ornamentation is associated.

We must now see what is left of interest within the walls.

All hope is taken away by our first glance; for it falls on a rangeof shafts whose bases are concealed by wooden panelling, and whichsustains arches decorated in the most approved style of Renaissanceupholstery, with stucco roses in squares under the soffits, and eggand arrow mouldings on the architraves, gilded, on a ground of spottyblack and green, with a small pink-faced and black-eyed cherub on everykeystone; the rest of the church being for the most part concealedeither by dirty hangings, or dirtier whitewash, or dim pictures onwarped and wasting canvas; all vulgar, vain, and foul. Yet let us notturn back, for in the shadow of the apse our more careful glance showsus a Greek Madonna, pictured on a field of gold; and we feel giddyat the first step we make on the pavement, for it, also, is of Greekmosaic waved like the sea, and dyed like a dove’s neck.

Nor are the original features of the rest of the edifice altogether[13]indecipherable; the entire series of shafts marked in the ground planon each side of the nave, from the western entrance to the apse, arenearly uninjured; and I believe the stilted arches they sustain arethose of the original fabric, though the masonry is covered by theRenaissance stucco mouldings. Their capitals, for a wonder, are leftbare, and appear to have sustained no farther injury than has resultedfrom the insertion of a large brass chandelier into each of theirabaci, each chandelier carrying a sublime wax candle two inches thick,fastened with wire to the wall above. The due arrangement of theseappendages, previous to festa days, can only be effected from a ladderset against the angle of the abacus; and ten minutes before I wrotethis sentence, I had the privilege of watching the candle-lighter athis work, knocking his ladder about the heads of the capitals as ifthey had given him personal offence. He at last succeeded in breakingaway one of the lamps altogether, with a bit of the marble of theabacus; the whole falling in ruin to the pavement, and causing muchconsultation and clamour among a tribe of beggars who were assistingthe sacristan with their wisdom respecting the festal arrangements.

It is fortunate that the capitals themselves, being somewhat rudelycut, can bear this kind of treatment better than most of those inVenice. They are all founded on the Corinthian type, but the leavesare in every one different: those of the easternmost capital of thesouthern range are the best, and very beautiful, but presenting nofeature of much interest, their workmanship being inferior[14] to most ofthe imitations of Corinthian common at the period; much more to therich fantasies which we have seen at Torcello. The apse itself to-day(12th September, 1851), is not to be described; for just in front ofit, behind the altar, is a magnificent curtain of a new red velvet witha gilt edge and two golden tassels, held up in a dainty manner by twoangels in the upholsterer’s service; and above all, for concentrationof effect a star or sun, some five feet broad, the spikes of whichconceal the whole of the figure of the Madonna except the head andhands.

The pavement is however still left open, and it is of infiniteinterest, although grievously distorted and defaced. For whenever a newchapel has been built, or a new altar erected, the pavement has beenbroken up and readjusted so as to surround the newly inserted steps orstones with some appearance of symmetry; portions of it either coveredor carried away, others mercilessly shattered or replaced by modernimitations, and those of very different periods, with pieces of theold floor left here and there in the midst of them, and worked roundso as to deceive the eye into acceptance of the whole as ancient. Theportion, however, which occupies the western extremity of the nave, andthe parts immediately adjoining it in the aisles, are, I believe, intheir original positions, and very little injured: they are composedchiefly of groups of peacocks, lions, stags, and griffins,—two ofeach in a group, drinking out of the same vase, or shaking clawstogether,—enclosed by interlacing bands, and alternating with chequeror star patterns, and here and there an attempt at representation[15]of architecture, all worked in marble mosaic. The floors of Torcelloand of St. Mark’s are executed in the same manner; but what remainsat Murano is finer than either, in the extraordinary play of colourobtained by the use of variegated marbles. At St. Mark’s the patternsare more intricate, and the pieces far more skillfully set together;but each piece is there commonly of one colour: at Murano everyfragment is itself variegated, and all are arranged with a skill andfeeling not to be taught, and to be observed with deep reverence, forthat pavement is not dateless, like the rest of the church; it bearsits date on one of its central circles, 1140, and is, in my mind, oneof the most precious monuments in Italy, showing thus early, and inthose rude chequers which the bared knee of the Murano fisher wearsin its daily bending, the beginning of that mighty spirit of Venetiancolour, which was to be consummated in Titian.

But we must quit the church for the present, for its garnishings arecompleted; the candles are all upright in their sockets, and thecurtains are drawn into festoons, and a pasteboard crescent, gay withartificial flowers, has been attached to the capital of every pillar,in order, together with the gilt angels, to make the place look asmuch like Paradise as possible. If we return to-morrow, we shallfind it filled with woeful groups of aged men and women, wasted andfever-struck, fixed in paralytic supplication, half kneeling, halfcouched upon the pavement; bowed down, partly in feebleness, partlyin a fearful devotion, with their grey clothes cast far over theirfaces, ghastly and settled into a[16] gloomy animal misery, all but theglittering eyes and muttering lips.

Fit inhabitants, these, for what was once the Garden of Venice, “aterrestrial paradise,—a place of nymphs and demigods!”

We return, yet once again, on the following day. Worshippers andobjects of worship, the sickly crowd and gilded angels, all are gone;and there far in the apse, is seen the sad Madonna standing in herfolded robe, lifting her hands in vanity of blessing. There is littleelse to draw away our thoughts from the solitary image. An old woodentablet, carved into a rude effigy of San Donato, which occupies thecentral niche in the lower part of the tribune, has an interest ofits own, but is unconnected with the history of the older church. Thefaded frescoes of saints, which cover the upper tier of the wall of theapse, are also of comparatively recent date, much more the piece ofRenaissance workmanship, shaft and entablature, above the altar, whichhas been thrust into the midst of all, and has cut away part of thefeet of the Madonna. Nothing remains of the original structure but thesemi-dome itself, the cornice whence it springs, which is the same asthat used on the exterior of the church, and the border and face-archwhich surround it. The ground of the dome is of gold, unbroken exceptby the upright Madonna, and usual inscription, M R [** symbol] V. Thefigure wears a robe of blue, deeply fringed with gold, which seems tobe gathered on the head and thrown back on the shoulders, crossing thebreast, and falling in many folds to the ground. The[17] under robe, shownbeneath it where it opens at the breast, is of the same colour; thewhole, except the deep gold fringe, being simply the dress of the womenof the time. Le donne, anco elle del 1100, vestivano di turchino conmanti in spalla, che le coprivano dinanzi e di dietro.[3]

Round the dome there is a colored mosaic border; and on the edge of itsarch, legible by the whole congregation, this inscription:

The whole edifice is, therefore, simply a temple to the Virgin: to heris ascribed the fact of Redemption, and to her its praise.

“And is this,” it will be asked of me, “the time, is this the worship,to which you would have us look back with reverence and regret?”Inasmuch as redemption is ascribed to the Virgin, No. Inasmuch asredemption is a thing desired, believed in, rejoiced in, Yes,—and Yesa thousand times. As far as the Virgin is worshipped in place of God,No; but as far as there is the evidence of worship itself, and of thesense of a Divine presence, Yes. For there is a wider division of menthan that into Christian and Pagan: we ask what a man worships, we haveto ask whether he worships at all. Observe Christ’s own[18] words on thishead: “God is a spirit; and they that worship Him must worship Him inspirit, and in truth.” The worshipping in spirit comes first,and does not necessarily imply the worshipping in truth. Therefore,there is first the broad division of men into Spirit worshippers andFlesh worshippers; and then, of the Spirit worshippers, the fartherdivision into Christian and Pagan,—worshippers in Falsehood or inTruth. I therefore, for the moment, omit all inquiry how far theMariolatry of the early church did indeed eclipse Christ, or whatmeasure of deeper reverence for the Son of God was still felt throughall the grosser forms of Madonna worship. Let that worship be taken atits worst; let the goddess of this dome of Murano be looked upon asjust in the same sense an idol as the Athene of the Acropolis, or theSyrian Queen of Heaven; and then, on this darkest assumption, balancewell the difference between those who worship and those who worshipnot;—that difference which there is in the sight of God, in all ages,between the calculating, smiling, self-sustained, self-governed man,and the believing, weeping, wondering, struggling, Heaven-governedman;—between the men who say in their hearts “there is no God,” andthose who acknowledge a God at every step, “if haply they might feelafter Him and find Him.” For that is indeed the difference which weshall find, in the end, between the builders of this day and thebuilders on that sand island long ago. They did honour somethingout of themselves; they did believe in spiritual presence judging,animating, redeeming them; they built to its honour and for itshabitation; and[19] were content to pass away in nameless multitudes, soonly that the labour of their hands might fix in the sea-wilderness athrone for their guardian angel. In this was their strength, and therewas indeed a Spirit walking with them on the waters, though they couldnot discern the form thereof, though the Master’s voice came not tothem, “It is I.” What their error cost them, we shall see here-after;for it remained when the majesty and the sincerity of their worshiphad departed, and remains to this day. Mariolatry is no specialcharacteristic of the Twelfth Century; on the outside of that verytribune of San Donato, in its central recess, is an image of the Virginwho receives the reverence once paid to the blue vision upon the innerdome. With rouged cheeks and painted brows, the frightful doll standsin wretchedness of rags, blackened with the smoke of the votive lamp atits feet; and if we would know what has been lost or gained by Italyin the six hundred years that have worn the marbles of Murano, let usconsider how far the priests who set up this to worship, the populacewho have this to adore, may be nobler than the men who conceived thatlonely figure standing on the golden field, or than those to whom itseemed to receive their prayer at evening, far away, where they onlysaw the blue clouds rising out of the burning sea.

Hard by the cathedral stands the ancient Palace of the Popes, of whichone portion is now a common jail, and another a noisy barrack: whilegloomy suites of apartments, shut up and deserted, mock their own oldstate and glory, like the embalmed bodies of kings. But we neither wentthere to see state-rooms, nor soldiers’ quarters, nor a common jail,though we dropped some money into a prisoners’ box outside, whilstthe prisoners themselves, looked through the iron bars, high up, andwatched us eagerly. We went to see the ruins of the dreadful rooms inwhich the Inquisition used to sit.

A little, old, swarthy woman, with a pair of flashing black eyes—proofthat the world hadn’t conjured down the devil within her, though ithad had between sixty and seventy years to do it in—came out of theBarrack Cabaret, of which she was the keeper, with some large keysin her hands, and marshalled us the way that we should go. How shetold us, on the way, that she was a Government Officer (conciergedu palais apostolique) and had been for I don’t know how manyyears; and how she had shown these dungeons to princes; and how shewas the best of dungeon demonstrators; and how she had resided in thepalace from an infant—had been born there, if I recollect [21]right—Ineedn’t relate. But such a fierce, little, rapid, sparkling, energeticshe-devil I never beheld. She was alight and flaming all the time. Heraction was violent in the extreme. She never spoke without stoppingexpressly for the purpose. She stomped her feet, clutched us by thearms, flung herself into attitudes, hammered against the walls withher keys, for mere emphasis: now whispered as if the Inquisition werethere still: now shrieked as if she were on the rack herself; and hada mysterious, hag-like way with her forefinger, when approaching theremains of some new horror—looking back and walking stealthily, andmaking horrible grimaces—that might alone have qualified her to walkup and down a sick man’s counterpane, to the exclusion of all otherfigures, through a whole fever.

Passing through the courtyard, among groups of idle soldiers, we turnedoff by a gate, which this She-Goblin unlocked for our admission, andlocked again behind us: and entered a narrow court, rendered narrowerby fallen stones and heaps of rubbish; part of it choking up themouth of a ruined subterranean passage, that once communicated (oris said to have done so) with another castle on the opposite bank ofthe river. Close to this courtyard is a dungeon—we stood within it,in another minute—in the dismal tower des oubliettes, whereRienzi was imprisoned, fastened by an iron chain to the very wall thatstands there now, but shut out from the sky which now looks down intoit. A few steps brought us to the Cachots, in which the prisonersof the Inquisition were confined for[22] forty-eight hours after theircapture, without food or drink, that their constancy might be shaken,even before they were confronted with their gloomy judges. The dayhas not got in there yet, they are still small cells, shut in by fourunyielding, close, hard walls; still profoundly dark; still massivelydoored and fastened as of old.

Goblin, looking back as I have described, went softly on, into avaulted chamber, now used as a store-room: once the chapel of the HolyOffice. The place where the tribunal sat was plain. The platform mighthave been removed but yesterday. Conceive the parable of the GoodSamaritan having been painted on the wall of one of these Inquisitionchambers! But it was, and may be traced there yet.

High up in the jealous wall are niches where the faltering replies ofthe accused were heard and noted down. Many of them had been broughtout of the very cell we had just looked into, so awfully: along thesame stone passage. We had trodden in their very footsteps.

I am gazing round me, with the horror that the place inspires, whenGoblin clutches me by the wrist, and lays, not her skinny finger, butthe handle of the key, upon her lips. She invites me, with a jerk, tofollow her. I do so. She leads me out into a room adjoining—a ruggedroom, with a funnel-shaped, contracting roof, open at the top to thebright day. I ask her what it is. She folds her arms, leers hideously,and stares. I ask again. She glances round, to see that all the littlecompany are there; sits down upon a mound of stones; throws up her[23]arms, and yells out, like a fiend, “La Salle de la Question!”

The Chamber of Torture! And the roof was made of that shape to stiflethe victim’s cries! Oh, Goblin, Goblin, let us think of this awhile insilence. Peace, Goblin! Sit with your short arms crossed on your shortlegs, upon that heap of stones, for only five minutes, and then flameout again.

Minutes! Seconds are not marked upon the Palace Clock, when, withher eyes flashing fire, Goblin is up in the middle of the chamber,describing, with her sunburnt arms, a wheel of heavy blows. Thus itran round! cries Goblin. Mash, mash, mash! An endless routine of heavyhammers. Mash, mash, mash! upon the sufferer’s limbs. See the stonetrough! says Goblin. For the water torture! Gurgle, swill, bloat,burst, for the Redeemer’s honour! Suck the bloody rag, deep down intoyour unbelieving body, Heretic, at every breath you draw. And whenthe executioner plucks it out, reeking with the smaller mysteries ofGod’s own Image, know us for His chosen servants, true believers in theSermon on the Mount, elect disciples of Him who never did a miraclebut to heal: who never struck a man with palsy, blindness, deafness,dumbness, madness, any one affliction of mankind; and never stretchedHis blessed hand out, but to give relief and ease!

See! cries Goblin. There the furnace was. There they made the ironsred-hot. Those holes supported the sharp stake, on which the torturedpersons hung poised:[24] dangling with their whole weight from the roof.“But”—and Goblin whispers this—“Monsieur has heard of this tower?Yes? Let Monsieur look down then!”

A cold air, laden with an earthy smell, falls upon the face ofMonsieur; for she has opened, while speaking, a trap-door in thewall. Monsieur looks in. Downward to the bottom, upward to the top,of a steep, dark, lofty tower: very dismal, very dark, very cold. TheExecutioner of the Inquisition, says Goblin, edging in her head to lookdown also, flung those who were past all further torturing down here.“But look! does Monsieur see the black stains on the wall?” A glance,over his shoulder, at Goblin’s keen eye, shows Monsieur—and wouldwithout the aid of the directing key—where they are. “What are they?”“Blood!”

In October, 1791, when the Revolution was at its height here, sixtypersons: men and women (“and priests,” says Goblin, “priests”): weremurdered, and hurled the dying and the dead, into this dreadful pit,where a quantity of quicklime was tumbled down upon their bodies. Thoseghastly tokens of the massacre were soon no more; but while one stoneof the strong building in which the deed was done remains upon another,there they will lie in the memories of men, as plain to see as thesplashing of their blood upon the wall is now.

Was it a portion of the great schemes of Retribution that the crueldeed should be committed in this place? That a part of the atrocitiesand monstrous institutions, which had been, for scores of years, atwork, to change[25] men’s nature, should in its last service tempt themwith the ready means of gratifying their furious and beastly rage!Should enable them to show themselves, in the height of their frenzy,no worse than a great, solemn, legal establishment in the height ofits power? No worse! Much better. They used the Tower of the Forgottenin the name of Liberty—their liberty; an earth-born creature, nursedin the black mud of the Bastille moats and dungeons, and necessarilybetraying many evidences of its unwholesome bringing-up—but theInquisition used it in the name of Heaven.

Goblin’s finger is lifted; and she steals out again into the Chapelof the Holy Office. She stops at a certain part of the flooring. Hergreat effect is at hand. She waits for the rest. She darts at the BraveCourier, who is explaining something; hits him a sounding rap on thehat with the largest key: and bids him be silent. She assembles us allround a little trap-door in the floor as round a grave. “Voilà!” shedarts down at the ring, and flings the door open with a crash, in hergoblin energy, though it is no light weight. “Voilà les oubliettes!Voilà les oubliettes! Subterranean! Frightful! Black! Terrible! Deadly!Les oubliettes de l’Inquisition!”

My blood ran cold as I looked from Goblin, down into the vaults, wherethese forgotten creatures, with recollections of the world outside:of wives, friends, children, brothers: starved to death, and madethe stones ring with their unavailing groans. But, the thrill I felton seeing the accursed wall below, decayed and broken through, and[26]the sun shining in through its gaping wounds, was like a sense ofvictory and triumph. I felt exalted with the proud delight of living,in these degenerate times, to see it. As if I were the hero of somehigh achievement! The light in the doleful vaults was typical of thelight that has streamed in on all persecution in God’s name, but whichis not yet at its noon! It cannot look more lovely to a blind mannewly restored to sight, than to a traveller who sees it, calmly andmajestically, treading down the darkness of that Infernal Well.

Goblin, having shown les oubliettes felt that her greatcoup was struck. She let the door fall with a crash, and stoodupon it with her arms akimbo, sniffing prodigiously.

When we left the place, I accompanied her into her house, under theouter gateway of the fortress, to buy a little history of the building.Her cabaret, a dark low room, lighted by small windows, sunk in thethick wall—in the softened light, and with its forge-like chimney;its little counter by the door, with bottles, jars, and glasses on it;its household implements and scraps of dress against the wall; and asober-looking woman (she must have a congenial life of it with Goblin)knitting at the door—looked exactly like a picture by Ostade.

I walked round the building on the outside, in a sort of dream,and yet with the delightful sense of having awakened from it, ofwhich the light, down in the vaults, had given me the assurance.The immense thickness and giddy height of the walls, the enormousstrength of the massive towers, the great extent of the building, itsgigantic[27] proportions, frowning aspect, and barbarous irregularity,awaken awe and wonder. The recollection of its opposite old uses; animpregnable fortress, a luxurious palace, a horrible prison, a placeof torture, the court of the Inquisition: at one and the same time,a house of feasting, fighting, religion, and blood: gives to everystone in its huge form a fearful interest, and imparts new meaning toits incongruities. I could think of little, however, then, or longafterwards, but the sun in the dungeons. The palace coming down to bethe lounging-place of noisy soldiers, and being forced to echo theirrough talk and common oaths, and to have their garments fluttering fromits dirty windows, was some reduction of its state, and something torejoice at; but the day in its cells, and the sky for the roof of itschambers of cruelty—that was its desolation and defeat! If I had seenit in a blaze from ditch to rampart, I should have felt that not thatlight, nor all the light in all the fire that burns, could waste it,like the sunbeams in its secret council-chamber, and its prisons.

Before I quit this Palace of the Popes, let me translate from thelittle history I mentioned just now a short anecdote, quite appropriateto itself, connected with its adventures.

“An ancient tradition relates, that in 1441, a nephew of Pierre deLude, the Pope’s legate, seriously insulted some distinguished ladiesof Avignon, whose relations, in revenge, seized the young man andhorribly mutilated him. For several years the legate kept hisrevenge within his own breast, but he was not the less resolved uponits gratification[28] at last. He even made, in the fullness of time,advances towards a complete reconciliation; and when their apparentsincerity had prevailed, he invited to a splendid banquet, in thispalace, certain families, whom he sought to exterminate. The utmostgayety animated the repast; but the measures of the legate werewell taken. When the dessert was on the board, a Swiss presentedhimself, with the announcement that a strange embassador solicited anextraordinary audience. The legate, excusing himself for the moment tohis guests, retired, followed by his officers. Within a few momentsafterwards, five hundred persons were reduced to ashes; the wholeof that wing of the building having been blown into the air with aterrible explosion!”

After seeing the churches (I will not trouble you with churches justnow), we left Avignon that afternoon. The heat being very great, theroads outside the walls were strewn with people fast asleep in everylittle slip of shade, and with lazy groups, half asleep and halfawake, who were waiting until the sun should be low enough to admit oftheir playing bowls among the burnt-up trees, and on the dusty road.The harvest here was already gathered in, and mules and horses weretreading out the corn in the fields. We came, at dusk, upon a wild andhilly country, once famous for brigands; and travelled slowly up asteep ascent. So we went on until eleven at night, when we halted atthe town of Aix (within two stages of Marseilles) to sleep.

The rain is nearly over. The sky is drying sadly and shows the firstblue spaces. It is damp and cold, and water runs all along the base ofthe old walls.

On foot, with an Arab for a guide, I escape alone from the hôtel tohurry at last to the Holy Sepulchre. It is in the opposite directionto that of the Dominicans, almost in the heart of Jerusalem throughnarrow winding streets between walls as old as the Crusades, withoutwindows and without roofs. On the wet pavements and beneath a stilldark sky, circulate Oriental costumes,—Turks, Bedouins, or Jews, andwomen draped like phantoms, Musulmans beneath dark veils and Christiansbeneath white veils.

The city has remained Saracen. Vaguely I notice that we pass anOriental bazaar, where the stalls are occupied by merchants inturbans; in the shadow of the roofed streets there slowly passesa string of enormous camels, that obliges us to enter one of thedoors. Now, we must get out of the way for a peculiar and long defileof Russian women, all sexagenarians at least, who walk rapidlyleaning on walking-sticks; old faded dresses, old parasols, oldtouloupes of fur, with faces of fatigue and suffering framedin black handkerchiefs; a black and sorrowful ensemble in themidst of this Orient of colour. They walk rapidly[30] with a movement atonce excited and exhausted, all hustling along without seeing anything,like somnambulists, with anæstheticized eyes wide open in a celestialdream. And hundreds of moujiks, having the same look of ecstasy followthem; all of them old, sordid, with long grey beards and long grey hairescaping from their felt hats; on their breasts many medals, indicatingthat they are old soldiers. Having entered the holy city yesterday,they are returning from their first visit to that sacred spot where Iam going in my turn; poor pilgrims who come here by the thousand, onfoot, sleeping out of doors in the rain or the snow, suffering withhunger and dying on the way.

In proportion as you approach, the Oriental objects in the stalls giveplace to objects of an obscure Christian piety: thousands of chaplets,crosses, religious lamps, and images or icons. And the crowd is denser,and other pilgrims, old moujiks and old matouchkas plant themselves tobuy cheap little wooden rosaries and cheap little crucifixes for twosous, which they will carry from here as relics to be considered assacred for ever.

Finally, in an old and defaced wall resembling a rock, there opens arude door, very low and narrow, and, by a series of descending steps,you arrive before a place jutting out from the high sombre walls, infront of the basilica of the Holy Sepulchre.

At this spot, it is customary to take off your hat, the very moment theHoly Sepulchre appears; every one passes bareheaded even if he is onlygoing by on his way about Jerusalem. It is thronged with poor peoplewho beg by[31] singing; pilgrims who pray; sellers of crosses and chapletswho have their little booths on the ground upon the old and venerableflag-stones. Upon the pavement and among the steps there rise the stilluprooted socles of columns that formally supported the basilicas, andthat were razed, like those of St. Stephen, from far back and doubtfulperiods; everything is a collection of rubbish in this city which hasbeen subjected to twenty sieges and which every kind of fanaticism hassacked.

The high walls, of reddish brown stone, forming the sides of thisplace, are convents or chapels—and it is said fortresses also. In thebackground, higher and more sombre than anything else rises that wornout and broken mass, which is the façade of the Holy Sepulchre andwhich has assumed the appearance and irregularities of a large rock; ithas two enormous doors of the Twelfth Century framed with singularlyarchaic ornaments; one of them is walled up; the other is wide openpermitting you to see thousands of little flames in the shadowyinterior. Songs, cries and discordant lamentations, lugubrious to hear,escape through it with the perfume of incense.

Passing through the door, you find yourself in the venerable shadowof a kind of vestibule that reveals magnificent depths beyond, whereinnumerable lamps are burning. Some Turkish guards, armed as if fora massacre, occupy this entrance in a military fashion; seated likesovereigns on a large divan, they watch the devotees passing thisplace, which is always, from their point of view, the opprobrium ofMusulman Jerusalem and which the[32] most savage of them have never ceasedto call El Komamah (ordure).

Oh! the unexpected and imperishable impression when you enter here forthe first time. A maze of sombre sanctuaries, of all periods and of allaspects connected by openings, doors and superb columns,—and also bylittle gloomy doors, air-holes and cavernous hollowings. Some of theseare elevated like high tribunals, where you perceive, in the remotedistance, groups of women in long veils; others are subterranean, whereyou are jostled by shadows, between walls of rock that have remainedintact, dripping and black.—All this, in a twilight where a few raysof light fall and accentuate the surrounding darkness; all this, starrywith an infinite number of little flames in lamps of silver and gold,hanging from the vaults by the thousand.—And everywhere a crowd movingabout confusedly as if at Babel, or quite stationary, seeming to begrouped by nationalities around the golden tabernacles where somebodyis officiating.

Psalmody, lamentations and joyful songs fill the high vaults, or echoin the sepulchral depths below; the nasal melopœia of the Greeks cutthrough by the howlings of the Copts. And, in all these voices, anexaltation of tears and prayers which produce dissonance and whichunite them; the whole effect becoming I know not what strange thingthat makes this place like a great wail from mankind and the supremecry of distress before death.

The rotunda with a very high cupola, which you enter first and whichallows you to divine between its columns[33] the obscure chaos of theother sanctuaries, is occupied in the centre by the great marble kiosk,of a luxury that is half barbaric and overcharged with silver lamps,that encloses the stone of the sepulchre. All around this very sacredkiosk, the crowd surges or stands still: on the one side hundreds ofmoujiks and matouchkas are kneeling on the flag-stones; on the other,the women of Jerusalem, standing up, in long white veils—groups ofancient virgins, one would, say, in the dreamlike shadow; elsewhereAbyssinians and turbaned Arabs prostrated with foreheads to the earth;Turks with sabre in hand; people of all communions and all languages.

You do not stay long in this habitation of the Holy Sepulchre, whichis really the very heart of this mass of basilicas and chapels, peoplepass by one by one; lowering your head you enter it by a very littledoor of marble carved and festooned; the sepulchre is within, encasedin marble and surrounded by gold icons and gold lamps. There enteredat the same time as I did a Russian soldier, a poor old woman in rags,an Oriental woman in rich brocade; all kissed the cover of the tomband wept. And others followed, and others eternally follow, to touch,embrace and wet with tears these same stones.

There is no plan of unity in this collection of churches and chapelswhich crowd close around this very holy kiosk; there are some largeones that are marvellously sumptuous and some little ones that arehumble and primitive, crumbling away with age in these sinister nooksdug out of the natural rock and dark as night. And, here and there,the[34] rock of Calvary, left bare, appears in the midst of richness andarchaic gold work. The contrast is strange between so many collectedtreasures,—icons of gold, crosses of gold and lamps of gold,—and therags of the pilgrims and the decay of the walls and the pillars, worn,corroded, shapeless and greasy from the rubbing of so many human bodies.

All the altars and all the different confessionals are so mingled herethat it results in a continual displacing of priests and processions;they cleave through the crowds, carrying remonstrances and precededby armed Janizaries who knock upon the resonant flag-stones with thehilts of their halberds. Make room! here are some Latins who pass ingolden chasubles. Make room again! here is the Syrian bishop with along white beard under a black cagoule, who issues from hislittle subterranean chapel. Then here are some Greeks still Byzantinein adornment, and Abyssinians with black faces. Quickly, quickly theywalk by in their sumptuous vestments whilst before them the silvercensers swung by children knock against the crowd which is throwninto confusion and separates. In this human sea there is a continuousrumbling and an incessant noise of psalmody and sacred bells. Almosteverywhere it is so dark that in order to walk about, it is necessaryto have a candle in your hand, and, beneath the high columns and in thedark corridors thousands of little flames follow or cross each other.Men praying in a loud voice, weeping and sobbing, run from one chapelto another, here to kiss the rock where the Cross was planted, thereto[35] prostrate themselves where Mary and Magdalen wept; some priests,crouching in the shadows, beckon to you to lead you through thefunereal little doors in the holes of the tombs; old women with wildeyes and tears running down their cheeks come up from the subterraneanblackness to kiss the stones of the sepulchres.

In black darkness, you descend to the chapel of Saint-Helena, by a widestairway of about thirty steps, worn, broken, dangerous as falling intoruin and bordered with squatting spectres. In passing, our candlesillumined the vague motionless creatures, of the same colour as theside of the rock, who are afflicted beggars, lunatics covered withulcers, sinister all of them, with their chins in their hands and longhair falling over their faces.—Among these ghastly creatures, there isa blind young man, with magnificent blonde curls enveloping him like amantle, who is as beautiful as the Christ whom he resembles.

Down below, the chapel of Saint-Helena, after that night, with itstwo rows of phantoms that you have passed through, is illumined bydaylight, whose rays arrive pale and bluish through the loop-holesof the vault. Assuredly this is one of the strangest places in allthat medley that calls itself the Holy Sepulchre; it is there thatone experiences in the most distressing manner, the sentiment of theterrible Past.

It is silent when I arrive and it is empty, beneath the half dead gazeof those phantoms that guard the stairway at the entrance; you hearwith difficulty the indistinct noise of bells and chants from above.Behind the altar, still[36] another stairway, bordered with the samelong-haired individuals, descends lower into a still darker night.

You would think this a heathen temple. Four enormous, dumpy pillars, ofa primitive Byzantine type and exceedingly heavy, sustain the surbasedcupola, from which hang ostrich eggs and a thousand uncouth pendants.Remains of painting on the walls indicating saints with nimbuses ofgold in naïve and stiff attitudes are being effaced by the dampness andancient dust. Everything is decaying through neglect with the sweat ofwater and saltpetre.

From the depths of the lower subterranean vaults suddenly ascend someAbyssinian priests, who suggest the ancient Magi-Kings, issuing fromthe bowels of the earth; black faces under large golden tiaras formedlike turbans, long robes of cloth of gold sprinkled with imaginaryred and blue flowers. Quickly, quickly, with that kind of excitedhaste which is universal here, they cross the crypts of Saint-Helenaand mount towards the other sanctuaries by the big stairway inruins,—illuminated at first by the light falling from the loop-holesof the vault, splendidly archaic in their golden robes in the midst ofthe gnomes squatting against the walls,—then, they suddenly disappearabove in the distant shadows.

Some distance away, in the sanctuaries at the entrance and near thekiosk of the Sepulchre, the rock of Calvary rises: it supports twochapels to which you ascend by twenty stone steps and which are theveritable place of prostrations and sobs for the crowd.

From the peristyle of these chapels, like an elevated[37] balcony the viewcommands a confused mass of tabernacles, a maze of churches, where thehypnotized crowd moves about. The most splendid of the two is that ofthe Greeks; under a nimbus of silver, as resplendent as a rainbow,stand out in human grandeur the pale images of the three crucifiedones, Christ and the two thieves; the walls are hidden by icons ofsilver, gold and precious stones. The altar is erected on the veryplace of the crucifixion; under the retable a silver lattice lets yousee in the black rock the hole where the Cross was planted,—and it isthere that you walk on your knees, wetting these sombre stones withtears and kisses, whilst a lulling noise of chants and prayers ascendsincessantly from the churches below.

And, for two thousand years, here it has ever been thus; under diversforms, in the different basilicas, with interruptions of sieges,battles, and massacres, but with renewals still more passionate anduniversal, here the same concert of prayers, the same great chorusof desperate supplications or triumphant thanksgiving have alwaysresounded.

They are somewhat idolatrous, these adorations, for those who say: “Godis a Spirit and those who adore Him should adore Him in spirit and intruth.” But they are so human, they respond so well to our instinctsand our misery. Surely, the first Christians in the purely spiritualflight of their faith, and when the teaching of the master was stillfresh in their souls, did not encumber themselves with magnificence,symbols and images. Above all it was not terrestrial memories—theplace of a martyr and an empty[38] sepulchre—that preoccupied them; theirRedeemer, they did not dream of seeking Him here, as they had seenHim detached forever from transitory things and hovering above in theserene light. But we—all of us, people of the West and North—aresome centuries nearer to simple barbarism than the ancient society outof which the early Christians arose; in the Middle Ages, when the newfaith penetrated our forests, it overshadowed a thousand primitivebeliefs; let us acknowledge it is a small minority that is freed fromthose accumulated traditions to come again to an evangelical cult inspirit and in truth. And, moreover, when faith is extinguished in ourmodern souls it is still by that so human veneration for places andmemories, that unbelievers like myself are affected with the touchingregret for the lost Saviour.

Oh! Christ, for whom all these crowds gather and weep; Christ, for whomthis poor old woman, prostrated near me, licks the pavement, leaningagainst the flags her miserable heart whilst weeping delicious tearsof hope; Christ, who holds me, me also, in this place, like her, ina vague, yet very sweet meditation. Oh if He was merely one of ourbrothers in suffering, now vanished in death, may His memory be adored,even so, for His long illusion of love, meeting again, and eternity.And may this place be also blessed, this unique and strange place whichis called the Holy Sepulchre—even contestable, even fictitious if youplease—but whither, for fifteen centuries afflicted multitudes haverun, where hardened hearts have melted like the snows, and where now myeyes are ready to veil themselves[39] in a last rapture of prayer—veryillogical I know—but ineffable and infinite.

In the evening, at nightfall, after I have wandered for a long whilein the melancholy little streets, through the Saracen city, where thecrowns of fire of the Ramadan begin to flame around the minarets of themosques,—an attraction draws me slowly towards the Holy Sepulchre.

There reigns here a different darkness to that of the daytime; the raysof white light have ceased to descend by the loop-holes of the vaults;but the lamps that are lighted are more numerous, lamps of silver andlamps of gold, and coloured lamps studding the darkness with littleflames of blue, red, or white. A kind of calm rests in this labyrinthof high vaults, like a rest after the exhausting ardour of the day.The noises are nothing more than the buzzing of prayers uttered verylow and upon the knee, only the murmurings in the sonorous caves,where dominate the poor raucous voices of the moujiks, and, everynow and then their deep coughs. It is nearly time to close the doorsand the crowd has melted away; but some groups of people, prostratedin the shadows with faces to the ground, are still kissing the holyflag-stones.

I rested a moment, and looking against the stout oaken gate, whichclosed up the entrance to this unknown region, felt at my heart acertain awe, that brought to my mind the sacred terror of those inancient days going to be admitted into the Eleusinian mysteries.

My guide gave two knocks; after a solemn pause, the gate was slowlyopened, and all our horses having passed through it, was againcarefully closed.

I now found myself in a narrow dell, surrounded on every side by peaksof the mountains, rising almost beyond my sight, and shelving downwardstill their bases were hidden by the foam and spray of the water, overwhich hung a thousand withered and distorted trees. The rocks seemedcrowding upon me, and, by their particular situation, threatenedto obstruct every ray of light; but, notwithstanding the menacingappearance of the prospect, I still kept following my guide up a craggyascent, partly hewn through a rock, and bordered by the trunks ofancient fir-trees, which formed a fantastic barrier, till we came to adreary and exposed promontory, impending directly over the dell.

The woods are here clothed with darkness, and the torrents rushingwith additional violence are lost in the gloom[41] of the caverns below;every object, as I looked downwards from my path, that hung midwaybetween the base and the summit of the cliff, was horrid and woeful.The channel of the torrent sunk deep amidst frightful crags, and thepale willows and wreathed roots spreading over it, answered my ideasof those dismal abodes, where, according to the Druidical mythology,the ghosts of conquered warriors were bound. I shivered whilst I wasregarding these regions of desolation, and, quickly lifting up my eyesto vary the scene, I perceived a range of whitish cliffs glisteningwith the light of the sun, to emerge from these melancholy forests.

On a fragment that projected over the chasm, and concealed for a momentits terrors, I saw a cross, on which was written Via coeli. Thecliffs being the heaven to which I now aspired, we deserted the edgeof the precipice, and, ascending, came to a retired nook of the rocks,in which several copious rills had worn irregular grottoes. Here wereposed an instant, and were enlivened with a few sunbeams, piercingthe thickets and gilding the waters that bubbled from the rock, overwhich hung another cross, inscribed with this short sentence, whichthe situation rendered wonderfully pathetic, O Spes unica! thefervent exclamation of some wretch disgusted with the world whose onlyconsolation was found in this retirement.

We quitted this solitary cross to enter a thick forest of beech trees,that screened in some measure the precipices on which they grew,catching, however, every instant terrifying glimpses of the torrentbelow. Streams gushed[42] from every crevice in the cliffs, and fallingover the mossy roots and branches of the beech, hastened to join thegreat torrent, athwart which I every now and then remarked certaintottering bridges, and sometimes could distinguish a Carthusiancrossing over to his hermitage, that just peeped above the woodylabyrinths on the opposite shore.

It was now about ten o’clock, and my guide assured me I should soondiscover the convent. Upon this information I took new courage, andcontinued my route on the edge of the rocks, till we struck intoanother gloomy grove. After turning about it for some time, we enteredagain into the glare of daylight, and saw a green valley skirted byridges of cliffs and sweeps of wood before us. Towards the farther endof this inclosure, on a gentle acclivity, rose the revered turretsof the Carthusians, which extend in a long line on the brow of thehill; beyond them a woody amphitheatre majestically presents itself,terminated by spires of rock and promontories lost among the clouds.

The roar of the torrent was now but faintly distinguishable, and allthe scenes of horror and confusion I had passed were succeeded bya sacred and profound calm. I traversed the valley with a thousandsensations I despair of describing, and stood before the gate of theconvent with as much awe as some novice or candidate newly arrived tosolicit the holy retirement of the order.

As admittance is more readily granted to the English than to almost anyother nation, it was not long before the gates opened, and whilst theporter ordered our horses to[43] the stable, we entered a court watered bytwo fountains and built round with lofty edifices characterized by anoble simplicity.

The interior portal opening discovered an arched aisle, extendingtill the perspective nearly met, along which windows, but scantilydistributed between the pilasters, admitted a pale solemn light, justsufficient to distinguish the objects with a picturesque uncertainty.We had scarcely set our feet on the pavement when the monks beganto issue from an arch, about half-way down, and passing in a longsuccession from their chapel, bowed reverently with much humility andmeekness, and dispersed in silence, leaving one of their body alone inthe aisle.

The father Coadjutor (for he only remained) advanced towards us withgreat courtesy, and welcomed us in a manner which gave me far morepleasure than all the frivolous salutations and effected greetings socommon in the world below. After asking us a few indifferent questions,he called one of the lay brothers, who live in the convent under lesssevere restrictions than the fathers whom they serve, and ordering himto prepare our apartment, conducted us to a large square hall withcasement windows, and, what was more comfortable, an enormous chimneywhose hospitable hearth blazed with a fire of dry aromatic fir, on eachside of which were two doors that communicated with the neat littlecells destined for our bed-chambers.

Whilst he was placing us round the fire, a ceremony by no meansunimportant in the cold climate of these upper[44] regions, a bell rangwhich summoned him to prayers. After charging the lay brother to setbefore us the best fare their desert afforded, he retired, and left usat full liberty to examine our chambers.

The weather lowered, and the casements permitted very little light toenter the apartment: but on the other side it was amply enlivened bythe gleams of the fire, that spread all over a certain comfortable air,which even sunshine but rarely diffuses. Whilst the showers descendedwith great violence, the lay brother and another of his companionswere placing an oval table, very neatly carved and covered with thefinest linen in the middle of the hall; and, before we had examined anumber of portraits which were hung in all the panels of the wainscot,they called us to a dinner widely different from what might have beenexpected in so dreary a situation. Our attendant friar was helpingus to some Burgundy, of the happiest growth and vintage, when theCoadjutor returned, accompanied by two other fathers, the Secretary andProcurator, whom he presented to us. You would have been both charmedand surprised with the cheerful resignation that appeared in theircountenances, and with the easy turn of their conversation.

In the course of our conversation they asked me innumerable questionsabout England, where formerly, they said, many monasteries had belongedto their order; and principally that of Witham, which they had learntto be now in my possession.

The Secretary, almost with tears in his eyes, beseeched me to reverethese consecrated edifices, and to preserve[45] their remains, for thesake of St. Hugo, their canonized prior. I replied greatly to hissatisfaction, and then declaimed so much in favour of St. Bruno and theholy prior of Witham, that the good fathers grew exceedingly delightedwith the conversation, and made me promise to remain some days withthem. I readily complied with their request, and, continuing in thesame strain, that had so agreeably affected their ears, was soonpresented with the works of St. Bruno, whom I so zealously admired.

After we had sat extolling them, and talking upon much the same sortof subjects for about an hour, the Coadjutor proposed a walk amongstthe cloisters and galleries, as the weather would not admit of anylonger excursion. He leading the way, we ascended a flight of steps,which brought us to a gallery, on each side of which a vast number ofpictures, representing the dependent convents were ranged; for I wasnow in the capital of the order, where the general resides, and fromwhence he issues forth his commands to his numerous subjects, whodepute the superiors of their respective convents whether situatedin the wilds of Calabria, the forests of Poland, or in the remotestdistricts of Portugal and Spain, to assist at the grand chapter, heldannually under him, a week or two after Easter.

Having amused myself for some time with the pictures, and thedescriptions the Coadjutor gave me of them, we quitted the gallery andentered a kind of chapel, in which were two altars with lamps burningbefore them, on each[46] side of a lofty portal. This opened into a grandcoved hall, adorned with historical paintings of St. Bruno’s life, andthe portraits of the generals of the order since the year of the greatfounder’s death (1085) to the present time. Under these portraits arethe stalls for the superiors who assist at the grand convocation. Infront, appears the general’s throne; above, hangs a representation ofthe canonized Bruno, crowned with stars.

The Coadjutor seemed charmed with the respect with which I lookedround on these holy objects; and if the hour of vespers had not beendrawing near, we should have spent more time in the contemplationof Bruno’s miracles, portrayed on the lower panels of the hall. Weleft that room to enter a winding passage (lighted by windows in theroof) that brought us to a cloister six hundred feet in length, fromwhich branched off two others, joining a fourth of the same mostextraordinary dimensions. Vast ranges of slender pillars extend roundthe different courts of the edifice, many of which are thrown intogardens belonging to particular cells. We continued straying fromcloister to cloister, and wandering along the winding passages andintricate galleries of this immense edifice, whilst the Coadjutor wasassisting at vespers.

In every part of the structure reigned the most death-like calm: nosound reached my ears but the “minute drops from off the eaves.” I satdown in a niche of the cloister, and fell into a profound reverie, fromwhich I was recalled by the return of our conductor, who, I believe,was almost tempted to imagine from the cast of my countenance,[47] that Iwas deliberating whether I should not remain with them for ever.

But I soon roused myself, and testified some impatience to see thegreat chapel, at which we at length arrived after traversing anotherlabyrinth of cloisters. The gallery immediately before its entranceappeared quite gay, in comparison with the others I had passed, andowes its cheerfulness to a large window (ornamented with slabs ofpolished marble) that admits the view of a lovely wood, and allows afull blaze of light to dart on the chapel door, which is also adornedwith marble, in a plain but noble style of architecture.

The father sacristan stood ready on the steps of the portal to grantus admittance; and, throwing open the valves, we entered the chapeland were struck by the justness of its proportions, the solemn majestyof the arched roof and the mild solemn light equally diffused overevery part of the edifice. No tawdry ornaments, no glaring picturesdisgraced the sanctity of the place. The high altar, standing distinctfrom the walls which were hung with a rich velvet, was the only objecton which many ornaments were lavished; and, it being a high festival,was clustered with statues of gold, shrines, and candelabra of thestateliest shape and most delicate execution. Four of the latter, of agigantic size, were placed on the steps; which, together with part ofthe inlaid floor within the choir, were spread with beautiful carpets.

The illumination of so many tapers striking on the shrines, censersand pillars of polished jasper, sustaining the[48] canopy of the altar,produced a wonderful effect; and, as the rest of the chapel was visibleonly by the faint external light admitted from above, the splendour anddignity of the altar was enhanced by contrast. I retired a moment fromit, and seating myself in one of the furthermost stalls of the choir,looked towards it, and fancied the whole structure had risen by “subtlemagic,” like an exhalation.

Here I remained several minutes breathing nothing but incense, andshould not have quitted my station soon, had I not been apprehensiveof disturbing the devotions of two aged fathers who had just entered,and were prostrating themselves before the steps of the altar. Thesevenerable figures added greatly to the solemnity of the scene; which asthe day declined increased every moment in splendour; for the sparklingof several lamps of chased silver that hung from the roofs, and thegleaming of nine huge tapers which I had not before noticed, began tobe visible just as I left the chapel.

Passing through the sacristy, where lay several piles of richembroidered vestments, purposely displayed for our inspection, weregained the cloister which led to our apartment, where the supper wasready prepared. We had scarcely finished it, when the Coadjutor and thefathers who had accompanied us before, returned, and ranging themselvesround the fire, resumed the conversation about St. Bruno.

It grew rather late before my kind hosts had finished their narrationsand I was not sorry, after all the exercise I had taken, to return tomy cell, where everything invited to[49] repose. I was charmed with theneatness and oddity of my little apartment; its cabin-like bed, oratoryand ebony crucifix; in short, everything it contained; not forgettingthe aromatic odour of the pine, with which it was roofed, floored andwainscoted. The night was luckily dark. Had the moon appeared, I couldnot have prevailed upon myself to have quitted her till very late; but,as it happened, I crept into my cabin, and was by “whispering windssoon lulled asleep.”

Eight o’clock struck next morning before I awoke; when, to my greatsorrow, I found the peaks, which rose above the convent, veiled invapours, and the rain descending with violence.

After we had breakfasted by the light of our fire (for the casementsadmitted but a very feeble gleam), I sat down to the works of St.Bruno; of all medleys one of the strangest. Allegories without end; atheologico-natural history of birds, beast and fishes; several chapterson paradise; the delights of solitude; the glory of Solomon’s temple;the new Jerusalem; and numberless other wonderful subjects, full of theloftiest enthusiasm.

I had scarcely finished taking extracts from the writings of thisholy and highly-gifted personage when the dinner appeared, consistingof everything most delicate which a strict adherence to the rules ofmeagre could allow. The good fathers returned as usual before ourrepast was half over, and resumed as usual their mystic discourse,looking all the time rather earnestly into my countenance to observethe sort of effect their most marvellous narrations produced upon it.

[50]

Our conversation, which was beginning to take a gloomy and seriousturn, was interrupted, I thought very agreeably, by the suddenintrusion of the sun, which, escaping from the clouds, shone in fullsplendour above the highest peak of the mountains, and the vapoursfleeting by degrees discovered the woods in all the freshness of theirverdure. The pleasure I received from seeing this new creation risingto view was very lively, and, as the fathers assured me the humidity oftheir walks did not often continue longer than the showers, I left myhall.

Crossing the court, I hastened out of the gates, and running swiftlyalong a winding path on the side of the meadow, bordered by theforests, enjoyed the charms of the prospect, inhaled the perfume ofthe woodlands, and now turning towards the summits of the precipicesthat encircle this sacred inclosure, admired the glowing colours theyborrowed from the sun, contrasted by the dark hues of the forest. Now,casting my eyes below, I suffered them to roam from valley to valley,and from one stream (beset with tall pines and tufted beech trees)to another. The purity of the air in these exalted regions, and thelightness of my own spirits, almost seized me with the idea of treadingin that element.

The tranquillity of the region, the verdure of the lawn, environedby girdles of flourishing wood, and the lowing of the distant herdsfilled me with the most pleasing sensations. But when I lifted my eyesto the towering cliffs and beheld the northern sky streaming withruddy light, and the long succession of misty forms hovering over the[51]space beneath, they became sublime and awful. The dews which began todescend, and the vapours which were rising from every dell, reminded meof the lateness of the hour; and it was with great reluctance that Iturned from the scene which had so long engaged my contemplation, andtraversed slowly and silently the solitary meadows, over which I hadhurried with such eagerness an hour ago.

We had hardly supped before the gates of the convent were shut, acircumstance which disconcerted me not a little, as the full moongleamed through the casements, and the stars, sparkling above theforests of pines, invited me to leave my apartment again, and to givemyself up entirely to the spectacle they offered.

The Coadjutor perceiving that I was often looking earnestly throughthe windows, guessed my wishes, and calling a lay-brother, orderedhim to open the gates, and wait at them till my return. It was notlong before I took advantage of this permission, and escaping fromthe courts and cloisters of the monastery, all hushed in death-likestillness, ascended a green knoll, which several ancient pines stronglymarked with their shadows: there, leaning against one of their trunks,I lifted up my eyes to the awful barrier of the surrounding mountains,discovered by the trembling silver light of the moon shooting directlyon the woods which fringed their acclivities.

The lawns, the vast woods, the steep descents, the precipices, thetorrents, lay all extended beneath, softened by a pale bluish haze,that alleviated, in some measure, the stern[52] prospect of the rockypromontories above, wrapped in dark shadows. The sky was of the deepestazure, innumerable stars were distinguished with unusual clearness fromthis elevation, many of which twinkled behind the fir-trees edging thepromontories. White, grey, and darkish clouds came marching towards themoon that shone full against a range of cliffs, which lift themselvesfar above the others. The hoarse murmur of the torrent, throwing itselffrom the distant wilderness into the gloomy vales, was mingled with theblast that blew from the mountains.

It increased. The forests began to wave, black clouds rose from thenorth, and, as they fleeted along, approached the moon whose light theyshortly extinguished. A moment of darkness succeeded; the gust waschill and melancholy; it swept along the desert, and then subsiding,the vapours began to pass away, and the moon returned; the grandeur ofthe scene was renewed, and its imposing solemnity was increased by herpresence. Inspiration was in every wind.

I followed some impulse, which drove me to the summit of the mountainsbefore me; and there, casting a look on the whole extent of wild woodsand romantic precipices, thought of the days of St. Bruno. I eagerlycontemplated every rock that formerly might have met his eyes; drankof the spring which tradition says he was wont to drink of; and ranto every pine, whose withered appearance bespoke the most remoteantiquity, and beneath which, perhaps, the saint had reposed himself,when worn with vigils, or possessed with the sacred spirit of hisinstitutions. It was[53] midnight before I returned to the convent andretired to my quiet chamber, but my imagination was too much disturbed,and my spirits far too active, to allow me any rest for some time.

The Temples of Hatchiman are approached by long lines of those greatcedar-trees which form the avenues to all places of worship in Japan.As we advance along the avenue on the Kanasawa side, chapels multiplythemselves along the road, and to the left, upon the sacred hills, wealso come in sight of the oratories and commemorative stones whichmark the stations of the processions; on the right the horizon isclosed by the mountain, with its grottos, its streams, and its pinegroves. After we have crossed the river by a fine wooden bridge, wefind ourselves suddenly at the entrance of another alley, which leadsfrom the seaside, and occupies a large street. This is the principalavenue, intersected by three gigantic toris, and it opens on the grandsquare in front of the chief staircase of the main building of theTemple. The precinct of the sacred place extends into the street, andis surrounded on three sides by a low wall of solid masonry, surmountedby a barrier of wood painted red and black. Two steps lead to thefirst level. There is nothing to be seen there but the houses of thebonzes, arranged like the side-scenes of a theatre, amid trees plantedalong the barrier-wall, with two great oval ponds occupying the centreof the square. They are connected with each other by a large canal[55]crossed by two parallel bridges, each equally remarkable in its way.That on the right is of white granite, and it describes an almostperfect semicircle, so that when one sees it for the first time onesupposes that it is intended for some sort of geometrical exercise; butI suppose that it is in reality a bridge of honour, reserved for thegods and the good genii who come to visit the Temple. The bridge onthe left is quite flat, constructed of wood covered with red lacquer,with balusters and other ornaments in old polished copper. The pondcrossed by the stone bridge is covered with magnificent white lotusflowers,—the pond crossed by the wooden bridge with red lotus flowers.Among the leaves of the flowers we saw numbers of fish, some red andothers like mother of pearl, with glittering fins, swimming about inwaters of crystal clearness. The black tortoise glides among the greatwater-plants and clings to their stems.

After having thoroughly enjoyed this most attractive spectacle, we goon towards the second enclosure. It is raised a few steps higher thanthe first, and, as it is protected by an additional sanctity, it isonly to be approached through the gate of the divine guardians of thesanctuary. This building, which stands opposite the bridges, containstwo monstrous idols, placed side by side in the centre of the edifice.They are sculptured in wood, and are covered from head to foot with athick coating of vermilion. Their grinning faces and their enormousbusts are spotted all over with innumerable pieces of chewed paper,which the native visitors throw at them when passing, without any[56]more formality than would be used by a number of schoolboys out for aholiday. Nevertheless, it is considered a very serious act on the partof the pilgrims. It is the means by which they make the prayer writtenon the sheet of chewed paper reach its address, and when they wish torecommend anything to the gods very strongly indeed, they bring as anoffering a pair of straw slippers plaited with regard to the size ofthe feet of the Colossus, and hang them on the iron railings withinwhich the statues are enclosed. Articles of this kind, suspended bythousands to the bars, remain there until they fall away in time, andit may be supposed that this curious ornamentation is anything butbeautiful.

Here a lay brother of the bonzes approached us, and his interestedviews were easily enough detected by his bearing. We hastened toassure him that we required nothing from his good offices, exceptaccess to an enclosed building. With a shake of his head, so as tomake us understand that we were asking for an impossibility, he simplyset himself to follow us about with the mechanical precision of asubaltern. He was quite superfluous, but we did not allow his presenceto interfere with our admiration. A high terrace, reached by a longstone staircase, surmounted the second enclosure. It is sustained by aCyclopean wall, and in its turn supports the principal Temple as wellas the habitations of the bonzes. The grey roofs of all these differentbuildings stand out against the sombre forest of cedars and pines. Onour left are the buildings of the Treasury; one of them has a pyramidalroof surmounted[57] by a turret of bronze most elegantly worked. At thefoot of the great terrace is the Chapel of the Ablutions. On our rightstands a tall pagoda, constructed on the principle of the Chinesepagodas, but in a more sober and severe style. The first stage, of aquadrangular form, is supported by pillars; the second stage consistsof a vast circular gallery which, though extremely massive, seems torest simply upon a pivot. A painted roof, terminated by a tall spire ofcast bronze, embellished with pendants of the same metal, completes theeffect of this strange but exquisitely proportioned building.

All the doors of the buildings which I have enumerated are in goodtaste. The fine proportions, the rich brown colouring of the wood,which is almost the only material employed in their construction, isenhanced by a few touches of red and dragon green, and the effect ofthe whole is perfect;—add to the picture a frame of ancient trees andthe extreme brilliancy of the sky, for the atmosphere of Japan is themost transparent in the world.

We went beyond the pagoda to visit a bell-tower, where we were shown alarge bell beautifully engraved, and an oratory on each side containingthree golden images, a large one in the centre, and two small ones oneither side. Each was surrounded by a nimbus. This beautiful Temple ofHatchiman is consecrated to a Kami; but it is quite evident that thereligious customs of India have supplanted the ancient worship;—wehad several proofs of this fact. When we were about to turn back wewere solicited by the lay brother to go with him a little further. Wecomplied,[58] and he stopped us under a tree laden with ex-votos,at the foot of which stands a block of stone, surrounded by a barrier.This stone, which is probably indebted to the chisels of the bonzes forits peculiar form, is venerated by the multitude, and largely endowedwith ex-voto offerings. Like all peoples of the extreme Eastthe Japanese are very superstitious; a fact of which we had abundantevidence on this and other occasions.

The Temple towards which we directed our steps on leaving the avenueof the Temple of Hatchiman, immediately diverted our thoughts from thegrandeur of this picture. It is admirably situated on the summit of apromontory, whence we overlook the whole Bay of Kamakoura; but it isalways sad to come, in the midst of beautiful nature, upon a so-calledholy place which inspires nothing but disgust. The principal sanctuary,at first sight, did not strike us as remarkable. Insignificant goldenidols stand upon the high altar; and in a side chapel there is an imageof the God of Wealth, armed with a miner’s hammer. But when the bonzeswho received us conducted us behind the high altar, and thence into asort of cage as dark as a prison and as high as a tower, they lightedtwo lanterns, and stuck them at the end of a long pole. Then, by thisglimmering light, which entirely failed to disperse the shades of theroof, we perceived that we were standing in front of an enormous idolof gilt wood, about twelve yards high, holding in its right hand asceptre, in its left a lotus, and wearing a tiara composed of threerows of heads representing the inferior divinities. This gigantic[59]idol belongs to the religion of the auxiliary gods of the Buddhistmythology: the Amidas and the Quannons, intercessors who collectthe prayers of men and transmit them to heaven. By means of similarreligious conceptions, the bonzes strike a superstitious terror intothe imaginations of their followers and succeed in keeping them in astate of perpetual fear and folly.

We then went to see the Daïboudhs, which is the wonder of Kamakoura.This building is dedicated to the Daïboudhs, that is to say, to thegreat Buddha, and may be regarded as the most finished work of Japanesegenius, from the double points of view of art and religious sentiment.The Temple of Hatchiman had already given us a remarkable example ofthe use which native art makes of nature in producing that impressionof religious majesty which in our northern climates is effected byGothic architecture. The Temple of Daïboudhs differs considerably fromthe first which we had seen. Instead of the great dimensions, insteadof the illimitable space which seemed to stretch from portal to portaldown to the sea, a solitary and mysterious retreat prepares the mindfor some supernatural revelation. The road leads far away from everyhabitation; in the direction of the mountain it winds about betweenhedges of tall shrubs. Finally, we see nothing before us but the highroad, going up and up in the midst of foliage and flowers; then itturns in a totally different direction, and all of a sudden, at theend of the alley, we perceive a gigantic brazen Divinity, squattingwith joined hands, and the head slightly bent forward in an[60] attitudeof contemplative ecstasy. The involuntary amazement produced by theaspect of this great image soon gives place to admiration. There isan irresistible charm in the attitude of the Daïboudhs, as well as inthe harmony of its proportions. The noble simplicity of its garmentsand the calm purity of its features are in perfect accord with thesentiment of serenity inspired by its presence. A grove, consistingof some beautiful groups of trees, forms the enclosure of the sacredplace, whose silence and solitude are never disturbed. The small cellof the attendant priest can hardly be discerned among the foliage.The altar, on which a little incense is burning at the feet of theDivinity, is composed of a small brass table ornamented by two lotusvases of the same metal, and beautifully wrought. The steps of thealtar are composed of large slabs forming regular lines. The blue ofthe sky, the deep shadow of the statue, the sombre colour of the brass,the brilliancy of the flowers, the varied verdure of the hedges andthe groves, fill this solemn retreat with the richest effect of lightand colour. The idol of the Daïboudhs, with the platform that supportsit, is twenty yards high; it is far from equal in elevation to thestatue of St. Charles Borromeo, which may be seen from Arona on theborders of Lake Maggiore, but which effects the spectator no more thana trigonometrical signal-post. The interiors of these two colossalstatues have been utilized. The European tourists seat themselvesin the nose of the holy cardinal. The Japanese descend by a secretstaircase into the foundations of their Daïboudhs, and there theyfind a peaceful oratory, whose[61] altar is lighted by a ray of sunshineadmitted through an opening in the folds of the mantle at the back ofthe idol’s neck. It would be idle to discuss to what extent the Buddhaof Kamakoura resembles the Buddha of history, but it is important toremark that he is conformable to the Buddha of tradition.

In every place which boasts of a cathedral church, that cathedralchurch is commonly the chief object of interest, alike as its presentornament and as the chief centre of its past history. But in Wellsthe cathedral church and its appurtenances are yet more. Theirinterest is not only primary, but absorbing. They are not only thechief ornament of the place; they are the place itself. They are notonly the centre of the past history of the city; their history is thehistory of the city. Of our other cities some can trace up a longhistory as cities independent of their ecclesiastical foundations. Somewere the dwelling-places of Kings in days before England became onekingdom. Some have been for ages seats of commerce or manufactures;their history is the history of burghers striving for and obtainingtheir freedom, a history which repeats in small that same tale ofearly struggles and later abuses which forms the history of so manygreater commonwealths. Others have a long military history; theirname at once suggests the memory of battles and sieges, and they canstill show walls and castles as the living memorials of the stirringscenes of bygone times. In others even the ecclesiastical pre-eminenceof the cathedral church may be disputed by some other ecclesiasticalbuilding. The bishoprick and its [63]church may be comparatively moderninstitutions, and they may be altogether eclipsed by some otherinstitution more ancient in date of foundation, perhaps more ancientin its actual fabric. Thus at Oxford the cathedral church is well-nighlost among the buildings of the University and its greatest college.At Chester its rank may be disputed by the majestic fragments of theolder minster of Saint John. At Bristol the cathedral church, even whenrestored to its old proportions, will still have at least an equalrival in the stateliest parish church in England. In these cities thebishoprick, its church and its chapter, are institutions of yesterday;the cities themselves were great and famous for ages before they werefounded. So at Exeter, though the bishoprick is of far earlier date,yet Exeter was a famous city, which had played its part in history,long before Bishops of Exeter were heard of. Even at Winchester theoverwhelming greatness of the old minster has to compete with theearlier and later interests of the royal palace, of the fallen Abbey,of the unique home of noble poverty and of the oldest of the greatand still living schools of England. Salisbury alone in our own partof England, and Durham in the far north, have a history which in somemeasure resembles that of Wells. Like Wells, Salisbury and Durham arecities which have grown up around the cathedral church. Wells standsalone among the cities of England proper as a city which exists only inand through its cathedral church, whose whole history is that of itscathedral church. The bishoprick has been to us what the Abbey has beento our neighbours at Glastonbury, which the[64] church first of Abbotsand then of Bishops has been elsewhere to Ely and Peterborough. Thewhole history of Wells is, I say, the history of the bishoprick and ofits church. Of the origin and foundation of the city, as distinguishedfrom that of the church, nothing is known. The name of Wells is firstheard of as the place where the church of St. Andrew was standing andits name seldom appears in later history except in connection withthe affairs of its church. It was never a royal dwelling-place; itwas never a place of commercial importance; it was never a place ofmilitary strength. Like other cities, it has its municipal history,but its municipal history is simply an appendage to its ecclesiasticalhistory; the franchises of the borough were simply held as grants fromthe Bishop. It has its parochial church, a church standing as highamong the buildings of its own class as the cathedral church itself.This parochial church has a parochial constitution which is in somepoints unique. But the parochial church is simply an appendage tothe cathedral church; it is the church of the burghers who had cometo dwell under the shadow of the minster and the protection of itsspiritual lord. And it has ever retained a close, sometimes perhapsa too close, connexion with the cathedral and its Chapter. Thus thehistory of the church is the history of the city; no battles, nosieges, no parliaments, break the quiet tenor of its way; the name ofthe city has hardly found its way into our civil and military history.Its name does appear among the troubles of the Seventeenth Century,in the pages of Clarendon and Macaulay, but it appears in connexionwith[65] events whose importance was mainly local. And even here theecclesiastical interest comes in; the most striking event connectedwith Wells in the story of Monmouth’s rebellion is the mischief doneto the cathedral, and the way in which further damage and desecrationwas hindered by Lord Grey. And in our own times, when the parliamentaryexistence of this city became the subject of an animated parliamentarydiscussion, even then the ecclesiastical interest was still uppermost.The old battle of the regulars and seculars was fought again over thebodies of two small parliamentary boroughs. I need not remind you thatthe claims of the old secular foundation were stoutly pressed by one ofour own members. But the monastic influence was too strong for us; themantle of Dunstan and Æthelwald had fallen on the shoulders of Sir JohnPakington, and the claims of the fallen Abbey of Evesham were preferredto those of the existing Cathedral of Wells.

The whole interest, then, of the city is ecclesiastical; but itsecclesiastical interest in one point of view surpasses that of everychurch in England,—I am strongly tempted to say, every church inEurope. The traveller who comes down the hill from Shepton Mallet looksdown, as he draws near the city, on a group of buildings which, as faras I know, has no rival either in our island or beyond the sea. Tomost of these objects, taken singly, it would be easy to find rivalswhich would equal or surpass them. The church itself, seen even fromthat most favourable point of view, cannot, from mere lack of bulk,hold its ground against the soaring apse of Amiens, or against the[66]windows ranging, tier above tier, in the mighty eastern gable of Ely.The cloister cannot measure itself with Gloucester or Salisbury; thechapter-house lacks the soaring roofs of York and Lincoln; the palaceitself finds its rival in the ruined pile of St. David’s. The peculiarcharm and glory of Wells lies in the union and harmonious groupingof all. The church does not stand alone; it is neither crowded byincongruous buildings, nor yet isolated from those buildings whichare its natural and necessary complement. Palace, cloister, ladychapel, choir, chapter-house, all join to form one indivisible uniquebridge which by a marvel of ingenuity connects the church itself withthe most perfect of buildings of its class, the matchless Vicars’close. Scattered around we see here and there an ancient house, itsgable, its window, or its turret falling in with the style and groupof greater buildings, and bearing its part in producing the generalharmony of all. The whole history of the place is legibly written onthat matchless group of buildings. If we could fancy an ecclesiasticalhistorian to have dropped from the clouds, the aspect of the placewould at once tell him that he was looking on an English cathedralchurch, on a cathedral church which had always been served by secularcanons, on a church of secular canons which had preserved its ancientbuildings and ancient arrangements more perfectly than any other in theisland.

The whole history of Wells before the time of Edward the Elder isexcessively obscure, and much of it is undoubtedly fabulous. There is astory about King Ine[67] planting a Bishoprick at Congresbury, which waspresently moved to Wells, and a list of Bishops is given between Ineand Edward. There is also a document which professes to be a charter ofKing Cynewulf in 766, which does not speak of any Bishop at Wells, butwhich implies the existence of an ecclesiastical establishment of somekind. But unluckily the Congresbury story rests on no good authority,and the charter of Cynewulf is undoubtedly spurious. But because acharter is spurious in form, it does not always follow that its matteris unhistorical and I am the more inclined to attach some value toit, because, while implying the existence of some ecclesiasticalestablishment, it does not imply the existence of a bishoprick.Putting all things together, and remembering the strong and consistenttradition which connects the name of Ine with the church of Wells, Iam inclined to think that there must have been some body of priests,probably of Ine’s foundation, existing at Wells before the foundationof the bishoprick by Edward. If then Ine did, somewhere about the year705, found a church at Wells with a body of priests attached to it, wecan well understand why Wells should be chosen as the seat of the newbishoprick in 909.

We have here in Wells the finest collection of domestic buildingssurrounding a cathedral church to be seen anywhere. There is no placewhere so many ancient houses are preserved and are mainly applied totheir original uses. The Bishop still lives in the Palace; the Deanstill lives in the Deanery; the Canons, Vicars, and other officersstill live very largely in the houses in which they were meant to[68]live. But this is because at Wells there always were secular priests,each man living in his own house. In a monastery I need hardly say itwas quite different. The monks did not live each man in his own house;they lived in common, with a common refectory to dine in and a commondormitory to sleep in. Thus when, in Henry the Eighth’s time, the monkswere put out and secular canons put in again, the monastic buildingswere no longer of any use, while there were no houses for the newcanons. They had therefore to make houses how they could out of thecommon buildings of the monastery. But of course this could be donewithout greatly spoiling them as works of architecture. Thus while atEly, Peterborough, and other churches which were served by monks, thereare still very fine fragments of the monastic buildings, there is notthe same series of buildings each still applied to its original usewhich we have at Wells. I wish that this wonderful series was betterunderstood and more valued than it is. I can remember, if nobody elsedoes, how a fine prebendal hall was wantonly pulled down in the NorthLiberty not many years ago. Some of those whose duty it was to keep itup said that they had never seen it. I had seen it, anybody who wentby could see it, and every man of taste knew and regretted it. Well,that is gone, and I suppose the organist’s house, so often threatenedwill soon be gone too. Thus it is that the historical monuments ofour country perish day by day. We must keep a sharp eye about us orthis city of ours may lose, almost without anybody knowing it, thedistinctive character[69] which makes it unique among the cities ofEngland.

It is then in this way that Wells became, what it still is, the seat ofthe Somersetshire Bishoprick. The Bishop had his throne in the churchof St. Andrew, and the clergy attached to church were his specialcompanions and advisers, in a word his Chapter. We have thus the churchand its ministers, but the church had not yet assumed its present form,and its ministers had not yet assumed their present constitution. Ofthe fabric, as it stood in the Tenth Century, I can tell you nothing.There is not a trace of building of anything like such early dateremaining: while in other places we have grand buildings of theEleventh and Twelfth Centuries, at Wells we have little or nothingearlier than the Thirteenth. But it is quite a mistake to fancy thatour forefathers in the Tenth Century were wholly incapable of building,or that their buildings were always of wood. We have accounts ofchurches of that and of still earlier date which show that we then hadbuildings of considerable size and elaboration of plan. And we knowthat in the course of the same century Saint Dunstan built a stonechurch at Glastonbury to the east of the old wooden church of Britishtimes. The churches both of Wells and Glastonbury must have been builtin the old Romanesque style of England which prevailed before the greatimprovements of Norman Romanesque were brought in in the EleventhCentury. You must conceive this old church of Saint Andrew as very muchsmaller, lower, and plainer than the church we now have, with[70] massiveround arches and small round-headed windows, but with one or more tall,slender, unbuttressed towers, imitating the bell-towers of Italy. I donot think that we have a single tower of this kind in Somersetshire,but in other parts of England there are a good many. There is a nobleone at Earls Barton in Northamptonshire, and more than one in the cityof Lincoln.

After about two hundred years from the beginning of the presentbuilding in the days of Jocelin, we may look on the cathedral churchof Saint Andrew as at last finished. It was finished, in a sense,before the end of the Thirteenth Century, when everything had beenbuilt which was needed for its ecclesiastical completeness. But it wasin the course of the Fifteenth Century that it finally assumed theshape with which we are all familiar, and which has from that timeremained unchanged. Now then we have reached the point at which we canestimate the place which fairly belongs to the church of Wells amongthe other churches of England and of Christendom. As it seems to me,that position, as I began by saying, is a special and remarkable one; Ineed not say that in point of size and splendour, the church of Wellshas no claim to a place in the first rank of European, or even Englishchurches. Setting aside the Welsh churches, and the churches which havebecome cathedral without being originally meant for this rank, Wells isone of the very smallest of English episcopal churches. It is hardlyfair to compare it with Carlisle, which is a mere fragment, or withHereford, which has lost its western tower, and with it a part of itsnave. But it is, in[71] point of scale, with Carlisle, Hereford, Lincoln,and Rochester, or again with non-cathedral churches like Southwell,Beverley, and Tewkesbury, that Wells must fairly be compared, notwith churches like Canterbury and York, or even like Salisbury andGloucester. And among churches of its own class it certainly ranks high.

I have seen many fine churches both in our own country and abroad,many of them of course on a scale which might seem to put Wells out ofall comparison. But I can honestly say that I know of no architecturalgroup which surpasses the harmony and variety of our own cathedral, asseen by the traveller as he first enters the city from Shepton Mallet.

From the outside we turn to that of which the outside is after all themere shell. When we enter the church we find ourselves in a buildingwhich can fairly hold its own against competitors of its own class.The nave has a distinct character of its own: there may be differencesof taste as to its merit, but it has a character, and that characteris clearly the result of design. The main lines of the interior arehorizontal rather than vertical. We can hardly say that there is anydivision into bays; no vaulting-shafts run up from the ground, nor doesthe triforium take, as usual, the form of a distinct composition overeach arch. In short, we cannot, as we can in most churches, take eacharch with the triforium and clerestory over it as a thing existing byitself. One would rather say that three horizontal ranges, one overthe other, all converged to the centre, without thinking of what wasabove or below them.[72] Now tastes may differ as to whether this is agood arrangement or not, but there is no doubt that it is in its wayan effective arrangement; there is no nave in which the eye is soirresistibly carried eastward as in that of Wells. And it is worthnotice that this arrangement, in its fullness, is confined to the nave;in the transepts the bays are much more clearly marked. The idea ofproducing this marked horizontal effect was clearly one which came intothe heads of the designers as they were working westwards.

It might have been expected that the marked prominence which is thusgiven to the horizontal line might have gone far to destroy all effectof height in the interior; but it is not so. There is no specialfeeling of height in Wells Cathedral—not so much, for instance, asthere is in the church of St. Mary Redcliff; but there is no suchcrushing feeling of lowness as there is in Lincoln. This I imagineto be mainly owing to the form of the arch chosen for the vaulting,one boldly but not actually pointed, and to the way in which thelantern-arches fit into the vault. Contrast this with the far largerand loftier nave of York. In that nave the positive height is secondonly to Westminster among English churches, and the design of theseparate bays can hardly be surpassed in its soaring effect. But inthe direct eastern or western view the nave of York loses almostits whole effect, partly, no doubt, from the excessive breadth, butpartly also from the flat and crushing shape of the vaulting-arch.The nave of Wells makes the most of its small actual height: so dothe choir and the presbytery also; for, though I cannot at all admirethe kind of vault[73] which is there used, the shape of the arch is asjudiciously chosen as it is in the nave. In the presbytery we alsoget the vaulting-shafts rising from the ground, so as to give thevertical division, and the consequent effect of height, in its highestperfection. Of the exquisite beauty of the Lady Chapel, looked on, asit should be, not as a part of the whole, but as a distinct and almostdetached building, I have already spoken. In short, the internal effectof the church, whether looked at as a whole or taken in its severalparts if not of the highest order, which its comparatively small scaleforbids, may claim a high place among churches of its own class.

I think then on the whole that, even looking at the church by itself,we have every reason to be thankful for what we have got. We havenot a church of the first order; but we have a church whose severalparts fit very well together, all whose parts have been finished, andof which no part has been destroyed. And I may add that we may bethankful for another thing, for the goodness of the stone of which thegreater part of the church is built. The sculpture of the west frontindeed has crumbled away; but elsewhere at Wells, as at Glastonbury,wherever the work has not been wantonly knocked away, it is as goodas when it was first cut. Now we might have had a church like Chesteror Coventry, where the whole surface of the stone has crumbled away,and where the whole ornamental design has become unintelligible. Ihave said that the church of Wells forms a harmonious whole, that itwas perfectly finished, and that no part has been destroyed;[74] and thisis a great thing to say. Let me compare the good fortune of Wells inthis respect with the cathedral church of a much more famous city atthe other end of England. At Carlisle there is a noble choir, endingin what is probably the grandest window in England. If that choir onlyhad transepts, nave, and towers to match it, the church of Carlislewould be a splendid church indeed. But the choir is built up against alittle paltry transept and central tower, and nothing remains by wayof nave but two bays of the original small Norman church, the resthaving utterly vanished. Here then is a church which does not form aharmonious whole, a church which remains utterly unfinished, and ofwhich one essential part has been destroyed. Or, without taking suchan extreme case as this, we may compare our church with some of thoseof which I have already spoken, with Hereford, Southwell, Beverley andTewkesbury. In all of these some important feature has either neverbeen finished or has been destroyed at a later time. The Church ofWells then, simply taken by itself, claims a high place among buildingsof its own class, that is, among minsters of the second order. But thereal charm of Wells does not lie in the church taken by itself, but inthe church surrounded by its accompanying buildings. Some of them areinseparably connected both with the fabric and with the foundation ofthe Cathedral. And it is the preservation of them which gives Wells itspeculiar character. Each part may easily be equalled or surpassed, butthe whole has no rival in England, and I cannot think that it has manyin Christendom.

Whatever is fortified will be attacked: and whatever is attacked maybe destroyed. Could the Romans have wrested from the popes the Castleof St. Angelo, they had resolved by a public decree to annihilatethat monument of servitude. Every building of defence was exposed toa siege; and in every siege the arts and engines of destruction werelaboriously employed. After the death of Nicholas the Fourth, Rome,without a sovereign or a senate, was abandoned six months to the furyof civil war. “The houses,” says a cardinal and poet of the times,“were crushed by the weight and velocity of enormous stones; the wallswere perforated by the strokes of the battering-ram; the towers wereinvolved in fire and smoke; and the assailants were stimulated byrapine and revenge.” The work was consummated by the tyranny of thelaws; and the factions of Italy alternately exercised a blind andthoughtless vengeance on their adversaries, whose houses and castlesthey razed to the ground. In comparing the days of foreign,with the ages of domestic, hostility, we must pronounce, thatthe latter have been far more ruinous to the city; and our opinion isconfirmed by the evidence of Petrarch. “Behold,” says the laureat, “therelics of Rome, the image of[76] her pristine greatness! neither time,nor the barbarian, can boast the merit of this stupendous destruction:it was perpetrated by her own citizens, by the most illustrious of hersons, and your ancestors (he writes to a noble Annibaldi) have donewith the battering-ram, what the Punic hero could not accomplish withthe sword.” The influence of the two last principles of decay must insome degree be multiplied by each other; since the houses and towers,which were subverted by civil war, required a new and perpetual supplyfrom the monuments of antiquity.

These general observations may be separately applied to theamphitheatre of Titus, which has obtained the name of theColiseum, either from its magnitude, or from Nero’s colossalstatue: an edifice, had it been left to time and nature, which mightperhaps have claimed an eternal duration. The curious antiquaries, whohave computed the numbers and seats, are disposed to believe, thatabove the upper row of stone steps, the amphitheatre was encircled andelevated with several stages of wooden galleries, which were repeatedlyconsumed by fire, and restored by the emperors. Whatever was precious,or portable, or profane, the statues of gods and heroes, and thecostly ornaments of sculpture, which were cast in brass, or overspreadwith leaves of silver and gold, became the first prey of conquest orfanaticism, of the avarice of the barbarians or the Christians. In themassy stones of the Coliseum, many holes are discerned; and the twomost probable conjectures represent the various accidents of its decay.These stones were connected by solid links of brass or[77] iron, nor hadthe eye of rapine overlooked the value of the baser metals; the vacantspace was converted into a fair or market; the artisans of the Coliseumare mentioned in an ancient survey; and the chasms were perforated orenlarged to receive the poles that supported the shops or tents of themechanic trades. Reduced to its naked majesty, the Flavian amphitheatrewas contemplated with awe and admiration by the pilgrims of the north;and the rude enthusiasm broke forth in a sublime proverbial expression,which is recorded in the Eighth Century, in the fragments of thevenerable Bede: “As long as the Coliseum stands, Rome shall stand; whenthe Coliseum falls, Rome will fall; when Rome falls, the world willfall.” In the modern system of war, a situation commanded by threehills would not be chosen for a fortress; but the strength of the wallsand arches could resist the engines of assault; a numerous garrisonmight be lodged in the enclosure; and while one faction occupied theVatican and the Capitol, the other was entrenched in the Lateran andthe Coliseum.

The abolition at Rome of the ancient games must be understood withsome latitude; and the carnival sports, of the Testacean mount and theCircus Agonalis, were regulated by the law or custom of the city. Thesenator presided with dignity and pomp to adjudge and distribute theprizes, the gold ring, or the pallium, as it was styled, ofcloth or silk. A tribute on the Jews supplied the annual expense; andthe races, on foot, on horseback, or in chariots, were ennobled by atilt and tournament of[78] seventy-two of the Roman youth. In the year onethousand three hundred and thirty-two, a bull-feast, after the fashionof the Moors and Spaniards, was celebrated in the Coliseum itself; andthe living manners are painted in a diary of the times. A convenientorder of benches was restored; and a general proclamation, as far asRimini and Ravenna, invited the nobles to exercise their skill andcourage in this perilous adventure. The Roman ladies were marshalledin three squadrons, and seated in three balconies, which on this day,the third of September, were lined with scarlet cloth. The fair Jacovadi Rovere led the matrons from beyond the Tiber, a pure and nativerace, who still represent the features and character of antiquity. Theremainder of the city was divided as usual between the Colonna andUrsini: the two factions were proud of the number and beauty of theirfemale bands: the charms of Savella Ursini are mentioned with praise;and the Colonna regretted the absence of the youngest of their house,who had sprained her ancle in the garden of Nero’s tower. The lots ofthe champions were drawn by an old and respectable citizen: and theydescended into the arena, or pit, to encounter the wild bulls, on footas it should seem, with a single spear. Amidst the crowd, our annalisthas selected the names, colours, and devices, of twenty of the mostconspicuous knights. Several of the names are the most illustrious ofRome and the ecclesiastical state; Malatesta, Polenta, della Valle,Cafarello, Savelli, Capoccio, Conti, Annabaldi, Altieri, Corsi; thecolours were adapted to their taste and situation;[79] the devices areexpressive of hope or despair, and breathe the spirit of gallantry andarms. “I am alone, like the youngest of the Horatii,” the confidenceof an intrepid stranger: “I live disconsolate,” a weeping widower: “Iburn under the ashes,” a discreet lover: “I adore Lavinia or Lucretia,”the ambiguous declaration of a modern passion: “My faith is as pure,”the motto of a white livery: “Who is stronger than myself?” of a lion’shide: “If I am drowned in blood, what a pleasant death,” the wish offerocious courage. The pride or prudence of the Ursini restrainedthem from the field, which was occupied by three of their hereditaryrivals, whose inscriptions denoted the lofty greatness of the Colonnaname: “Though sad I am strong:” “Strong as I am great:” “If I fall,”addressing himself to the spectators, “you fall with me:”—intimating(says the contemporary writer) that while the other families were thesubjects of the Vatican, they alone were the supporters of the capitol.The combats of the amphitheatre were dangerous and bloody. Everychampion successively encountered a wild bull; and the victory may beascribed to the quadrupeds, since no more than eleven were left on thefield, with the loss of nine wounded and eighteen killed on the sideof their adversaries. Some of the noblest families might mourn, butthe pomp of the funerals, in the churches of St. John Lateran and St.Maria Maggiore, afforded a second holiday to the people. Doubtless itwas not in such conflicts that the blood of the Romans should have beenshed; yet, in blaming their rashness we are[80] compelled to applaud theirgallantry; and the noble volunteers, who display their magnificence,and risk their lives, under the balconies of the fair, excite a moregenerous sympathy than the thousands of captives and malefactors whowere reluctantly dragged to the scene of slaughter.

This use of the amphitheatre was a rare, perhaps a singular, festival:the demand for the materials was a daily and continual want, which thecitizens could gratify without restraint or remorse. In the FourteenthCentury, a scandalous act of concord secured to both factions theprivilege of extracting stones from the free and common quarry of theColiseum; and Poggius laments, that the greater part of these stoneshad been burnt to lime by the folly of the Romans. To check this abuse,and to prevent the nocturnal crimes that might be perpetrated in thevast and gloomy recess, Eugenius the fourth surrounded it with a wall;and, by a charter long extant, granted both the ground and edificeto the monks of an adjacent convent. After his death, the wall wasoverthrown in a tumult of the people; and had they themselves respectedthe noblest monument of their fathers, they might have justified theresolve that it should never be degraded to private property. Theinside was damaged; but in the middle of the Sixteenth Century, anæra of taste and learning, the exterior circumference of one thousandsix hundred and twelve feet was still entire and inviolate; a tripleelevation of fourscore arches, which rose to the height of one hundredand eight feet. Of the present ruin, the nephews of[81] Paul the Third arethe guilty agents; and every traveller who views the Farnese Palacemay curse the sacrilege and luxury of these upstart princes. A similarreproach is applied to the Barberini; and the repetition of injurymight be dreaded from every reign, till the Coliseum was placed underthe safeguard of religion by the most liberal of the pontiffs, Benedictthe Fourteenth, who consecrated a spot which persecution and fable hadstained with the blood of so many Christian martyrs.

When Petrarch first gratified his eyes with a view of thosemonuments, whose scattered fragments so far surpass the most eloquentdescriptions, he was astonished at the supine indifference of theRomans themselves; he was humbled rather than elated by the discovery,that, except his friend Rienzi and one of the Colonna, a stranger ofthe Rhone was more conversant with these antiquities than the noblesand natives of the metropolis.

When we came out of the church again (we stood nearly an hour staringup into the dome: and would not have “gone over” the Cathedral then forany money), we said to the coachman, “Go to the Coliseum.” In a quarterof an hour or so, he stopped at the gate, and we went in.

It is no fiction but plain, sober, honest Truth, to say: so suggestiveand distinct is it at this hour: that, for a moment—actually inpassing in—they who will, may have the whole great pile before them,as it used to be, with thousands of eager faces staring down into thearena, and such a whirl of strife, and blood, and dust, going on there,as no language can describe. Its solitude, its awful beauty, and itsutter desolation, strike upon the stranger, the next moment, like asoftened sorrow; and never in his life, perhaps, will he be so movedand overcome by any sight, not immediately connected with his ownaffections and afflictions.

To see it crumbling there, an inch a year; its walls and archesovergrown with green; its corridors open to the day; the long grassgrowing in its porches; young trees of yesterday, springing up onits ragged parapets, and bearing fruit: chance produce of the seedsdropped there by the[83] birds, who build their nests within its chinksand crannies; to see the Pit of Fight filled up with earth, and thepeaceful Cross planted in the centre; to climb into its upper halls,and look down on ruin, ruin, ruin, all about it; the triumphal archesof Constantine, Septimus Severus, and Titus; the Roman Forum; thePalace of the Cæsars; the temples of the old religion, fallen downand gone; is to see the ghost of old Rome, wicked, wonderful oldcity, haunting the very ground on which its people trod. It is themost impressive, the most stately, the most solemn, grand, majestic,mournful sight, conceivable. Never, in its bloodiest prime, can thesight of the gigantic Coliseum, full and running over with the lustiestlife, have moved one heart, as it must move all who look upon it now, aruin—God be thanked: a ruin!

As it tops the other ruins: standing there, a mountain among graves:so do its ancient influences outlive all other remnants of the oldmythology and old butchery of Rome, in the nature of the fierce andcruel Roman people. The Italian face changes as the visitor approachesthe city; its beauty becomes devilish; and there is scarcely onecountenance in a hundred, among the common people in the streets, thatwould not be at home and happy in a renovated Coliseum to-morrow.

Here was Rome indeed at last; and such a Rome as no one can imagine inits full and awful grandeur.

The Sikhs are the youngest of the great powers of India. A kind ofHindu Protestants, their Luther arose about 1500 to fulminate againstcaste and the worship of idols. Instead of Shiva and Kali, they worshiptheir Bible, which is called the Granth. They abhor tobacco, and it isimpiety to shave or cut the hair. Sometimes, when a Sikh plays polo,you may see it come undone and wave behind him like a horse-tail. FromPuritans they turned to Ironsides, praying and fighting with equalfervour, wearing an iron quoit in their turbans, partly as a sign ofgrace, and partly as a defence against a chance sword-cut.

For some three hundred years they fought the Musulmans, Mogul orAfghan, for the dominion of the Punjab, and won it in the end. TheMusulmans tortured the Sikh teachers to death with their families; theSikhs sacked and massacred in return. The Musulmans took Amritsar, blewup the temple of the Granth, and washed its foundations in the bloodof sacred cows; the Sikhs took Lahore, blew up the mosques, and washedtheir foundations in the blood of unclean swine. Fanatics and heroes,they lived only for the holy war, and became the barrier of Indiaagainst the Musulman tribes of the North-West. At last, [85]in 1823, theSikhs were united under Ranjit Singh into the greatest power of India.But he died in 1839; four wives and seven concubines were burned withhim, and you can see their tombs under marble lotuses in Lahore. Tenyears later the second Sikh War was over, and the Punjab was British.If the Sikh rule was short, their battles have ever been long.

The later history of the Sikhs—how kindly they accepted British rule,which has still treated their religion with more than tolerant respect;how they supplied and supply to-day noble regiments to our army; thesplendid services they rendered in the Mutiny, but a decade aftertheir conquest; the unswerving gallantry and devotion which they havedisplayed on every field of honour,—all this is part of the militaryhistory of the Empire. The very officers of Gurkha and Pathan and Dograregiments admit that the Sikh is the ideal of all that is soldierly.

Ranjit’s capital was Lahore, but the holy city has ever been Amritsar.“The Pool of Immortality,” it means, and here in the centre of thepool is the Golden Temple. In its present form it is not yet a centuryold—quite an infant in India. Amritsar, indeed, is full of new things;for, as it is the Mecca, it is also the Manchester of the Punjab.Carpets and shawls and silks are manufactured there, or brought in bymerchants from Persia and Tibet, Bokhara and Yarkand. Here you can seemodern native India untainted by Europe.

Amritsar wears an air of solid prosperity. Not in the least like themanufacturing towns we know, lacking the[86] machinery of Bombay orCalcutta, it neither shadows its streets with many-storied factoriesnor defiles its air with smoke. But it wears a uniform and thrivingaspect, as of a town with a present and a future rather than a past.The Bond Street of Delhi is a double row of decayed mansions propped upby tottering booths; the houses of Amritsar are middle-sized, regular,stably built of burned bricks, neither splendid nor ruinous. The loomsclatter and whir in the factories, and the merchant bargains betweenthe whiffs of his hookah in his shop, and Amritsar grows rich in aleisurely Indian way, unfevered by Western improvements.

To the Western eye it is unenterprising and rather shabby. The stablecomfort of Amritsar stops short at the good brick walls; inside,the shops are bare brick and plaster. There is nothing in the leastimposing about it. “Chunder Buksh, Dealer,” says one placard, and itwould be hard to say what else he could call himself; for his stockseems to consist of one fine carpet, some brass pots, and a towel.Above him is “Ali Mohammed, Barrister-at-Law,” in a windowless,torn-blinded office, which you would otherwise take for the atticof Chunder Buksh’s assistant. But compared with the rest of India,Amritsar is a model of wellbeing. It is dusty, but otherwise almostclean; the streets, of course, are full of bullocks and buffaloes, butit seems rare that animals share their bed with men; there are plentyof people all but naked, but it is rather from choice or religiousenthusiasm than of necessity. The trousered ladies, strolling withtrousered[87] babies on their hips or smoking hubble-bubbles on shopcounters, wear silver in their blue-black hair, pearls in their noses,gold in their ears; they jingle with locked-up capital. Finally, thereis a Jubilee statue of the Queen, and a clock-tower for all the worldlike an English borough’s. But besides these and the Government officesand the railway-station there is hardly a whisper from the West in thetown; and in Amritsar you begin to conceive a new respect for India.

The stream in the streets sets steadily towards the Golden Temple.From the heavy-browed city gate to the holy pool the winding alleysare splashed with all the familiar hues—orange outshining lemonand emerald throttling ultramarine. Following the stalwart, beardedpilgrims, in the midst of the city of shopkeepers you suddenly breakinto a wide square: within it, bordered by a marble pavement—white,black, and umber—a green lake dances in the sunlight; and in the midstof that, mirrored in the pool—you look through your eyelashes, for thehot rays fling back sevenfold-heated, blinding—gleam walls and roofsand cupolas of sheer gold.

A minute or two you blink and stare, then you see that it is a smalltemple on an island with a causeway leading to it from under an arch.And after the first blink and stare your notions of beauty rise up andprotest against it. The temple is neither imposing by size nor winsomeby proportion. It has two stories—the lower of marble, inlaid, likethe marble of Agra, with birds and beasts and flowers, but with noneof Agra’s grace and refinement; all above it is[88] of copper-gilt. Abovethe second story rises something half-cupola, half-dome, but it is notin the middle; there are smaller cupolas at the side overlooking thecauseway, and others smaller still at the far side. The whole templeis smaller than St. Clement Danes, and a little building has no rightto be irregular. If the Taj Mahal, you say, which is three times thissize, can take the trouble to be symmetrical—well, if this is themasterpiece of modern India—as for the gold, it blinds you for thefirst moment and amuses you for the second; but you might as well askbeauty of a heliograph.

Nevertheless, do not go away, for you will hardly see anything moreIndian. Outside the gate they show you a Government ordinance thateverybody must either conform to the religious customs of the placeor forbear to indulge his curiosity; you bow, and a bearded giant,who might be a high-priest for dignity, takes off your boots andties on silk slippers instead. You leave your cigar-case behind you:tobacco must not defile the holy place. Then, behind a white-beardedpoliceman—who performs the triple function of guiding, preventing youfrom doing anything impious, and clearing worshippers out of the waybefore you—you start forth to see.

The pilgrims shuffle on eagerly round the pavement to the great gatebefore the causeway. On a gilt tablet, in English and Punjabi, standsthe record of a miracle: how that a great light from heaven fell beforethe holy book, and then was caught up into heaven again, whence thelearned augured much blessing upon the British Raj. Past[89] the gatethey press without turning the head, though it is carved and picturedover every inch. On one side of the entrance a marble tablet shows thelegend XXXV Sikhs and something in Punjabi. From the gate you issueon to the causeway. It also is flagged with marble, and lined withgilded lamp-posts; but the lamps above the gold are that crass-blueand green-coloured glass of the suburban builder, and more than onehangs broken. So you come to the sanctuary itself—a lofty chamberwith four open doors of chased silver. Within sit three priests on thefloor, under a canopy of blue and scarlet, before a low ottoman drapedin crimson and green and yellow. The high-priest, eagle-eyed and longblack-bearded, reads continually in a loud voice from the Granth;beside him sits one with a gilt-handled wisk and fans the sacred book.At another side sit two musicians: one twangs a sort of one-stringedmandoline, one thrums a tom-tom. Before the Granth lies a cloth; andeach believer, crouching in, flings on it flowers or cowries or coppercoins for his offering. To the white man they bring what looks like adry half-orange or candied citron, only white; it is made of sugar, andthe white man responds with the offering of a rupee. The walls aboutthis strange worship blaze with blue and red and gold in frets andscrolls and flower-tendrils; above are chambers and galleries of thesame and studded mirrors; in one more than holy room are brooms made ofpeacocks’ feathers wherewith alone it may be swept.

That is the great shrine of all; but there is much else. All round thelake are palaces of stone and white marble[90] belonging to the greatSikh chiefs who came here to worship. Before them, on the pavement,men squatting under canvas screens hawk flowers—lotus, jasmine,marigold, or scabious—to be offered before the Scripture. In one ofthe palaces, which matches the temple with a gilt dome of its own, yousee a glass case; within it, under crimson silk, rest the sword andmace of some old Sikh Boanerges, mighty in prayer as in battle. Thenthere is a tower temple of eight stories, dedicated to a bygone saintand miracle-worker, the lower chamber aflame with paint and gold. Asthe policeman enters he touches the step with his finger; a woman inviolet trousers flings a flower on to a cloth and ottoman like thatof the central shrine; a woman in green-and-gold trousers places abread-cake before it and lays her forehead on the marble sill; othersgrovel and shampoo it with their hands. The next thing you come to isa plain shed with a dynamo that supplies the shrines and gardens withelectric light. After that a group of naked fakirs, powdered white withashes, with long mud-matted hair and mad eyes. Then a door, fast closedand seeming to lead nowhither, with a tiny wreath of marigolds hung onit.

Everywhere the same grotesque contradictions—splendour and squalor,divinity and dirt, superstition and manliness. The Western mind canmake nothing of it, cannot bring it into a focus. You simply hold yourhead, and say that this is the East, and you are of the West. In thetreasury above the gate are silver staves and gilt maces, canopies ofgold and diadems of pearls and diamonds. In the sacred,[91] putrid lakerot flowers. A fakir standing before an enclosure drones in a fullvoice words you do not understand, like a psalm without any end to it:the refrain, after every half-dozen words, sounds like “Hullah hahleay.” Inside the shrine the high-priest never ceases to intone theGranth, nor the other priest to fan it, nor the musicians to tinkle andthrum; and in and out that holy place fly clouds of pigeons, perchingon the canopy and fouling the growing pile of offerings before theottoman. At every turn you come on little shrines with books on silkencushions and prostrate adorers. A calf, unchecked, is trying to lickthe gold off the great gateway.

The Giralda, which serves as a campanila to the cathedral, and risesabove all the spires of the town, is an old Moorish tower, erected byan Arabian architect, named Geber or Guever, who invented algebra,which was called after him. The appearance of the tower is charming,and very original; the rose-coloured bricks and the white stone ofwhich it is built, give it an air of gaiety and youth, which forms astrange contrast with the date of its erection, which extends as farback as the year 1000, a very respectable age, at which a tower maywell be allowed to have a wrinkle or two and be excused for not beingremarkable for a fresh complexion. The Giralda in its present stateis not less than three hundred and fifty feet high, while each sideis fifty feet broad. Up to a certain height the walls are perfectlyeven; there are then rows of Moorish windows with balconies, trefoils,and small white marble columns, surrounded by large lozenge-shapedbrick panels. The tower formerly ended in a roof of variously colouredvarnished tiles, on which was an iron bar, ornamented with four giltmetal balls of a prodigious size. This roof was removed in 1568 by thearchitect Francisco Ruiz, who raised the daughter of the Moor Gueverone hundred feet higher in the pure air of heaven, so that his bronzestatue might overlook the sierras, and speak with [93]the angels whopassed. The feat of building a belfry on a tower was in perfect keepingwith the intentions of the members composing that admirable chapter whowished posterity to imagine they were mad. The additions of FranciscoRuiz consist of three stories; the first of these is pierced withwindows, in whose embrasures are hung bells; the second, surrounded byan open balustrade, bears on the cornice of each of its sides, thesewords—Turris fortissima nomen Domini; and the third is a kindof cupola or lantern, on which turns a gigantic gilt bronze figure ofFaith, holding a palm in one hand and a standard in the other, andserving as a weathercock, thereby justifying the name of Giralda givento the tower. This statue is by Bartholomew Morel. It can be seen at avery great distance; and when it glitters through the azure atmosphere,really looks like a seraph lounging in the air.

You ascend the Giralda by a series of inclined ramps, so easy andgentle, that two men on horseback could very well ride up to thesummit, whence you enjoy an admirable view. At your feet lies Seville,brilliantly white, with its spires and towers, endeavouring, but invain, to reach the rose-coloured brick girdle of the Giralda. Beyondthese stretches the plain, through which the Guadalquiver flows, likea piece of watered silk, and scattered around are Santiponce, Algaba,and other villages. Quite in the background is the Sierra Morena, withits outlines sharply marked, in spite of the distance, so great is thetransparency of the air in this admirable country. On the oppositeside, the Sierras de Gibram, Zaara and Moron, raise their[94] bristlingforms, tinged with the richest hues of lapis lazuli and amethyst, andcompleting this magnificent panorama, which is inundated with light,sunshine and dazzling splendour.

A great number of fragments of columns, shaped into posts and connectedwith each other by chains, except where spaces are left for personsto pass, surround the cathedral. Some of these columns are antique,and come either from the ruins of Italica, or from the remains of theancient mosque, whose former site is now occupied by the cathedral,and of which the only remaining vestiges are the Giralda, a few oldwalls, and one or two arches, one of which serves as the entrance tothe courtyard de los Nanjeros. The Longa (Exchange)is a large and perfectly regular edifice, built by the heavy andwearisome Herrera, that architect of ennui, to whom we owethe Escurial, which is decidedly the most melancholy building in theworld; the Longa, also, like the cathedral, is surrounded by the samedescription of posts. It is completely isolated and presents foursimilar façades; it stands between the cathedral and the Alcazar.In it are preserved the archives of America, and the correspondenceof Christopher Columbus, Pizarro and Fernando Cortez; but all thesetreasures are guarded by such savage dragons, that we were obliged tocontent ourselves with looking at the outside of the pasteboard boxesand portfolios, which are stowed away in mahogany compartments, likethe goods in a drapers’ shop. It would be a most easy thing to placefive or six of the most precious autographs in glass cases, and thussatisfy the very legitimate curiosity of travellers.

Sicily under the Normans offered the spectacle of a singularly hybridcivilization. Christians and Northmen, adopting the habits and imbibingthe culture of their Musulman subjects, ruled a mixed population ofGreeks, Arabs, Berbers, and Italians. The language of the princes wasFrench; that of the Christians in their territory, Greek and Latin;that of their Mahommedan subjects, Arabic. At the same time theScandinavian Sultans of Palermo did not cease to play an active partin the affairs, both civil and ecclesiastical, of Europe. The childrenof the Vikings, though they spent their leisure in harems, exercised,as hereditary Legates of the Holy See, a peculiar jurisdiction in theChurch of Sicily. They dispensed benefices to the clergy, and assumedthe mitre and dalmatic, together with the sceptre and the crown, assymbols of their authority in Church as well as State. As a consequenceof this confusion of nationalities in Sicily, we find French andEnglish ecclesiastics mingling at court with Moorish freedmen andOriental odalisques, Apulian captains fraternizing with Greek corsairs,Jewish physicians in attendance on the person of the prince, andArabian poets eloquent in his praises. The very money with which Rogersubsidized his Italian allies, was stamped with Cuphic letters, and[96]there is reason to believe that the reproach against Frederick of beinga false coiner arose from his adopting the Eastern device of platingcopper pieces to pass for silver. The commander of Roger’s navies andhis chief minister of state was styled, according to Oriental usage,Emir or Ammiraglio. George of Antioch, who swept the shores of Africa,the Morea, and the Black Sea, in his service, was a Christian of theGreek Church, who had previously held an office of finance under TemimPrince of Mehdia. The workers in his silk factories were slaves, fromThebes and Corinth. The pages of his palace were Sicilian or Africaneunuchs. His charters ran in Arabic as well as Greek and Latin. Hisjewellers engraved the rough gems of the Orient with Christian mottoesin Semitic characters.[5] His architects were Musulmans who adaptedtheir native style to the requirements of Christian ritual, andinscribed the walls of cathedrals with Catholic legends in the Cuphiclanguage. The predominant characteristic of Palermo was Orientalism.Religious toleration was extended to the Musulmans, so that the twocreeds, Christian and Mahommedan, flourished side by side.

At Palermo, Europe saw the first instance of a court not wholly unlikethat which Versailles afterwards became. The intrigues which endangeredthe throne and liberty of[97] William the Bad, and which perplexed thepolicy of William the Good, were court-conspiracies of a kind commonenough at Constantinople. In this court life men of letters anderudition played a part three centuries before Petrarch taught theprinces of Italy to respect the pen of a poet. King Roger, of whom thecourt geographer Edrisi writes that “he did more sleeping than anyother man waking,” was surrounded during his leisure moments, beneaththe palm-groves of Favara, with musicians, historians, travellers,mathematicians, poets, and astrologers of Oriental breeding.

The architectural works of the Normans in Palermo reveal the sameascendancy of Arab culture. San Giovanni degli Eremiti, with its lowwhite rounded domes, is nothing more or less than a little mosqueadapted to the rites of Christians. The country palaces of the Zisaand the Cuba, built by the two Williams, retain their ancient Moorishcharacter, standing beneath the fretted arches of the hall of theZisa, through which a fountain flows within a margin of carved marble,and looking on the landscape from its open porch, we only need toreconstruct in fancy the green gardens and orange-groves, wherefair-haired Normans whiled away their hours among black-eyed odalisquesand graceful singing boys from Persia. Amid a wild tangle of olive andlemon trees overgrown with scarlet passion-flowers the pavilion of theCubola, built of hewn stone and open at each of its four sides, stillstands much as it stood when William II paced through flowers from hispalace of the Cuba, to enjoy the freshness of the evening by the[98] sideof its fountain. The views from all these Saracenic villas over thefruitful valley of the Golden Horn, and the turrets of Palermo, andthe mountains and the distant sea, are ineffably delightful. When thepalaces were new—when the gilding and the frescoes still shone upontheir honeycombed ceilings, when their mosaics glittered in noondaytwilight, and their amber-coloured masonry was set in shade of pinesand palms, and the cool sound of rivulets made music in their courtsand gardens, they must have well deserved their Arab titles of “SweetWaters” and “The Glory” and “The Paradise of Earth.”

But the true splendour of Palermo, that which makes this city one ofthe most glorious of the South, is to be sought in its churches—in themosaics of the Cappella Palatina founded by King Roger, in the vastaisles and cloisters of Monreale built by King William the Good at theinstance of his Chancellor Matteo,[6] in the Cathedral of Palermo begunby Offamilio, and in the Martorana dedicated by George the Admiral.These triumphs of ecclesiastical architecture, none the less splendidbecause they cannot be reduced to rule or assigned to any single style,were the work of Saracen builders assisted by Byzantine, Italian, andNorman craftsmen. The genius of Latin Christianity determined thebasilica shape of the Cathedral of Monreale. Its bronze doors werewrought by smiths of Trani and Pisa. Its walls were incrusted withthe mosaics of Constantinople. The woodwork of its roof,[99] and theemblazoned patterns in porphyry and serpentine and glass and smalto,which cover its whole surface, were designed by Oriental decorators.Norman sculptors added their dog-tooth and chevron to the mouldings ofits porches; Greeks, Frenchmen, and Arabs may have tried their skillin turn upon the multitudinous ornaments of its cloister capitals.“The like of which church,” says Lucius III in 1182, “hath not beenconstructed by any king even from ancient times, and such an one asmust compel all men to admiration.” These words remain literally andemphatically true. Other cathedrals may surpass that of Monreale insublimity, simplicity, bulk, strength, or unity of plan. None cansurpass it in the strange romance with which the memory of its manyartificers invests it. None again can exceed it in richness and glory,in the gorgeousness of a thousand decorative elements subservient toone controlling thought. “It is evident,” says Fergusson in his historyof architecture, “that all the architectural features in the buildingwere subordinate in the eyes of the builders to the mosaic decorations,which cover every part of the interior, and are in fact the glory andthe pride of the edifice, and alone entitle it to rank among the finestof mediæval churches.” The whole of the Christian history is depictedin this series of Mosaics; but on first entering, one form alonecompels attention. The semi-dome of the eastern apse above the highaltar is entirely filled with a gigantic half-length figure of Christ.He raises His right hand to bless, and with His left holds an open bookon which is written in Greek and Latin, “I am[100] the Light of the World.”His face is solemn and severe, rather than mild or piteous; and roundHis nimbus runs the legend Ἰησους χριστὸς ὁ παντοκράτωρ. Below Him ona smaller scale are ranged the archangels and the mother of the Lord,who holds the child upon her knees. Thus Christ appears twice upon thiswall, once as the Omnipotent Wisdom, the Word by whom all things weremade, and once as God deigning to assume a shape of flesh and dwellwith men. The magnificent image of supreme Deity seems to fill with asingle influence and to dominate the whole building. The house with allits glory is His. He dwells there like Pallas in her Parthenon or Zeusin his Olympian temple. To left and right over every square inch of thecathedral blaze mosaics, which portray the story of God’s dealings withthe human race from the Creation downwards, together with those angelicbeings and saints, who symbolize each in his own degree some specialvirtue granted to mankind. The walls of the fane are therefore an openbook of history, theology, and ethics for all men to read.

The superiority of mosaics over fresco as an architectural adjunct onthis gigantic scale is apparent at a glance at Monreale. Permanencyof splendour and glowing richness of tone are all on the side of themosaics. Their true rival is painted glass. The jewelled churchesof the south are constructed for the display of coloured surfacesilluminated by sunlight falling on them from narrow windows, just asthose of the north—Rheims, for example, or Le Mans—are built forthe transmission of light through a variegated[101] medium of transparenthues. The painted windows of a northern cathedral find their propercounterpart in the mosaics of the south. The Gothic architect stroveto obtain the greatest amount of translucent surface. The Byzantinebuilder directed his attention to securing just enough light for theillumination of his glistening walls. The radiance of the northernchurch was similar to that of flowers or sunset clouds or jewels.The glory of the southern temple was that of dusky gold and gorgeousneedlework. The north needed acute brilliancy as a contrast to externalgreyness. The south found rest from the glare and glow of noonday inthese sombre splendours. Thus Christianity, both of the south and ofthe north, decked her shrines with colour. Not so the Paganism ofHellas. With the Greeks, colour, though used in architecture, wasseverely subordinated to sculpture; toned and modified to a calculatedharmony with actual nature, it did not, as in a Christian church,create a world beyond the world, a paradise of supersensual ecstasy,but remained within the limits of the known. Light falling uponcarved forms of gods and heroes, bathing clear-cut columns and sharpbas-reliefs in simple lustre, was enough for the Phœbian rights ofHellas. Though we know that red and blue and green and gilding wereemployed to accentuate the mouldings of Greek temples, yet neither thegloomy glory of mosaics nor the gemmed fretwork of storied windows wasneeded to attune the souls of Hellenic worshippers to devotion.

The Rue de la Seine will bring us to the Palace of the Luxembourg,now the Palace of the Senate (open from nine to four in winter, nineto five in summer), built by Marie de’ Medici on the site of a hotelerected by Robert de Harlay de Saucy early in the Sixteenth Century,which was bought by the Duc de Pincy-Luxembourg. The queen employedJacques Debrosses as her architect in 1615, and his work was completedin 1620. The ground floor, in the Tuscan style, was intended to conveya reminiscence of the Florentine Palazzo Pitti, in which Marie de’Medici was born: the upper stories are Grecian.

The queen intended to call the palace Palais Medicis, though the namehas always clung to it which is derived from François de Luxembourg,Prince de Tingry, who owned the site in 1570. The palace was bequeathedby Marie de’ Medici to her youngest son Gaston, Duc d’Orléans,from whom it came to his two daughters, who each held half of theLuxembourg—“La Grande Mademoiselle,” and the pious Duchesse de Guise(whose mother, sister of the Duc de Lorraine, had clandestinely becomethe second wife of Monsieur), who was terribly tyrannized over by herrich half sister. It was here that Mademoiselle received the visitsof M. de Lauzun, whilst La Fosse was painting the loves of Flore andZephyr, and here that she astonished [103]Europe by the announcement ofher intended marriage, to which—for a few days—Louis XIV. was inducedto give his consent.

At her death, Mademoiselle bequeathed her right in the Luxembourgto her Cousin Philippe, Duc d’Orléans, brother of Louis XIV. Duringthe Regency, the palace was the residence of the Duchesse de Berry(daughter of the Regent Philippe d’Orléans), who by her orgies hererivalled those of her father at the Palais Royal. The Luxembourg wasbought by Louis XV., and given by Louis XVI. to his brother “Monsieur,”who resided in it till his escape from Paris at the time of the flightto Varennes.

Treated as national property during the Revolution, the Luxembourgbecame one of the prisons of the Reign of Terror. Amongst otherprisoners, comprising the most illustrious names in France, were theVicomte de Beauharnais and his wife Josephine, afterwards Empress ofthe French: “De quoi se plaignent donc ces damnés aristocrates?”cried Montagnard; “nons les logeons dans les châteaux royaux.”David, the painter, designed his picture of the Sabines during hisimprisonment at the Luxembourg, in a little room on the second floor.Here also in a different category, were imprisoned Hébert, Danton,Camille Desmoulins, Philippeaux, Lacroix, Hérault de Séchelles, Payne,Bazire, Chabot, and Fabre d’Eglantine. In 1793, people used to come andstand for hours in the garden in the hope of being able to have a lastsight of their friends, from their being allowed to show themselves atthe windows.

[104]

It was at the Luxembourg that (December 10, 1797), Bonaparte presentedthe treaty of the peace of Campo Formio to the Directory, afterreturning from his first campaign in Italy. At the end of 1799, thepalace became for a time Le Palais du Consulat: Le Palais duSénat, then de la Pairie. Marshal Ney was condemned to deathhere, under the Restoration (November 21, 1815), and was executed inthe Allée de l’Observatoire, at the end of the garden on December 7.The iron wicket still remains in the door of his prison, opening westat the end of the great gallery of archives. The ministers of CharlesX. were also judged at the Luxembourg, and Fieschi and the otherconspirators of July, 1835, were condemned here; as was Prince LouisNapoleon Bonaparte, after the attempt at Bologne in 1840.

The Luxembourg is only shown when the Senate is not sitting. Theapartments best worth seeing are the Chapel of 1844, decorated withmodern paintings; and the Ancienne Salle du Livre d’or, wherethe titles and arms of peers were preserved under the Restoration andLouis Philippe, adorned with the decorations of the apartment of Mariede’ Medici. The ceiling of the gallery, which forms part of the hall,represents the Apotheosis of Marie. The arabesques in the principalhall are attributed to Giovanni da Udine: the ceiling representsMarie de’ Medici reestablishing the peace and unity of France. Thefirst floor is reached by a great staircase which occupies the placeof a gallery once filled with the twenty-four great pictures of thelife of the Regent Marie by Rubens, now in the Louvre. The oratory ofthe queen and another room are now united to form the Salle[105] desGardes, her bedroom is the Salle des Messagers d’état andher reception-room is known as the Salon de Napoléon I. Thecupola of the Salle du Trône by Alaux represents the Apotheosisof the first Emperor.

The Hôtel du Petit Luxembourg is a dependency of the greaterpalace, and was erected about the same time by Richelieu, who residedhere till the Palais Royal was built. When he moved thither, he gavethis palace to his niece, the Duchesse d’Aiguillon, from whom itpassed to Henri Jules de Bourbon-Condé, after which it received thename of Petit Bourbon. Anne, Palatine of Bavaria, lived here,and added a hôtel towards the Rue Vaugirard to accommodate her suite.Under the First Empire the Luxembourg was occupied for some time byJoseph Bonaparte. It is now the official residence of the Presidentof the Senate. The cloister of the former convent of the Filles duCalvaire, whom Marie de Medici established near her palace, is nowa winter garden attached to the Petit Luxembourg. The chapel, standingclose to the grill of the Rue de Vaugirard, is an admirable specimenof the end of the Sixteenth Century; on the summit of its gable is asymbolical Pelican nourishing its young.

Beyond the Petit Luxembourg is a modern building containing the Muséedu Luxembourg. The collection now in the galleries of the Louvre wasbegun at the Luxembourg and only removed in 1779, when Monsieur came toreside here. In 1802 a new gallery was begun at the Luxembourg, but,in 1815, its pictures were removed to the Louvre to fill the places ofthose restored to their rightful[106] owners by the Allies. It was LouisXVIII. who ordered that the Luxembourg should receive such works ofliving artists as were acquired by the State. The collection, recentlymoved from halls in the palace itself, is always interesting, but asthe works of each artist are removed to the Louvre ten years after hisdeath, the pictures are constantly changing.

This morning soon after 5 A. M. Dr. Dudgeon took me to see theYung-ho-kung, a very fine old Lama temple, just within the wall, at thenorth-east corner of the Tartar city. It contains about 1,300 monks ofall ages, down to small boys six years old, under the headship of aLama, who assumes the title of “The Living Buddha.”

These monks are Mongol Tartars of a very bad type, dirty and greedyof gain; and, moreover, are known to be grossly immoral. They aregenerally offensively insolent to all foreigners, many of whom havevainly endeavoured to obtain access to the monastery,—even the silverkey, which is usually so powerful in China, often failing to unlock theinhospitable gates.

That I had the privilege of entrance was solely due to the personalinfluence of Dr. Dudgeon, whose medical skill has happily proved sobeneficial to the “Living Buddha,” and several of the priests, as toensure him a welcome from them. It was not, however, an easy taskto get at these men, as a particularly insolent monk was acting asdoor-keeper, and attempted forcibly to prevent our entrance. That,however, was effected by the judicious pressure of a powerful shoulder,and after a stormy argument, the wretch was at length overawed, andfinally reduced[108] to abject humility by threats to report his rudenessto the head Lama.

At long last, after wearisome expostulation and altercation, everydoor was thrown open to us, but the priest in charge of each carefullylocked it after us, lest we should avoid giving him an individual tip,or kum-sha, as it is here called. Happily I had a large supplyof five and ten cent silver pieces, which the Doctor’s knowledge ofChinese custom compelled our extortioners to accept. At the same time,neither of us could avoid a qualm as each successive door was securelylocked, and a vision presented itself of possible traps into which wemight be decoyed.

Every corner of the great building is full of interest, from thebrilliant yellow china tiles of the roof to the yellow carpet in thetemple. The entrance is adorned with stone carvings of animals, andthe interior is covered with a thousand fantastic figures carvedin wood—birds, beasts, and serpents, flowers and monstrous humanheads mingle in grotesque confusion. It is rich in silken hangings,gold embroidery, huge picturesque paper lanterns of quaint form,covered with Chinese characters and grotesque idols, canopied by veryornamental baldachinos.

Conspicuous amongst these idols is Kwang-ti, who was a distinguishedwarrior at the beginning of the Christian era, and who about eighthundred years later was deified as the God of War, and State templeswere erected in his honour in every city of the Empire. So hisshrine is adorned with all manner of armour, especially bows andarrows—doubtful votive offerings. He is a very fiercelooking[109] god,and is attended by two colossal companions, robed in the richest goldembroidered silk. Another gigantic image is that of a fully armedwarrior leading a horse. I believe he is Kwang-ti’s armour bearer.In various parts of the temple hang trophies of arms and militarystandards, which are singular decorations for a temple wherein Buddhais the object of supreme worship.

But the fact is, that though Kwang-ti is the God of War, he is alsoemphatically “Protector of the Peace,” and his aid is invoked in allmanner of difficulties, domestic or national. For instance, whenthe great salt wells in the Province of Shansi dried up, the sorelyperplexed Emperor was recommended by the Taouist High Priest to laythe case before Kwang-ti. The Emperor, therefore, wrote an officialdespatch on the subject, which was solemnly burnt, and thus conveyedto the spirit-world, when, lo! in answer to the Son of Heaven, theWarrior-god straightway appeared in the clouds, mounted on his redwar-horse, and directed the Emperor to erect a temple in his honour.This was done, and the salt springs flowed as before.

Kwang-ti again appeared in 1855, during the Taiping rebellion, toaid the Imperial troops near Nankin, for which kind interposition,Hien-feng, the reigning Emperor (whose honour-conferring power extendsto the spirit-world), promoted him to an equal rank with Confucius! Sohere we find him reverenced alike by Taouists and Buddhists!

All the altar-vases in this temple are of the finest Pekinenamel—vases, candlesticks, and incense-burners, from which filmyclouds of fragrant incense float upward to a[110] ceiling panelled withgreen and gold. Fine large scroll paintings tempted me to lingerat every turn, and the walls are encrusted with thousands of smallporcelain images of Buddha.

In the main temple, which is called the Foo-Koo, or Hall of Buddha,stands a cyclopean image of Matreya, the Buddha of Futurity. It isseventy feet in height, and is said to be carved from one solid blockof wood, but it is coloured to look like bronze. Ascending a longflight of steps, we reached a gallery running round the temple aboutthe level of his shoulders. I found that this gallery led into twocircular buildings, one on each side, constructed for the support oftwo immense rotating cylinders, about seventy feet in height, full ofniches, each niche containing the image of a Buddhist saint.

They are rickety old things, and thickly coated with dust, but oncertain days worshippers come and stick on strips of paper, bearingprayers. To turn these cylinders is apparently an act of homage to thewhole saintly family, and enlists the good-will of the whole lot. SomeLama monasteries deal thus with their 128 sacred books and 220 volumesof commentary, placing them in a huge cylindrical bookcase, which theyturn bodily, to save the trouble of turning individual pages—theunderstanding having apparently small play in either case.

It was nearly 6 A. M. ere we reached the Lama Temple, so thatwe were too late to see the grand morning service, as that commencesat 4 A. M., when upwards of a hundred mats are spread in thetemple, on each of which kneel ten[111] of the subordinate Lamas, allwearing their yellow robes and a sort of classical helmet of yellowfelt, with a very high crest like that worn by Britannia. They possessred felt boots, but can only enter the temple barefooted. The GreatLama wears a violet-coloured robe and a yellow mitre. He bears a sortof crozier, and occupies a gilded throne before the altar: a cushion isprovided for him to kneel upon. The whole temple is in darkness or dimtwilight save the altar, which is ablaze with many tapers.

When the copper gong sounds its summons to worship, they chant litaniesin monotone, one of the priests reading prayers, from a silken scroll,and all joining in a low murmur, while clouds of incense fill thetemple. A peculiarity of this chant is, that while a certain number ofthe brethren recite the words, the others sing a continuous deep bassaccompaniment. Again the gong marks the change from prayer to sacredchants, and after these comes a terrible din of instrumental music—aclatter of gongs, bells, conch-shells, tambourines, and all manner ofear-splitting abominations. Then follows a silence which may be felt,so utter is the stillness and so intense the relief.

When the Derbyshire Wye has pursued its winding way from its sourcein the millstone grit, and between the wooded steeps and precipitouslimestone cliffs that curb and shape its course towards Bakewell, thehills on either bank recede, and the river flows through pleasantalluvial meadows, overlooked by occasional rocky scars, and by woodsof fir, ash, beech, and oak, to its confluence with the Derwent atRowsley. Some two miles below Bakewell, shortly before the stream ofthe Lathkil comes down from its enchanting valley on the right, withits narrow tributary, the Bradford, to swell the waters of the Wye,the limestone crops out as a platform on the opposite bank, and there,half-concealed by the umbrageous woodland, stand the time-worn towersand walls of Haddon. Whether we approach the spot from the directionof Rowsley or of Bakewell, the prospect can scarcely be surpassedin its kind, either for the wondrous grouping of the grey towersand battlements on the slope of the hill, or for the rich beautiesof the varied foliage on the height beyond, and the flower-deckedmeads and pellucid stream below. These charms of a truly Englishlandscape, and an old English mansion, have long had, and must continueto have, a spell of fascination for the artist and lover of the[113]picturesque; but it is not only for them that visitors come in aceaseless stream to Haddon. What other place can wake such impressionsof old-time greatness touched by the witchery of bygone romance? Itis here—better, perhaps, than any other spot in England—that we cangrasp the conditions of life of the mediæval and Tudor gentlemen. Thelong line of the Vernons passes before us. We witness them, generationby generation adding to the majestic pile; the vacant chambers arepeopled with stately ladies and mail-clad knights, the bowmen areranged in the courtyard, and the sentinel keeps watch from the tower.We see the knight in anxious deliberation on questions of State andwonder what answer shall be returned to the King-maker’s letter. Wepartake of the bounteous hospitality of the Knight of the Peak, as manystrangers have done before, bethinking ourselves anon of his daughter,fair Dorothy, and how that Manners is concealed in the woods, watchingthe light in her chamber. Then the sounds of revelry strike upon theear, the door opens and she steals down the steps, and presently wehear the clang of hoofs upon the road. It is, indeed, such impressionsas these that have given to the external beauties of Haddon Hall theadditional charm of legend, poetry and romance, and have contributed tomake it a place to which visitors from afar will always delight to come.

Although the various parts of the celebrated hall have been builtat widely different periods, and upon a sloping and irregular rockyplatform, its plan is very easy to understand, and it may be well, atthe outset, to explain the disposition[114] of the buildings as clearly asmay be. They surround two courtyards—the lower one, to the west, onthe river front, and the upper one, separated from the first by thegreat hall and domestic offices, rising up to the east on the hill-sidebehind it. The visitor enters the lower quadrangle at its north-westernangle, placing his foot, as he passes the postern, in a hole which hasbeen worn deeply by unnumbered strangers before him. He notices, on hisright, beneath the archway, the porter’s room, with a bedstead thatmay well have kept that functionary wakeful; and beyond it, still onthe right hand and western side, the so-called Chaplain’s Room—withits hunting-horn, old musket, Seventeenth Century boots, service ofpewter platters, and other miscellaneous contents—as well as twoother chambers, before the domestic chapel is reached. This edificeoccupies the south-western angle, and extends about half-way up thesouthern side of the lower courtyard. Being not at right angles withthe other portions of this quadrangle, it gives, with its picturesquebell-turret, a pleasing variety to the buildings within; and,externally, its east window and the angles of its chancel and southernaisle, with the heavy buttress at the western end, add materially tothe picturesque effect of the hall. The chapel, moreover, contains,with some of the foundation walls, the oldest portions of the edifice,and the round column and chalice-like font are anterior, perhaps, tothe coming of the Vernons to Haddon. The south side of the westernquadrangle is completed by a range of constructions, including passagesto the private apartments, and a turret stair to the[115] battlementedwall; and leading up to the doorway is a flight of steps—added in theSixteenth Century—which projects into the area of the courtyard. Thisspace is further broken up by the three steps which extend across itfrom north to south, dividing it into an upper and a lower platform.Standing upon the slight elevation thus gained, the chapel, thebuildings opposite on the western side, the entrance gateway, with thevery curious corbelling and constructive ties over it in the angle, andthe offices on the western side, with the turret, have a most pleasingand varied effect.

The main block of buildings, lying between the two quadrangles, is nowentered by the porch, which leads into a lobby or passage separatingthe great hall on the right from the kitchen and its offices on theleft. This arrangement was general in mediæval dwelling-places, and maybe seen in many of the timber manor-houses of Lancashire and Cheshire,where, as we see it at Haddon, the Minstrel’s Gallery is usually overthe entrance passage, at the end of the hall opposite to the daïs. AtHaddon, the table at the upper end still remains, supported on itsthree pedestal legs, and we think of the time when the King of thePeak held festival there, as we look upon its time-worn board. It isto be observed that the constructional conditions of the hall renderedit impossible to add the great bay, which was a chief feature ofmediæval banqueting-rooms—one that may be seen in its perfection inthe magnificent, but roofless hall of Wingfield, a few miles away. Inthe manor-houses of Lancashire and Cheshire, to which allusion[116] hasbeen made, the withdrawing-room lies in general immediately behind thegreat hall, and adjacent to the daïs, but at Haddon we find, in thatposition, a private dining-room, with a fine recessed window; and thedrawing-room, which is above it, is approached by a flight of stonesteps. The drawing-room at Haddon is a beautiful tapestried chamber,with fine views from its bay window over the gardens and down thevalley of the Wye; and from it access is had to the Earl’s Bedroomand the Page’s Room. On the other side of the lobby from which thehall is entered is a sloping passage leading down to the kitchen, withits huge fireplace and curious culinary appliances, and other doorsfrom the same passage open into the buttery, wine-cellar, add sundryoffices. The great hall, and the domestic offices described, completethe enclosure of the first courtyard and form the western side of thesecond. The northern side of this upper quadrangle is formed of aseries of small chambers; and a staircase from the hall-passage leadsup to the quaint tapestried rooms above them, which, if tradition maybe believed, were the nursery and the rooms of Dorothy Vernon, of LadyCranborne, daughter of John Manners, eighth Earl of Rutland, and ofRoger Manners. By the same staircase from the passage, access is had tothe Minstrel’s Gallery, as well as to the gallery on the eastern sideof the hall (a later addition), which brings the visitor to the top ofthe stone steps by which the drawing-room is reached. At that place arethe segmental steps of solid oak, whereby the magnificent Long Galleryor Bedroom is entered. This[117] great chamber, which is a chief glory ofHaddon, will be alluded to later. It occupies the whole length of thesouthern side of the upper courtyard, and projects picturesquely atits eastern end upon the terrace, where a window affords a view of thewinter garden towards Dorothy Vernon’s Walk. From the Long Gallery adoor leads into the range of buildings enclosing the second quadrangleon its eastern side. These are the anteroom, with Dorothy Vernon’sSteps leading down to the Terrace; the State Bedroom, with its Gobelintapestry, its strange bas-relief of Orpheus taming the Beasts;its huge bed and ancient hangings, and its mirror called “QueenElizabeth’s Looking-glass;” the Ancient Stateroom, a chamber coevalwith the angle tower; and the little passage-room over the gateway—theoriginal entrance to the castle—whence the winding-stair is reached,leading up to the Peveril Tower, which dominates the whole range ofbuildings. From this elevation the visitor sees the two courtyardsbelow him, with the woods and terraces, and the upper and lower gardenson the south side, as well as the way leading down to the footbridgeover the Wye, and a fine prospect of the winding vale of that river,and of many a distant hill.

Having thus before us the general plan of the buildings of HaddonHall, we may proceed to consider the historical, legendary, and otherconsiderations to which the venerable edifice very naturally leads us.There have been those who have chosen to see, in the lower parts of itsconstruction, the evidences of Saxon work, and, indeed, very likelyHaddon was a location in Saxon times. However, that may[118] be, we findit mentioned in Domesday Book as a berewick of the Manor of Bakewell,and the first possessor of whom we have authentic knowledge was thatsame William Peveril, a natural son of the Conqueror, to whom hegranted “Peveril’s Place in the Peke,” and who also had custody of theManor of Chatsworth. Thus, at this very early period, we find Haddonassociated in ownership with two of the most interesting places in thePeak district. The Peverils did not long enjoy their possessions, forWilliam Peveril, probably a grandson of the first possessor, having,it was alleged, poisoned Ranulph, Earl of Chester, who supportedMatilda, took to ignominious flight in order to avoid punishment, andhis possessions fell to Henry II. It is possible that some parts ofthe foundations of Haddon belong to the time of the Peverils, but,at any rate, the memory of their association with it is preservedin the name of the north-eastern tower. At the date of their fall,Haddon—or, to speak more precisely, Nether Haddon, for Over Haddonlies some two miles away on the hills—was held by William de Avenellin knight’s-service, and the King thus became direct lord of his fee.Towards the close of the Twelfth Century, Haddon came to the Vernonsby the marriage of Richard de Vernon with Avicia, a daughter and oneof the co-heiresses of William de Avenell, the other being married toSir Simon Bassett. This Richard de Vernon was descended from the Baronsof Shipbroke, the first of whom, William de Vernon, came over with theConqueror, and received his barony at the hands of Hugh Lupus, Earl ofChester. The Vernon name is derived[119] from the Lordship which the familyheld in what is now the Department of the Eure and Arrondissement ofEvreux.

We now reach the celebrated episode of Dorothy Vernon, upon which thefate of Haddon hung and which has lent the glamour of romance to thescenes in which she moved. Sir George Vernon, her father, the last heirmale of the Haddon line, was twice married, and his effigy now lies inBakewell Church, with those of his two wives, Margaret, daughter of SirGilbert Tayleboys, and Maude, daughter of Sir Ralph Langford. Of histwo daughters, Margaret, the elder, was married to Sir Thomas Stanleyof Winwick, in Lancashire, son of the third Earl of Derby; and Dorothy,the younger—who ultimately became sole heiress—to John Manners, thesecond son of Sir Thomas Manners, first Earl of Rutland. It is not easyto say at this date what could have been the strong objection which the“King of the Peak” is averred to have had to his daughter’s marriagewith John Manners, whose father was of high descent, and died, coveredwith honours, in 1543, having had a royal augmentation granted to hisarms, by reason of his descent from Anne Plantagenet, sister of EdwardIV. It may, indeed, be that Sir George had planned some great alliancefor his daughter, and was ill content with a younger son, or perhapsdifferences of religion were at the root of his objection, or, we maysuppose again, that some personal antipathy, of which there is norecord, was felt by the knight to his daughter’s lover. However thismay be, tradition tells us that the attachment was a secret one, or, atleast, that the meeting of Manners and Dorothy Vernon was[120] under herfather’s ban. Legend has grown up about the episodes, and it is relatedthat Manners lingered in the woods of Haddon disguised as a forester ora hunter, gaining speech at times with the lady, and watching the lightin her window. As to the actual circumstances of the elopement—ifelopement there was, which seems probable—we have tradition alone toguide us. It is said that, on the occasion of certain festivities atthe Hall—held, as some aver, in honour of the marriage of her eldersister—Dorothy stole away from the gay scene, ran down to the terraceby the steps from the anteroom which now bear her name, and joinedher lover, who had horses waiting near. The pair then mounted, andgalloped, as the story goes, all through the night, until they reachedAylston, in Leicestershire, where they were married on the morrow.The memory of Dorothy Vernon will linger long about the tapestriedchambers and sweet-scented gardens of Haddon, and whatever there may beof truth or falsehood in the story of her elopement, the visitor whopasses down the steps and walks beneath the low-hanging boughs of theyew-trees on the terrace, or is shadowed by the limes and sycamores inDorothy Vernon’s Walk, where the banks are carpeted with flowers inthe spring-time, will do well to cherish this legendary history, whichhas given an unfailing charm to Haddon. In Bakewell Church, moreover,where both Dorothy and her husband lie buried, he may see her kneelingeffigy, and, if her features should strike him as homely, and somewhatunattractive withal, he will bethink him what profound depths offeeling, and what strange[121] capacities for romance, exist unsuspected inthe life of every day. It will be of interest here to record the factthat, in the year 1841, when the church of Bakewell was being restored,excavations were made on the site of the monument of John Mannersand his wife, and remains believed to be theirs were found in woodencoffins. “The head of the female,” we read, “was still covered withhair, cut short on the forehead, but long behind, extremely friable,remarkably soft, and of a beautiful auburn colour, and in it were foundsix brass pins.” The wife of John Manners died on Midsummer Day, 1584,but her husband survived many years, and died on the 4th of June, 1611.He continued to reside at Haddon, and showed no lack of interest inthe great house that had become his own. There can be no reasonabledoubt that the Long Gallery was built by him, and thus one of thechief beauties of the Hall is attributed to its first possessor of theManners’ name. Both within and without, the three great bays relieve itfrom all monotony, and the first impression on entering it is of itsgrandeur and dignity. The Long Gallery or Ball-Room was a customaryfeature in great houses of Tudor and Stuart times, and may yet be seenin many places—as, for example, in very stately form at Belvoir, andcharacteristically at Astley Hall, in Lancashire, but nowhere moreattractively than at Haddon. There its length is more than one hundredand nine feet, its width eighteen feet, and its height fifteen feet.The heavy steps of solid oak by which it is entered, and the wholeflooring of the room are said to have been cut from one gigantic oakwhich grew in the woods.[122] The wainscot is divided by fluted pilastersinto panels, which have arched tops, and, above, the boar’s-head crestof the Vernons, and the Manners’ peacock, with roses and thistles,are alternated. In the windows also there is blazonry of the arms ofRutland and Shrewsbury, with the royal shield of England; and over themantel hangs a very remarkable picture, representing Thomyris, Queen ofthe Massagetae, victorious over Cyrus, whose head is being presented toher.

The subsequent relation of the Manners family with Haddon Hall neednot occupy us very long, for the building itself was completed, andthe addition of the terraces and some features of the gardens left itas we see it now, save that its chambers were not yet bare. John, theeighth Earl, who lived at Belvoir and Haddon alternately, espousedthe cause of the Parliament, and took the Solemn League and Covenant.Belvoir Castle was captured by the Royalists, and suffered sadly in thesubsequent troubles, the Earl meanwhile living mostly at Haddon, wherehis magnificence, it would seem, rivalled that of the “King of thePeak.” He shared in the Restoration; and, as we read in Lysons, between1660 and 1670, although the family were then living mostly at Belvoir,there was a prodigious consumption of beeves and sheep at Haddon, andparticularly that an open Christmas was held there in 1663, when, asappears by the bailiff’s charges, outlay was made for much work in thekitchen, and for pipers and dancers to make the guests merry withal.John, the ninth Earl, was created Marquis of Granby and Duke of Rutlandby Queen Anne, and was succeeded, upon his death[123] at Belvoir in 1711,by his son John, the second Duke, who died in 1721, and he again byhis son, also named John, the third Duke, who lived occasionally atHaddon. It was, however, during his lifetime that the family finallyquitted their ancient home by the Wye, and the Hall was dismantledabout the year 1740. Yet, ever since that time, the successive Dukesof Rutland have safeguarded the venerable edifice, and, withoutattempting restoration, by structural supports and careful watching,have preserved it from decay. It is to them that the public owe theinestimable privilege of being allowed to linger within the time-wornwalls and chambers, which, besides being of abounding interest inthemselves, awaken so many delightful memories of history and romance.

When the Hall ceased to be a place of residence not all its adornmentswere removed. The tapestry deserves special attention, there being, inseveral of the rooms, some fine remains of Gobelins and other work.The graceful drawing-room is partially hung with it, as was customary,in such manner as to conceal the entrance to the Earl’s dressing-room,and there are curious iron hooks for holding it back. The Earl’sbedroom itself is tapestried with representations of the chase. Oneof the rooms in the western range, as well as several small chamberson the north side, including Dorothy Vernon’s room, and others notusually shown to visitors, contain much good work of Flemish and Frenchmanufacture. In addition to the large picture in the Long Gallery, andthe portraits in the dining-room which have been alluded to, there aremany paintings[124] in various parts of the house. A number of them arein the anteroom leading from the Long Gallery, including portraitsof Queen Elizabeth and Charles I. There is a portrait, also, in thedrawing-room, of the sixth Earl of Rutland, who died in 1632, andseveral of less importance are in the great hall. Many of the picturesare Italian, and little seems to be known about them; but they arethought to have been brought or sent to England by Sir Oliver Manners,a younger brother of Dorothy’s husband.

The visitor to Haddon will notice some other objects of curiosity andinterest, and he will do well not to hurry through the vacant rooms,for, if the plan of the house be understood, and something of theseveral dates of its erection, very much may be learned of the ways,manners, and surroundings of mediæval and Tudor gentlemen. Then,passing down through the pleasant gardens, and recrossing the RiverWye, the stranger will look back gratefully upon the grey towers,lighted perchance by the setting sun, and will bear away with him animpression of beauty, grandeur, and romance which surely will neverfade.

While treating of Palermo, we are bound to think again of the Emperorwho inherited from his German father the ambition of the Hohenstauffensand from his Norman mother the fair fields and Oriental traditionsof Sicily. The strange history of Frederick—an intellect of theEighteenth Century born out of date, a cosmopolitan spirit in theage of Saint Louis, the Crusader who conversed with Moslem sageson the threshold of the Holy Sepulchre, the Sultan of Lucera whopresented Paterini while he respected the superstition of Saracens,the anointed successor of Charlemagne, who carried his harem with himto the battle-fields of Lombardy, and turned Infidels loose upon theprovinces of Christ’s Vicar—would be inexplicable, were it not thatPalermo still reveals in all her monuments the genius lociwhich gave spiritual nurture to this phœnix among kings. From hisMussulman teachers Frederick derived the philosophy to which he gavea vogue in Europe. From his Arabian predecessors he learned the artsof internal administration and finance, which he transmitted to theprinces of Italy. In imitation of Oriental courts, he adopted thepractice of verse composition, which gave the first impulse to Italianliterature. His Grand Vizier, Piero Delle Vigne, set an example to[126]Petrarch, not only by composing the first sonnet in Italian, but alsoby showing to what height a low-born secretary versed in art and lawmight rise. In a word, the zeal for liberal studies, the luxury oflife, the religious indifferentism, the bureaucratic system of stategovernment, which mark the age of the Italian Renaissance, found theirfirst manifestation within the bosom of the Middle Ages in Frederick.While our King John was signing the Magna Charta, Frederick had alreadylived long enough to comprehend, at least in outline, what is meant bythe spirit of modern culture. It is true that the so-called Renaissancefollowed slowly and by tortuous paths upon the death of Frederick. TheChurch obtained a complete victory over his family, and succeeded inextinguishing the civilization of Sicily. Yet the fame of the Emperorwho transmitted questions of sceptical philosophy to Arab sages, whoconversed familiarly with men of letters, who loved splendour andunderstood the arts of refined living, survived both long and latein Italy. His power, his wealth, his liberality of soul and loftyaspirations, formed the theme of many a tale and poem. Dante placeshim in hell among the heresiarchs; and truly the splendour of hissupposed infidelity found for him a goodly following. Yet Dante datesthe rise of Italian literature from the blooming period of the SicilianCourt. Frederick’s unorthodoxy proved no drawback to his intellectualinfluence. More than any other man of mediæval times he contributed,if only as the memory of a mighty name, to the progress of civilizedhumanity.

Let us take leave both of Frederick and of Palermo,[127] that centre ofconverging influences, which was his cradle, in the cathedral where helies gathered to his fathers. This church, though its rich sun-brownedyellow[7] reminds one of the tone of Spanish buildings, is like nothingone has seen elsewhere. Here even more than at Monreale, the eye isstruck with a fusion of styles. The western towers are grouped intosomething like the clustered sheafs of the Caen churches: the windowspresent Saracenic arches; the southern porch is covered with foliatedincrustations of a late and decorative Gothic style; the exterior ofthe apse combines Arabic inlaid patterns of black and yellow with theGreek honeysuckle; the western door adds Norman dog-tooth and chevronto the Saracenic billet. Nowhere is any one tradition firmly followed.The whole wavers and yet is beautiful—like the immature eclecticismof the culture which Frederick himself endeavoured to establish inhis southern kingdoms. Inside there is no such harmony of blendedvoices: all the strange tongues, which speak together on the outside,making up a music in which the far North, and ancient Byzance, and thedelicate East sound each a note, are hushed. The frigid silence of thePalladian style reigns there—simple indeed and dignified, but lifelessas the century in which it flourished. Yet there, in[128] a side chapelnear the western door, stand the porphyry sarcophagi which shrine thebones of the Hautevilles and their representatives. There sleeps KingRoger—“Dux Strenuus et primus Rex Siciliæ”—with his daughterConstance in her purple chest beside him. Henry VI. and FrederickII. and Constance of Aragon complete the group, which surpasses forinterest all sepulchral monuments—even the tombs of the Scaligers atVerona—except only, perhaps, the statues of the nave of Innsprück.Very sombre and stately are these porphyry resting-places of princesborn in the purple, assembled here from lands so distant—from thecraggy heights of Hohenstauffen, from the green orchards of Cotentin,from the dry hills of Aragon. They sleep, and the centuries pass by.Rude hands break open the granite lids of their sepulchres, to findtresses of yellow hair and fragments of imperial mantles, embroideredwith the hawks and stags the royal hunter loved. The church in whichthey lie, changes with the change of taste in architecture and themanners of successive ages. But the huge stone arks remain unmoved,guarding their freight of mouldering dust beneath gloomy canopies ofstone, that temper the sunlight as it streams from the chapel windows.

The ancient city of Gwalior, which must not be confounded with themodern town of that name, nor with the Mahratta camp of the Scindias,is situated on the summit of a steep and isolated rock, 342 feet inheight at the north end, where it is highest, and a mile and a halfin length; its greatest breadth is 300 yards. Its position and theexterior appearance of its fortifications, behind which rise numerousmonuments, remind one of Chittore, the famous capital of Meywar.

This rock, which is a block of basalt topped with sandstone, standslike a sentinel at the entrance of a valley; and above the slopes atits foot rise pointed cliffs, forming natural ramparts, on which arebuilt the fortifications of the town.

Tradition places the date of the founding of Gwalior several centuriesbefore the Christian era. The attention of the Aryan colonists from thevalley of the Chumbul probably was early attracted by the admirableposition of this rock. The first to establish themselves here were nodoubt the Anchorites, who were sent forth in such numbers by the Indianschools of philosophy in the Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries beforethe Christian era, as is attested by the numerous caverns, formed byman, in the[130] sides of the rock. In 773, Rajah Sourya Sena completeda system of defence round the plateau by constructing ramparts. TheKâchwas held the fortress until the reign of Tej Pal Doula, who, uponbeing expelled by the Chohans in 967, founded the dynasty of Ambîr.Sultan Shahab Oudin’s generalissimo, Koutub Eibeck, took it from theChohans in 1196; and thirty-eight years later it was again taken bythe Emperor Altamsh after a long siege. In 1410, the Touar Rajpootsgot possession of it, and held it until 1519, when it was finallyattached to the crown of Delhi by Ibrahim Lodi. At the dismembermentof the Mogul Empire, it fell alternately into the hands of the Jâtsand Mahrattas. In 1779, it was garrisoned by Scindia, from whom it wastaken by a British force under Major Popham, and it was again made overto Scindia by the treaty of 1805.

But the vicissitudes of the ancient fortress did not end here. In1857, the Maharajah Scindia having refused to countenance the revolt,the rebels, under the command of one of Nana Sahib’s captains, tookthe place; but General Sir Hugh Rose dislodged them by plantinghis batteries on the surrounding heights, and, for the purpose ofprotecting the young king from his rebellious subjects, the Englishkept possession of the plateau.

The present town of Gwalior extends to the north and east of thefortress, being hemmed in between the rock and the river Sawunrika.It was a large and handsome settlement, containing thirty or fortythousand inhabitants; but the founding of a new capital by theScindias, at a distance[131] of about two miles was a death-blow to itsgrandeur, the higher branches of trade and the nobility having followedthe Court to Lashkar. The architecture of its stone houses is, for themost part, handsome; but the streets are narrow and crooked. It isprobable that at one time there was a large suburb round the foot ofthe ascent leading to the fortress, but it was not until the SixteenthCentury that the town assumed its present proportions. There areno monuments to be found of an earlier date; and the two worthy ofremark are the Jummah Musjid, a handsome mosque, flanked by two loftyminarets, and the Hatti Durwaza, or “Gate of the Elephants,” a curioustriumphal arch, situated on a mound at the entrance to the town.

The bazaars of Gwalior contain several manufactures peculiar to theplace, such as silken fabrics, embroidered in gold, for turbans;saris, or cotton scarfs for women, and curious stuffs in themost brilliant colours. A very fair trade is carried on in thesearticles.

Two flights of steps, one on the east and the other on the west, leadup to the fortress; of which that on the east is a notable achievement,since it had to be cut out of the solid rock. It is the more ancient ofthe two; and, although on a very steep incline, it is practicable forhorses and elephants.

In order to reach this elevation, you must traverse the whole lengthof the lower town; and the entrance to it is guarded by an embattledfortification and guard-houses. Hidden among the trees, at a shortdistance, stands a large palace, the exterior of which is ornamentedwith bright[132] blue enamel. Five monumental gates, placed at intervals,and still armed with portcullis and heavy iron doors, guard the accessto the fortress. From the first, which is a splendid triumphal archwith a Saracenic archway, and surmounted by a tier of small columns,commences the causeway, which, although wide and well kept, is a longand fatiguing ascent; and thence also commences a series of monuments,bas-reliefs, caverns, and cisterns, forming a natural museum of greatinterest to the archæologist. Even the rocks which overhang the roadmerit his attention, for they contain numerous chambers, altars andstatues, which are reached by narrow paths, requiring a steady head anda sure and practised foot.

Between the third and fourth gate are some huge tanks, excavated outof the solid rock, and fed by springs. The capitals of the pillarswhich support the ceiling appear above the water, and one can scarcelydistinguish the bottom in the obscurity. Near these tanks the surfaceof the rock, which has been made smooth and even, is covered withnumerous bas-reliefs; one of the largest of which, representing anelephant and rider, still is easily distinguishable in spite ofconsiderable mutilation; and further on is a head of Siva.

Opposite the fourth gate is a small monolith of great antiquity,supposed to date from the Fifteenth Century. It is a temple cut out ofa single block of stone, and consists of a small square room, enteredby a peristyle and crowned with a pyramidal spire. The upper portionof the latter, having been destroyed, has been replaced by a smalldome[133] in stonework; and a few sculptures surround the entrance to thesanctuary and the altar.

On the summit of the hill stands King Pal, which springs from thevery brink of the precipice. It is supported by six towers, andpierced by only a few large windows ornamented with balconies andpilasters. Sculptured bands, Jaïn arches, and indented cordons relievethe monotony of the massive exterior, and give it a peculiarly lightand graceful appearance. The spaces between the Jaïn arches of thegallery are filled in and covered with mosaics in enamelled bricks,representing palm-trees on a blue ground; and each tower is surmountedby a lantern with a double row of columns. It is difficult to imagine agrander or more harmonious effect than that produced by this giganticedifice, combining rampart and palace in one.

At the south angle of the palace is a gateway, which gives access tothe interior of the fortress, and through which you enter a narrowstreet that overlooks the lateral frontage of the palace. This is builton the same plan as the exterior, but here the stone is completelyhidden by enamel. Bands of mosaics, representing candelabra, Brahmaducks, elephants and peacocks in blue, rose-colour, green and gold,give this immense blank wall an incomparably beautiful appearance. Thebricks of which these mosaics are composed still retain their primitivebrilliancy of colour and delicacy of shading, though ten centuries havepassed over them. I know of no country in the world where an architecthas succeeded so well in giving a graceful appearance to a heavy blankwall.

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The exact date of the construction of these facings is unknown, thoughit is certain that they were the work of a Rajpoot prince of the nameof Pal; but, as several Chandela and Kâchwa chiefs bore this name, itis difficult to fix the date more precisely than between the Eighth andNinth Centuries.

The palace of the kings of Gwalior covers an immense area on theeast of the plateau; but it was not the work of a single prince; themost ancient portions of it date back to the Sixteenth Century. Eachdynasty enlarged the mass of buildings, and the Moguls themselves madeconsiderable additions to it. The interior of the Palace of Pal isextremely simple in style. The various stories, which you enter throughrows of square pillars, overlook the large paved courts; and the roomsare low with flat ceilings.

Among these ruins a portion of the ancient palace of the Vaïshnavakings may still be seen. The thick walls, pierced with triangularopenings, are somewhat in the same style as the corridors of theMexican temples. It is to be regretted that so much of this part of thePalace has already been destroyed.

The northern extremity of the plateau, which gradually becomes narrowerand narrower, was entirely covered by the palaces of the Emperors Akbarand Jehanghir; but you do not find here the magnificent buildingsof Agra or of Delhi. It is evident that these were mere provincialresidences. There are nevertheless, a graceful dewani-khas and a smallzenanah, containing some fine galleries.

On the slope of the eastern Apennines, overlooking the Adriatic gulf,stands what may be called (according to the belief of the RomanCatholic Church) the European Nazareth. Fortified as if by the bastionsof a huge castle, against the approach of Saracenic pirates, a vastchurch, even now gorgeous with the offerings of the faithful, containsthe “Santa Casa,” the “Holy House,” in which the Virgin lived, and (asis attested by the same inscription as that at Nazareth) received theAngel Gabriel. Every one knows the story of the House of Loretto. Thedevotion of one-half the world, and the ridicule of the other half,has made us all acquainted with the strange story, written in all thelanguages[8] of Europe round the walls of that remarkable sanctuary:how the house of Nazareth was, in the close of the Thirteenth Century,conveyed by angels, first to the heights above Fiume, at the headof the Adriatic gulf, then to the plain and lastly to the hill, ofLoretto. But this “wondrous flitting” of the Holy House is not thefeature in its history[136] which is most present to the pilgrims whofrequent it. It is regarded by them simply as an actual fragment ofthe Holy Land, sacred as the very spot on which the mystery of theIncarnation was announced and begun. In proportion to the sincerityand extent of this belief is the veneration which attaches to what isundoubtedly the most frequented sanctuary of Christendom. The devotionof pilgrims even on week-days exceeds anything that is seen at anyof the holy places in Palestine, if we except the Church of the HolySepulchre at Easter.

Before the dawn of day the worship begins. Whilst it is yet dark, thedoors are opened—a few lights round the sacred spot break the gloom,and disclose the kneeling Capuchins, who have been here throughout thenight. Two soldiers, sword in hand, take their place by the entrance ofthe “House,” to guard against all injury. One of the hundred priestswho are in daily attendance immediately begins mass at the high altarof the church, the first of a hundred and twenty that are repeateddaily within its precincts. The “Santa Casa” itself is then opened andlighted, the pilgrims flock in; and, from that hour till sunset, comeand go in a perpetual stream. The “House” is thronged with kneelingor prostrate figures, the pavement round it is deeply worn with thepassage of pilgrims, who, from the humblest peasant of the Abruzziup to the King of Naples, crawl round it on their knees; the nave isfilled with the bands of worshippers, who, having visited the sacredspot, are retiring backwards from it, as from some royal presence.

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On the “Santa Casa” alone depends the sacredness of the whole localityin which it stands. Loretto—whether the name is derived from thesacred grove (Lauretum) or the lady (Loreta) under whose shelter thehouse is believed to have descended—had no existence before the riseof this extraordinary sanctuary. The long street with its venders ofrosaries, the palace of the governor, the strong walls built by PopeSixtus IV., are all mere appendages to the humble edifice which standswithin the Church. The “Santa Casa” is spoken of by them as a livingperson, a corporation sole on which the whole city depends, to whichthe whole property far and near over the rich plain which lies spreadbeneath it belongs forever.

No one who has ever witnessed the devotion of the Italian people onthis singular spot, can wish to speak lightly of the feelings whichit inspires. But a dispassionate statement of the real facts of thecase may not be without use. Into the general question of the storywe need not enter here. It has been ably proved elsewhere,[9] first,that of all the pilgrims who record their visit to Nazareth from theFourth to the Sixteenth Century, not one alludes to any house of Josephas standing there, or as having stood there, within human memory orrecord; secondly, that the records of Italy contain no mention of theHouse till the Fifteenth Century; thirdly, that the representation ofthe story as it now stands, with the double or triple transplantation[138]of the sanctuary, occurs first in a bull of Leo X., in the year 1518.But it is the object of these remarks simply to confront the House asit stands at Loretto with the House as it appears at Nazareth. It hasbeen already said that each professes to contain the exact spot ofthe Angelic visitation, to be the scene of a single event which canonly have happened in one; each claims to be the very House of theAnnunciation, and bases its claim to sanctity on that especial ground.But this is not all: even should either consent to surrender somethingof this peculiar sacredness, yet no one can visit both sanctuarieswithout perceiving that by no possibility can one be amalgamated withthe other. The House of Loretto is an edifice of thirty-six feet byseventeen; its walls, though externally cased in marble, can be seenin their original state from the inside, and these appear to be of adark red polished stone. The west wall has one square window, throughwhich it is said the Angel flew; the east wall contains a rude chimney,in front of which is a mass of cemented stone, said to be the altaron which St. Peter said mass, when the Apostles, after the Ascension,turned the house into a church. On the north side is (or rather was) adoor, now walled up. The monks of Loretto and of Nazareth have but adim knowledge of the sacred localities of each other. Still, the monksof Nazareth could not be altogether ignorant of the mighty sanctuarywhich, under the highest authorities of their Church, professes to haveonce rested on the ground they now occupy. They show, therefore, to anytraveller who takes the pains to inquire, the space on which the[139] HolyHouse stood before its flight. That space is a vestibule immediatelyin front of the sacred grotto; and an attempt is made to unite thetwo localities by supposing that there were openings from the houseinto the grotto. Without laying any stress on the obvious variationof measurements, the position of the grotto is, and must always havebeen incompatible with any such adjacent building as that at Loretto.Whichever way the house is supposed to abut on the rock, it is obviousthat such a house as has been described, would have closed up, withblank walls, the very passages by which alone the communication couldbe effected. And it may be added, that there is no traditional masonryof the “Santa Casa” left at Nazareth, there is the traditional masonryclose by of the so-called workshop of Joseph of an entirely differentcharacter. Whilst the former is of a kind wholly unlike anything inPalestine, the latter is, as might be expected, of the natural greylimestone of the country, of which in all times, no doubt, the housesof Nazareth were built.

It may have seemed superfluous labour to have attempted any detailedrefutation of the most incredible of Ecclesiastical legends. ButLoretto is so emphatically the “Holy Place” of one large branch ofChristendom—its claim has been so strongly maintained by French andItalian writers of our own times—and is, moreover, so deeply connectedwith the alleged authority of the Papal See—that an interest attachesto it far beyond its intrinsic importance. No facts are insignificantwhich bring to an issue the general value of local religion—or theassumption of any particular[140] Church to direct the conscience of theworld—or the amount of liberty within such a Church left on questionswhich concern the faith and practice of thousands of its members.

But the legend is also curious as an illustration of the history of“Holy Places” generally. It is difficult to say how it originated—orwhat led to the special selection of the Adriatic gulf as the sceneof such a fable; yet, generally speaking, the explanation is easy andinstructive. Nazareth was taken by Sultan Khalil in 1291, when hestormed the last refuge of the Crusaders in the neighbouring city ofAcre. From that time, not Nazareth only, but the whole of Palestine,was closed to the devotions of Europe. The Crusaders were expelledfrom Asia, and in Europe the spirit of the Crusades was extinct. Butthe natural longing to see the scenes of the events of the SacredHistory—the superstitious craving to win for prayer the favour ofconsecrated localities—did not expire with the Crusades. Can wewonder that, under such circumstances, there should have arisen thefeeling, the desire, the belief, that if Mahomet could not go to themountain, the mountain must come to Mahomet? The House of Loretto isthe petrifaction, so to speak, of the “Last Sigh of the Crusades”;suggested possibly by the Holy House of St. Francis at Assisi, thenfirst acquiring its European celebrity. It is indeed not a matter ofconjecture that in Italy—the country where the passionate temperamentof the people would most need such stimulants—persons in this stateof mind did actually endeavour, so far as circumstances permitted,[141]to reproduce the scenes of Palestine within their own immediateneighbourhood. One such is the Campo Santo of Pisa—“the Holy Field,”as this is “the Holy House”—literally a cargo of sacred earth fromthe Valley of Hinnom, carried, as is well known, not on the wings ofangels, but in the ships of the Pisan Crusaders. Another example isthe remarkable Church of St. Stephen’s at Bologna, within whose wallsare crowded together various chapels and courts, representing notonly, as in the actual Church of the Sepulchre, the several scenesof the Crucifixion, but the Trial and Passion also; and which isentitled, in a long inscription affixed to its cloister, the “SanctaSanctorum”; nay, literally, “the Jerusalem” of Italy. A thirdstill more curious instance may be seen at Varallo, in the kingdom ofPiedmont. Bernardino Caimo, returning from a pilgrimage to Palestineat the close of the Fifteenth Century, resolved to select the spot inLombardy most resembling the Holy Land, in order to give his countrymenthe advantage of praying at the Holy Place without undergoing theprivations which he had suffered himself. Accordingly, in one ofthe beautiful valleys leading down from the roots of Monte Rosa, hechose (it must be confessed that the resemblance is of the slightestkind) three hills, which should represent respectively Tabor, Olivet,and Calvary; and two mountain-streams, which should in like mannerpersonate the Kedron and Jordan. Of these the central hill, Calvary,became the “Holy Place” of Lombardy. It was frequented by S. CarloBarromeo; under his auspices the whole mountain was studded withchapels, in which the[142] scenes of the Passion are represented in waxenfigures of the size of life; and the whole country round now sends itspeasants by thousands as pilgrims to the sacred spot. We have only tosuppose these feelings existing as they naturally would exist in a morefervid state two centuries earlier, when the loss of Palestine was morekeenly felt—when the capture of Nazareth especially was fresh in everyone’s mind—and we can easily imagine that the same tendency, which bydeliberate purpose produced a second Jerusalem at Bologna and a secondPalestine at Varallo, would, on the secluded shores of the Adriatic,by some peasant’s dream, or the return of some Croatian chief from thelast Crusade, or the story of some Eastern voyager landing on theircoasts, produce a second Nazareth at Fiume and Loretto. What, in a morepoetical and ignorant age was in the case of the Holy House ascribed tothe hands of angels, was actually intended by Sixtus V. to have beenliterally accomplished in the case of the Holy Sepulchre by a treatywith the Sublime Porte for transferring it bodily to Rome, so thatItaly might then have the glory of possessing the actual sites of theconception, the birth, and the burial of our Saviour.

The Alcazar, an old palace of the Moorish kings, is one of the bestpreserved buildings in Spain. From the outside, it looks like afortress, as it is completely surrounded by high walls, battlementedtowers and old houses, which structures form two spacious courts infront of the façade. Like the other parts of this building, the façadeis plain and severe. The door is ornamented with arabesques that arepainted and gilded, and there is also a Gothic inscription recordingthe time when the Alcazar was restored by the order of the king DonPedro.

In fact, although the Alcazar is an Arabian palace, it is the work ofChristian rather than Arabian monarchs. The date that it was begun isnot known, but it was rebuilt towards the end of the Twelfth Century byKing Abdelasio. King Ferdinand took possession of it about the middleof the Thirteenth Century; it was altered again by Don Pedro in thenext century, since when it was inhabited by nearly all the kings ofCastile. Finally it was chosen by Charles V. for the celebration of hismarriage with the Infanta of Portugal.

The Alcazar has witnessed the loves and crimes of three races ofkings, and every one of its stones awakens some memory or holds somesecret. After entering, you cross[144] two or three rooms, in which thereis nothing Arabian left except the ceiling and some mosaics upon thewalls, and find yourself in a court that strikes you dumb with wonder.A gallery composed of elegant arches supported by small marble columnsarranged in pairs runs along the four sides. The arches, walls, windowsand doors are covered with mosaics, carvings and arabesques. The latterare delicate and intricate, in some places perforated like a veil, inothers thick and close as woven carpets and elsewhere again hanging andjutting out like garlands and bunches of flowers. With the exceptionof the brilliantly coloured decorations everything is as white, cleanand glistening as ivory. Four large doors, one in each side, lead intothe royal rooms. Here you no longer wonder; you are enchanted. Everything that the most ardent fancy could imagine in the way of wealth andsplendour is to be found in these rooms. From the ceiling to the floor,around the doors, around the windows in the distant recesses, whereverthe eye may please to wander, such a multitude of gold ornaments andprecious stones, such a close network of arabesques and inscriptions,such a marvellous blending of designs and colours appear that, beforeyou have gone twenty steps, you are overpowered and confused, and youglance here and there as if trying to find a piece of bare wall uponwhich to rest your eye.

In one of the rooms, the custodian pointed out a reddish spot upon themarble pavement, and said very solemnly:

This is the stain caused by the blood of Don Fadrique, Grand Master ofthe Order of Santiago, who was killed [145]here in the year 1358, by theorder of the King Don Pedro, his brother.

When I heard this, I remember looking at the custodian as if to say:“Let us move on,” and the good man answered dryly:

“Caballero, if I were to tell you to believe this on my word you wouldbe perfectly right to doubt it; but when you see the thing with yourown eyes, it seems to me—I may be mistaken,—but——”

“Yes,” I hastily replied, “yes it is blood, I have no doubt of it; butdon’t let us talk about it any more.”

Even if you are able to joke about a spot of blood, you cannot do soabout the story of the crime. The place awoke in my mind all the mosthorrible facts. I seemed to hear Don Fadrique’s step echoing throughthese gilded rooms, as he was being pursued by the soldiers armed withclubs. The palace is shrouded in darkness; no noises are heard butthose of the executioners and their victim. Don Fadrique tries to enterthe court. Lopez de Padilla seizes him and he breaks away. Now he is inthe court; he grasps his sword; he utters maledictions upon it for thecross of the hilt is entangled in the mantle of the Order of Santiago.Now the archers arrive; he cannot draw it from its sheath; he flieshither and thither as best he may. Fernandez de Roa overtakes him andfells him with a blow from his mace; the others approach and wound himand he expires in a pool of blood.

This sad memory soon vanishes amidst the thousand fancies of thedelicious life of the Moorish kings. These[146] lovely little windows atwhich the dreamy face of an Odalisk ought to appear at any moment;these secret doors before which you pause, despite yourself, as ifyou heard the rustling of a dress; these sleeping-rooms of princesenveloped in a mysterious gloom, where you fancy you hear the sighingof girls who lost in them their virginal purity; and the prodigiousvariety of colours and friezes resembling an ever-changing symphonyexcite your senses to such a degree that you are like one in a dream.The delicate and very light architecture, the little columns (whichsuggest the arms of a woman), the capricious arches, and the ceilingscovered with ornaments that hang in the form of stalactites, icicles,and bunches of grapes,—all rouse in you the desire to seat yourself inthe centre of one of these rooms, pressing to your heart a beautifuldark Andalusian head which will make you forget the world and lose allsense of time, and with one long kiss that drinks away your life, putyou to sleep forever.

The most beautiful room on the ground floor is that of the ambassadors,formed by four great arches supporting a gallery of forty-four smallerarches, and above, a lovely cupola which is sculptured, painted andornamented with an inimitable grace and a fabulous magnificence. On thenext floor which contained the winter apartments, nothing remains butan oratory of Ferdinand and Isabella the Catholic, and a small roomwhich is said to be the one where the King Don Pedro slept. You descendfrom here, by a narrow, mysterious staircase, into the rooms inhabitedby the famous Maria di Padilla, a favourite of Don Pedro, whom[147] populartradition accuses of having instigated Don Pedro to the murder of hisbrother.

The gardens of the Alcazar are not large, nor extraordinarilybeautiful; but the fancies that they engender are more precious thansize or beauty. Beneath the shade of those oranges and cypresses, nearthe soft sound of those fountains when a great brilliant moon shonein the clear Andalusian sky and the host of courtiers and slaves laydown to rest, how many sighs of lovelorn sultanas were heard! how manyhumble words of proud kings! what mighty loves and embraces!

“Itimad! my love!” I murmured, thinking of the famous favourite of KingAl-Motamid, as I roamed from path to path as if following her spirit:“Itimad! Do not leave me alone in this quiet paradise! Stop! Give meone hour of delight to-night. Don’t you remember? You came to me andyour lovely locks fell over my shoulders like a mantle; and as thewarrior seizes his sword, I seized your neck, softer and whiter thana swan’s! How beautiful you were! How my parched heart satisfied itsthirst on thy blood-coloured lips. Your beautiful body issued from yoursplendidly embroidered robe like a gleaming blade from its scabbard;and then I pressed with both hands your large hips and slender waistin all the perfection of their beauty. How dear you are, Itimad! Yourkiss is as sweet as wine, and your glance, like wine, makes me lose myreason!”

While I was uttering this declaration of love in the phrases andimagery of the Arabian poets, I entered a pathway bordered with flowersand suddenly felt a jet of[148] water on my legs; I jumped back and had adash of it in my face; I turned to the right, and felt a spray on myneck; turning to the left, I got another on the nape of my neck; thenI began to run and there was water under me, over me, and all aroundme, in jets, sprays, and showers, so that in a moment I was as wetas if I had been plunged in a tub. Just at the moment I was about toshout I heard a loud laugh at the end of the garden, and, turning, Isaw a young man leaning against the wall and looking at me, as if tosay: “Did you enjoy it?” Then he showed me the spring he had touched inorder to play the trick and comforted me by saying that the Seville sunwould not leave me long in that wet condition, into which I had passedso brusquely, ah me! from the amorous arms of my sultana.

The place where Vasco da Gama spent the night before starting on hisvoyage of discovery, and where he was received by Emmanuel I., on histriumphant return in 1499, was called Bairro de Restello, and herestood a small Ermida, or hermitage, which had been founded forthe use of navigators by the great pioneer of maritime discovery,Prince Henry the Navigator.

Osorio, Bishop of Sylves, thus describes the embarcation of thesuccessful expedition which Belem specially commemorates: There was achapel by the seaside, about four miles from Lisbon, built by Emmanuelin honour of the Virgin Mary; thither Gama resorted the day before hewent aboard, and spent the whole night in offering up prayers, andperforming other religious duties. Next day he was followed by vastcrowds of people to take leave of him and the rest who embarked in theexpedition. Not only those in holy orders, but all present, with onevoice put up their petitions to the Almighty that he would grant thema prosperous voyage and a safe return. Many of those who came to seethem aboard were deeply concerned, and expressed their sorrow as ifthey had come to the funeral of their friends. “Behold,” said they,“the cursed[150] effects of avarice and ambition! What greater punishmentcould be devised for these men, if guilty of the blackest crimes? To bethrown upon the merciless ocean, to encounter all the dangers of sucha voyage, and venture their lives in a thousand shapes. Would it notbe more eligible to suffer death at home than be buried in the deepat such a distance from their native country? These, and many otherthings did their fears suggest. But Gama, though he shed some tearsat departure from his friends, was full of hope, and went aboard withgreat alacrity. He sailed on the 9th of July, 1497. Those who stood onthe shore followed the ships with their eyes; nor did they move fromthence till the fleet was under full sail, and quite out of sight.”A few weeks after the return of Vasco da Gama, the foundation-stoneof the edifice was laid by the thankful monarch. Boutaca, who wasresponsible for some of the work at Setubal, supplied the generaldesign, and its details were worked out by the famous Joao de Castilho,who assumed the superintendence of the work in 1517. John III.discontinued the work in 1551, and it is still incomplete. The firststone was laid in 1500 by the Fortunate King with great ceremony, andthe construction progressed very rapidly. The limestone of which thebuildings were constructed was procured from the Alcantara valley inthe vicinity, and lends itself readily to exquisite carving. Originallywhite when it came from the quarry, it has now mellowed into tints ofrich brown, and it is very durable.

The architectural style of the building is what is called[151] the ArteManoelina, called after the king, Emmanuel I., the Fortunate,(1495–1521) under whose reign it flourished. It is a transitionalstyle, or rather a luxuriant medley of Gothic, Renaissance andMauresque. Its wealth of detail often borders on the extravagant andfantastic, but its interest cannot be denied. Belem has been said to bethe last struggle between Christian and Pagan art in Portugal, and itshows the scars of both in its excessive ornamentation. Its barbaricsplendour of enriched stonework cannot fail to fascinate the art-lover,though it is inferior even in these characteristics to the beautifulCapella Imperfeita at Batalha.

There is a strange story told of the building of the church ofBelem. The architect had made some miscalculation, so that when thescaffolding of the nave was removed, the vaulted roof fell, killinga number of the workmen. When the damage was repaired, the architectwas so nervous that he fled to France. The king consequently gaveorders for the removal of the scaffolding by criminals under sentenceof death, with a promise of pardon in case they escaped death. It isrelated that the walls and roof stood the strain this time, and thecriminals received the timbers of the scaffolding as perquisites, usedthem in building houses for themselves, and later became pillars ofsociety. When the architect heard that his plans were justified, hereturned and was rewarded for his work with a pension. He also washonoured by having his bust carved on one of the pillars.

The entire building is erected on a foundation of pine[152] piles, andsuffered scarcely any damage in the great earthquake of 1755.

The great church contains many features of interest, several chapels,magnificent arches, pulpits and choir stalls, and numberless statues.Of the lifelike figure of St. Jerome, Philip II. said: “I am waitingfor it to speak to me.” The stalls are delicately carved with intricateArabesque tracery. There are two organs, one of which shows traces offormer magnificence. The capella-mór (death chapel) of Renaissancedecoration is entered through a magnificent arch flanked by two richlycarved pulpits. On the North in recesses are the tombs of King Emmanueland his Queen Maria, and on the South are similar ones of Joao III. andhis Queen Catharina. These sarcophagi are borne by elephants. In thechapel beyond are tombs of other royal personages, including that ofKing Sebastian, who mysteriously disappeared at the battle of Al-Kasral-Kebîr (1578); the eight children of Joao III., and a natural son ofhis, Don Duarte, Archbishop of Braga. Close by is the tomb of Catherineof Braganza, the neglected wife of the Merry Monarch, Charles II. ofEngland; and others of the Cardinal King Henrique and other Infantes.Behind the high altar is a chapel containing the tombs of Alfonso VI.,his brother Theodosio and a sister. The king is attired in the costumeof the period in which he lived, and his body is said to be in perfectpreservation.

The chief glory of the convent, however, is its superb cloisters,the masterpiece of Joao de Castilho. They are about 180 feet square,surrounded by a two-storied arcade.[153] Other features are the Casa Pia,the Refectory, the Sacristy and the Capella dos Jeronymos. The Sala dosReis contains (some imaginary) portraits of the kings of Portugal downto John VI. The Spanish usurpers are omitted.

At the Eastern extremity of the suburb of Belem, on the banks of theTagus, are the constructions of the Belem tower, a massive buildingrather more than 100 feet square, flanked on the corners by Gothicturrets. It shelters a telegraph station and battery that defends theport.

This tower (Torre de Sao Vicente) is generally regarded as one of themost interesting structures in Lisbon. It stands really on a rockyislet in the Tagus, but the silting up of the channel between it andthe shore renders its position less imposing than it used to be.Moreover its picturesque effect has been further marred by the erectionof factories in the immediate vicinity.

In the castle of Belem is kept a registry-office for all vessels thatenter or leave the Tagus; as well as an establishment of custom-houseofficers, health officers and naval police for the protection ofproperty.

The Torre de Belem is of three stories, and its commanding situationaffords a splendid view of the beautiful Tagus. Belem now formsa suburb of Lisbon, and the vineyards that formerly adorned theintervening banks of the river have been largely utilized for buildingpurposes, but the tower still forms a striking object in the landscapeand dominates the vicinity. The rhapsodies of travellers who visitedLisbon half a century ago are still justified. One of them writes:“From this point, the view up the[154] river, to the East, is grand beyondall conception; and, to do the magnificent opening of the sceneryjustice, the most elaborate description would be perfectly inadequate.The breadth of the mighty river crowded with the vessels of everynation; men-of-war at anchor, and in various stages of equipment; theheights to the South crowned with batteries, villages and vineyards,descending down their sides to the very skirts of the water; thenumerous fishing and pleasure-boats gliding swiftly across the river invarious directions; the long uninterrupted line of palaces, conventsand houses, running along the shore from Belem to Lisbon, under theelevated ridge upon which the splendid residence of the Portuguesesovereigns, the Ajuda, is erected, and then the beauteous city itself,with its domes and towers and gorgeous buildings, extended over itsmany hills; and, above all, the deep blue of the heaven’s dazzlingcanopy above,—form a combination of objects, the striking interest ofwhich can scarcely be represented to a northern imagination.”

The tower is said to be modelled on an old design by Garcia da Resende.The lower part adjoins a sort of platform projecting over the river,and is enclosed by a parapet with battlements and the shields of theKnights of Christ. Six ornate turrets copied from Indian originalsadorn the corners. The decoration of the square tower itself on thefront facing the river consists of a balcony with traceried parapet andround-headed windows. The other sides have bow-windows. Higher up, thetower is girt with a passage for the use of its defenders. Four Indianturrets ornament[155] the flat roof. The interior contains several squarerooms which have suffered many restorations. One of them, the SalaRegia is celebrated for its peculiar acoustic properties. The basementis divided into dungeons that have seldom been vacant in the past. Theprisoners immured there received light and air only through gratings inthe floor of the casemates. They were constantly filled with politicaloffenders under Miguel.

The Grand Canal is to Venice what the Strand is to London, the RueSaint-Honoré to Paris, and the Alcala to Madrid,—the principal arteryfor the circulation of the whole city. Its form is that of a double S,reversed, the sweep of which bounds the city around St. Mark’s whilethe upper point borders upon the isle of Santa-Chiara, and the lowerpoint at the Custom-House, near the canal of the Giudecca. This S iscut about the middle by the bridge of the Rialto.

The Grand Canal of Venice is the most marvellous thing in the world.No other city can present so beautiful, so bizarre and so fairy-likea spectacle: perhaps you may find elsewhere remarkable specimensof architecture, but never placed in such picturesque conditions.Here, every palace has a mirror in which to admire her own beauty,just like a feminine coquette. The superb reality is repeated in acharming reflection. The water lovingly caresses the feet of thosebeautiful façades whose brows are kissed by a clear light and arerocked in two skies. The little boats and the large barks which cancome up close to them seem moored on purpose to produce effectivedark spots, or foregrounds for the convenience of scene-painters andwater-colourists.

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In drifting along by the Custom-House, which, with the PalaceGiustiniani (to-day the Hôtel de l’Europe) marks the entrance ofthe Grand Canal, throw a glance at those skeleton-like heads of horsessculptured in the square and dumpy cornice which supports the globe ofFortune. Does this peculiar ornament mean that the horse was useless inVenice (you get rid of him at the Custom-House) or rather is it not apure caprice of ornamentation? This explanation seems to me the best,for I do not wish to fall into the symbolical exaggeration with whichI have been reproaching others. I have already described the Salute,which I can see from my window and which does not require any attentionafter having seen Canaletto’s picture, which is, perhaps, the painter’smasterpiece. But here I experience embarrassment. The Grand Canal isthe true Golden Book in which all the Venetian nobility has signed itsname upon the monumental façades.

Each stone of the walls has a story to tell; each house is a palace;each palace, a masterpiece with a legend: at each stroke of the oar,the gondolier mentions a name which was as well-known at the time ofthe Crusades as it is to-day; and this on the right and left for alength of more than half a league.

I have written a list of these palaces, not quite all but the mostremarkable of them, and I dare not insert it on account of its length.It takes up five or six pages: Pietro Lombardo, Scamozzi, Vittoria,Longhena, Andrea Tremignan, Giorgio Massari, Sansovino, SebastianoMazzoni, Sammichelli, the great architect of Verona, Selva, Domenico[158]Rossi, and Visentini designed and superintended the constructionof these princely dwellings,—without counting the marvellousunknown artists of the Middle Ages who erected the most picturesqueand romantic ones, those that gave to Venice her distinction andoriginality.

Upon these two banks, façades, all charming and variously beautiful,succeed each other without interruption. After a specimen ofRenaissance architecture, with its columns and superimposed orderscomes a mediæval palace of the Gothic-Arabian style, of which theDucal palace is the prototype, with its open-work, balconies, itsogives, its trefoils and its lace-like acrotera. A little farther isa façade encased in coloured marbles, ornamented with medalions andconsoles; then comes a great rose-coloured wall, where a large windowwith little columns is cut out. Every style is found here: Byzantine,Saracen, Lombard, Gothic, Roman, Greek, and even Rococo; the columnand the small column, the ogive and the cincture and the capriciouscapital filled with birds and flowers that has come from Acre orJaffa; the Greek capital found amidst Athenian ruins, the mosaic andthe bas-relief; the classic severity and the elegant fantasy of theRenaissance. It is an immense gallery in the open air, where one canstudy from his gondola the art of seven or eight centuries. Whatgenius, talent and money have been expended in this space that can betraversed in less than an hour! What wonderful artists! But also whatintelligent and magnificent lords! What a pity that the patricians whoknew how to have such beautiful things made should exist no[159] longersave in the canvasses of Titian, Tintoretto and Il Moro!

Just before arriving at the Rialto, you have to the left, in ascendingthe Canal, the Dario Palace, Gothic style; the Venier Palace, whichreveals itself by one corner with its ornaments, its precious marblesand its medalions, Lombard style; the Fine-Arts, classic façade bythe side of the ancient School of Charity and surmounted by a figureof Venice riding on a lion; the Contarini Palace, of Scamozzi’sarchitecture; the Rezzonico Palace, with three orders superimposed; thetriple Giustiniani Palace, in the taste of the Middle Ages, inhabitedby Signor Natale Schiavoni, a descendant of the celebrated painterSchiavoni, who has a picture-gallery and a beautiful daughter, theliving reproduction of a picture painted by her ancestor; the FoscariPalace, recognizable by its lower door, its two rows of little columnssupporting the ogives and the trefoils, where formerly lived thosesovereigns who visited Venice, and now abandoned; the Balbi Palace,from the balcony of which the princes leaned to watch the regatta whichtook place on the Grand Canal with so much pomp and brilliancy duringthe heyday of the Republic; the Pisani Palace, in the German styleof the beginning of the Fifteenth Century; and the Tiepolo Palace,quite smart and relatively modern, with its two elegant pyramids. Tothe right, very near the European Hotel, there stands between twolarge buildings a delicious little palace, composed of a window and abalcony; but what a window and what a balcony! a lace-work of stone:scrolls, guilloches, and[160] open-work that one would not believe itpossible to execute except by a cutting-machine and a piece of paper.I regretted that I did not have 25,000 francs about me to buy it, forthat is all they asked.

A little farther, still ascending, you find the Palace Corner dellaCà Grande, which dates from 1532, one of Sansovino’s best; Grassi,to-day the Emperor’s inn, the marble stairway of which is garnishedwith handsome orange trees in pots; Corner-Spinelli, whose marble baseis surrounded by a double fretwork of fine effect and which is to-daythe Post Office; and Farsetti, with its columned peristyle and itslong gallery with little columns occupying all the façade, where themunicipality is lodged. We could say, as Don Ruy-Gomez da Silva saysto Charles V. in Hernani, when he shows him the portraits ofhis ancestors: “J’en passe, et des meilleurs.” We ask, however,attention for the Loredan Palace and the ancient dwelling of EnricoDandolo, the conqueror of Constantinople. Between these palaces thereare some worthy houses, whose chimneys in the form of turbans, towers,and vases of flowers, break the great lines of architecture veryappropriately.

Ascending always, you meet on the left the Corner della Regina Palace,so named on account of the Queen Conaro, whom Parisians know throughHalévy’s opera, La Reine de Chypre, in which Madame Stoltzplayed such a fine rôle. I do not remember if the scenery ofMM. Séchan, Dieterle and Despléchin resembled it; it could have beenwithout sacrificing anything, because the architecture of[161] DomenicoRossi is of great elegance. The sumptuous palace of Queen Cornaro isnow a pawn shop, and the humble rags of misfortune and the jewels ofimprovidence come to heap themselves here beneath the rich decorationswhich should not fall into ruins: for to-day it does not suffice to bebeautiful, it is necessary to be useful.

The College of the Armenians, which is a short distance from here, isan admirable building by Baldassare de Longhena, of a rich, solid andimposing architecture. It is the ancient Pesaro Palace.

To the right there rises the Palazzo della Cà d’Oro, one of the mostcharming of the Grand Canal. It belonged to Mademoiselle Taglioni, whohad it restored with the most intelligent care. It is all embroidered,all denticulated, all cut out in a Grecian, Gothic and Barbarian style,so fantastic, so light and so aërial that you would say it must havebeen made for the nest of a sylph. Mademoiselle Taglioni took pity uponthese poor abandoned palaces. She rented several of them that attractedher out of pure commiseration for their beauty; three or four werepointed out to me upon which she had bestowed this charity of repairs.

Look at those blue and white stakes sprinkled with goldenfleur-de-lis; they will tell you that the ancient palaceVendramini Calergi has become a quasi-royal habitation. It is thedwelling of Her Highness the Duchesse de Berry, and certainly she isbetter lodged than at the pavilion Marsan; for this palace, the mostbeautiful one in Venice, is a masterpiece of architecture and itscarvings are of a marvellous[162] delicacy. Nothing could be more beautifulthan the groups of children who are supporting shields upon the archesof the windows. The interior is filled with precious marbles: youadmire above all two porphyry columns of such rare beauty that theirvalue would pay for the palace.

Although I have been a long time about it, I have not told all. I seethat I have not yet spoken of the Mocenigo palace, where the greatByron lived; our gondolier however has grazed the marble stairway,where with her hair flying in the wind, her foot in the water, in therain and tempest, the daughter of the people and mistress of Lord Byronwelcomed him upon his return with these tender words: “Great dog of theMadonna, is it time to go to the Lido?”

The Barbarigo Palace also deserves mention. I have not seen thetwenty-two Titians that are contained within it and which are heldunder seal by the Russian consul who has bought them for his master;but it still possesses some very beautiful pictures, and the carved andgilded cradle destined for the heir of this noble family,—a cradlewhich might be converted into a tomb, for, like most of the ancientfamilies of Venice, the Barbarigo family is extinct: of the ninehundred patrician families inscribed in the Golden Book, only aboutfifty now remain.

The old caravansary of the Turks, so crowded at the time that Veniceheld all the commerce of the Orient and the Indies, presents now tworows of Arabian arcades, littered and obstructed by hovels that havepushed themselves up there like unhealthy mushrooms.

The Fourteenth Century erected in France four churches of a peculiargrandeur and magnificence: the Cathedral of Saint Quentin; the abbey ofSaint Bertin, Saint Omer; Saint Nazaire of Carcassonne and Saint Ouenof Rouen. The first two have disappeared, but the two others have comedown to us almost intact, and both of them derive their disconcertingbasilicas from the end of the Thirteenth Century; Saint Urbain ofTroyes is a piece of stone jewelry.

We shall have less trouble in characterizing briefly the marvellousbuilding of Saint Ouen, than in describing Notre-Dame (Rouen). Theedifice is longer, less ample, clearer, and more of a unity as faras the structure is concerned, and it is deprived of those brilliantaccessories which engross the attention. It is, by all odds, superiorin harmony and compactness of the execution and inferior in size.The one attracts poets, the other is preferred by men of learning.Everybody will appreciate the subtlety.

Now, first of all and very briefly, here is the history of this abbey.Upon the ruins of an oratory constructed in this very place by theindefatigable Saint Victrice about 535, Clotaire erected a largechurch dedicated to Saint Peter and Saint Paul. In the last years ofthe Seventh[164] Century, Saint Ouen restored it and wished it to be hissepulchre. According to the Life of that great bishop attributedto Fridegode, a monk of Canterbury, it was a building of nobleappearance, constructed of square stones in the Gothic style.It is useless to discuss these words, quoted on account of theircuriosity, but which might well be accounted for by some alteration inthe text, and, in any case, have but little meaning for us. After theappearance of the Northmen, the abbey experienced varied fortunes: itwas sacked and demolished in 841, repaired in 1046 by the Abbé Nicholasof Normandy, son of Duke Richard III., and it was burned to the groundseveral times. A fragment of Nicholas’s apsis at the end of the naveis preserved under the name of Chambre aux clercs: a portion ofthe hemicycle arched cul-de-four is ornamented very coarsely, but it isstrongly built.

But to resume: there was no glory for the monks of Saint Benoît hereuntil the beginning of the Fourteenth Century and the advent of theAbbé Jean Roussel. This Jean Roussel, born in Quincampoix, near Rouen,and known, nobody knows why, by the nick-name of Marc d’ Argent, wasa very original personage. Active, discreet, prudent, energetic,and devoted to everything under his charge, he re-established themonastic discipline and by the wisdom of his administration doubled therevenues; and, as Suger did before him at Saint Denis, he resolved torebuild his abbey according to the latest developments in architecture.We do not know who was his master in this work; but certainly it musthave been some clever man[165] who had carefully studied Amiens, Beauvais,Troyes and Séez. Within a few years, the work was sufficiently advancedfor his conception to have become definitive. His successors hadnothing more to do than to follow out his ideas. Materials were notstinted. The quarries of Chaumont, Vernon and Saint-Leu furnished theirmagnificent calcareous stone, of fine grain mixed with silex. As theAbbé was never at a loss for funds, it was popularly imagined that hecoined gold, and many a legend exists upon this subject. The truthis, he knew how to economize with large sums, obtained from the Kingimportant rights regarding the cutting of wood in the forest Verte andcreated disinterested good-will around him. In the year 1318, the firststone was laid, and in the year 1339, when he died, more than 79,936livres (2,600,000 francs of our money) were paid to the stone-cutters.The inscription placed on his tomb, destroyed in 1562 by theCalvinists, described the state in which he left the church, the choirand the eleven transept chapels comprising the large terminal chapelwere finished: the large pillars of the transept were only lacking thetower, the two arms of the transept were approaching completion, anddoubtless also the nave was quite advanced.

The Hundred Years’ War retarded the work without actually interruptingit. We find Charles VI. in 1380 allowing 3,000 livres to the AbbéArnaud du Breuil to hasten the work. The portal called desMarmousets at the south arm of the transept is now given over tothe sculptors. However the hour for rapid achievement has passed.[166] Itis not until 1439 that the two roses of Master Alexandre de Bernevaland his legendary pupil unfold at the extremities of the transept.Under Admiral d’ Estouteville, Archbishop of Rouen and Abbé of themonastery, the entrance to the choir was closed by a precious Gothicrood-screen; but the nave had yet to be finished, and the centraltower and the façade had yet to be done. The Abbé Bohier at the verylast of the Fifteenth Century, finished the building. The delicioussquare tower, eighty-two metres high, set off with bays, with gablesand corner buttresses upon which are grafted the flying-buttressesof the octagonal belfry with the open-worked crown, is of the samedate, the same style, and, perhaps, of the same hand as the Tour deBeurre. We possess the plan of the façade, drawn at this time byan unknown artist. It recalls the taste of the Normans for the porchesunder bell-towers of which few examples are to be found outside oftheir province after the Thirteenth Century. This master conceivedtwo large, square towers placed diagonally, of a most original effectof perspective, and beneath which opened two lateral porches whosesheltered arches broke the draughts and were very converging and veryconvenient for the entrance and exits in and out of the church of theseveral filing processions. We are astonished to think that such apicturesque arrangement was never carried into effect. The executionof the plan was never commenced. The two bell-towers had been carriedup to twenty metres and then abandoned. Their dimensions frightenedthe architect Grégoire, who in 1840 was charged with enriching Marc[167]d’ Argent’s façade, and he pulled down the stumps to build those twotowers with their thin spires and that commonplace façade with its drylines that we now see.

A glance at the general plan of the building is necessary. Nothingcould be simpler than this general arrangement: a polygonal choir andchapels between the buttresses; a lantern in the centre; some rathernarrow branches of the transept; a large nave moderately wide, but verylong with some quite narrow tributaries. The total length amounts to138 metres; the width of the nave is restricted to twenty-six. Whatdoes this matter if these proportions are well united? What astonishesus beyond everything is the evident charming intention. There are nowalls beyond those that are necessary; it is all tracery with support.The second impression is received from the forms; with the exceptionof a few architectural details in the bay near the porch, the styleis perfectly homogeneous. There is no spirit of creation here; it isthat admirable spirit of refinement and adaptation of the FourteenthCentury. As at Saint Urbain de Troyes, all the arches spring frompillars and all the ribs return to them, where, to employ the syntheticformula of Viollet-le-Duc, “the piers are nothing more than projectionsin clusters of the different profiles of the arches.” What then is theuse of capitals under such conditions? They are more detrimental thanuseful. Moreover, you find no trace of them except in the oldest partsof the choir. The ribs of the arches instead of being strictly fastenedagainst the walls cross the mass to leap outside in bracing archesand archivolts.[168] Exactly as at Séez, the triforium drops very low andends, not in a massive ledge but in a gallery of lace-work, in orderto allow you to see from the nave across its spaces between the archesthe dazzling lucidity of the windows of the gallery. And everywhere ismanifested this threefold intention: elevation, ease and open-work.

And what windows to adorn these masses of filagree work! The mostvaried, the finest and the richest of the period of Louis XII. at itsapogee. Patriarchs and martyrs, prophets and holy abbés, kings andsibyls stand out on all sides in the hues of brilliant and soft jewels.We have no longer the frank mosaic of former days giving life to thelight, and bestowing upon it a certain mystical impression; they arenot the simple large figures under sumptuous baldaquins brightenedwith silver gilt; they are, most frequently, the glass pictures of theRenaissance. We are astonished at the perfection of their treatment.Several subjects are those that the Thirteenth Century took pleasurein evoking; witness the legend of the pilgrim of Saint-Jacques, whoseson, unjustly hung, is kept on the gibbet by the saint himself andrecognized as innocent. Nothing seems to me, however, so memorablehere, as much on account of the subject as for the treatment, as theseries of sibyls—those pagans to which the Middle Ages had begunto give a Christian fate and which the Sixteenth Century treated sovoluptuously. This is why they assume a new importance at Saint Ouen.The artist took pleasure in painting them under the adornments ofelegant ladies, in landscapes bristling with buildings. Above all, Icannot[169] forget the charming sibyl of Samos, in her embroidered robecovered with orfèvrerie and jewels, two doves pecking at herfeet in the midst of a piece of country scenery, and treated so tospeak, in the manner of a portrait. This series of glass extendingfrom one end of the church to the other and almost from top to bottom,forms an immense, translucent and radiant tapestry. It seems as if abreath might annihilate it. But no, it remains hard, rigid and as ifincorporate with the very wall. Solid bars of iron, cutting the bays,give it an indestructible armature. The evanescent dream of the periodhas eternalized itself in a fairy-like vision.

What beautiful roses are cut out in the transept! On the central one,God the Father appears on his throne of gold, above the adoring kings.The other, with its more complicated outlines, shows us the Glory ofParadise. You know the tradition attached to these two architecturalflowers with the resplendent lobes? Alexandre de Berneval havingdesigned the first, became jealous of one of his disciples who tracedthe second, and in anger, killed him. To expiate the crime he had todie by the hands of the hangman. Who invented this story? The masterlies yonder, in the second chapel down the nave to the right, by theside of one of his pupils, or, perhaps with his son Colin. Can any onebelieve that the monks would admit under any pretext beneath the holyvaults the body of an assassin and honour him with a superb sepulchralstone? Upon the stone the two architects live again in their long robeslined with vair, and their large hats. The[170] older, his compass in hishand carving out a quarter-round, the younger one making a plan, thefeet of both resting on a lion, and above them a Gothic daïs. The olderis Berneval who died in 1440: the inscription tells us this. Of theyounger we know nothing, for the inscription concerning him was nevermade.

There is no fine carving to note in the interior of the abbey. Many ofthe pillars in the nave were ornamented with statues in the style ofthe Fourteenth Century, but placed in niches that retreat a little.Broken in 1794, when the building was used as a forge, they have neverbeen restored. The destruction of the rood-screen dates from 1791, atthe time of the departure of the monks and the erection of the parishchurch. This rood-screen must assuredly have spoiled the perspectiveof a building so frankly conceived for the effect in perspective.But if one wants to delight in sculptured scenes, it is before theportail des Marmousets that he must betake himself. Beneath afinely arched porch, is a door that is condemned to-day. The statue ofSaint Ouen, decapitated by the Reformers, and the pier covered withlittle bas-reliefs, relates in detail the life and miracles of the holybishop. On the tympanum, three zones of perfect figures describe thedeath of the Virgin, her funeral, her assumption and her entrance intoheaven between two angels who are playing the organ and the rebeck. Acurious popular invention has found its place in the funeral scene,where an impious Jew trying to make an attempt upon the coffin hasto see the Archangel Michael cut off his hands and St. Peter givethem back to[171] him, whilst converting him. This decoration is of anexceptional vivacity and delicacy of carving.

From the public garden, we can take in the development of the apsis.The elegance of design and the working-out are seen in all theirgrandeur from here. From the pinacled buttresses spring the gracefuldouble flying-buttresses responding exactly to the spring of thearches that are distributed and repeated with such wise judgment.Above the chapels with their pyramidal roofs runs a balustrade ofquatrefoils inscribed in a curved quadrangle reproduced at the baseof the top. These charming galleries whose stone rivals ironwork, inits extraordinary precision of the cutting, define the essential linesof the plan through the bristling lines of the secondary forms. Theyrepresent calm and order surrounded by agitation.

But from whatever point of view you survey Saint Ouen, you willrecognize the most exemplary refinement of construction. It is notmerely the frame which should be taken as a model with its square andchamfred wood, its suspended binding-pieces, its Saint Andrew’s cross,and its double sabliere plates gathered at the base of the chevrons. Inthe eyes of architects, the Abbey of the wise Abbé Marc d’ Argent willalways be regarded as one of the chefs d’œuvre of the art ofbuilding in France.

The Isle of Wight, like Kent, was peopled by Jutes, who, comingin under the wing of the actual conquerors, Cerdic and Cynric,exterminated the existing Romano-British inhabitants at the bloodybattle of Wihtgaresbyrg (Saxon Chron.), a name which, omitting theprimary syllable, became “Carisbrooke.” The later castle, whose siteis actually that of the battlefield of 530, was conferred by theconquerors on their relative Wihtgar. But whereas the Jutes of Kentwere the first, those of the Isle of Wight were the last among theEnglish to embrace Christianity, and in the Seventh Century the fineproselytizing zeal of the West Saxons led them to invade and annihilatewith their murderous knives the heathen islanders, whose land theyannexed to the Wessex diocese.

The island was already found to give the shortest passage betweenEngland and Normandy, and for this reason was used in Saxon times,as also by William the Conqueror on some of his journeys to and fromNormandy. It was here that he arrested his half-brother, Bishop Odo,as he was on his way to Rome, and here he tarried on quitting Englandfor his last journey to France. William granted the Isle of Wight toWilliam Fitz Osborne, Earl of Hereford, who, it is believed, reared thecastle of Carisbrooke,[173] in which Odo was arrested, as he likewisefounded the priory adjoining. He had accompanied his leader fromNormandy, and was one of his army marshals. Besides having the lordshipof this isle, he was made constable of the newly built castles of Yorkand Winchester, and justiciary for the King in the North. On the greatmound of the Saxon burh at Wihtgaresbyrg he built a Norman keep, butas he was killed in France four years after coming to the isle, it isprobable that the work he began was completed by his son, Roger deBretteville, who was imprisoned for life by William for levying waragainst him, all his estates being forfeited to the Crown.

Henry I. next gave the lordship of the isle, with the castle andhonour of Carisbrooke, to Richard de Redvers, whose son succeedinghim (temp. Stephen) was made Earl of Devon; large additions were madeby this family to the castle, which was held by the Redvers untilthat race ended in an heiress, Isabella de Fortibus, so called fromher marriage with an Earl of Albemarle of that name. This lady livedhere (1262–1293) and built a large part of the castle, which, at herdeath, she bequeathed to King Edward I. Afterwards, in the FourteenthCentury, the castle was held by Piers Gaveston, William Montague, thechivalrous Earl of Salisbury, and by Edward, Earl of Rutland, son ofEdmund of Langley, fifth son of Edward III. who inherited his father’stitle of Duke of York, and fell at Agincourt, when, after his widow,Philippa’s death, the castle and island fell to Humphrey, the Good Dukeof Gloucester, in the reign of Henry VI. After him the lordship was[174]enjoyed by several royal and other personages, and lastly by Anthony,Earl Rivers, and his brother, Sir Edward Woodville, who, together witha large force he had raised in the island, fell at the battle of St.Anbyn, in a foolish expedition against the King of France. Since thattime Carisbrooke has always been held by the Crown. In Elizabeth’sreign, when preparations were made on the south coast to repel theSpanish Armada, very elaborate outworks were planned and executed atthis castle, entirely surrounding it with fortifications of the thennew type, escarp and ditch and ravelin and redan, which exist at thepresent time: but they were never wanted, and only served usefully as apromenade for the royal victim, King Charles, in his imprisonment.

Charles having escaped from his durance with the army at Hampton Court(November 11, 1647), rode to Titchfield, the Earl of Southampton’splace, where he might have sailed by Portsmouth Harbour to theContinent, as his intention was; but, by a mistake, Colonel Hammond,the Governor of the Isle of Wight, was brought to Titchfield, and heconducted the King to Carisbrooke, where he became again a prisoner.Here three attempts seem to have been made, chiefly by some gentlemenof the island, to give him freedom during the twelve months of hisdetention. On the first of these occasions it was arranged that Charlesshould pass through the window of his room, and let himself down tothe ramparts, below which a guide with a horse was waiting, and a boatwas ready to take him to a ship in the offing; but an iron bar in thewindow prevented[175] his getting through, and so the King had to wave offhis friends. The window in question is discernible from the outsideof the King’s lodgings; it adjoins the only buttress of the wall, andis walled up. On another occasion implements having been provided forhim, Charles managed to saw through and remove the bar which impededhim, and all arrangements were made for his flight, but a rascallyofficer, one Major Rolfe, was entrusted with the secret and betrayedit. So, when the King was about to make the attempt, he observed belowmore people than were expected, and wisely decided to remain wherehe was. It was said that Rolfe intended to have shot the King as hedescended. After being there for a year, Charles was removed, withscant ceremony or respect from Carisbrooke. At daybreak one morning aparty of soldiers were sent, who, rousing him from bed, took him off toHurst Castle, a fort on the mainland, standing at the extremity of thespit of land, near Lymington, which stretches across the Solent Straitto within a mile of the opposite island. Here the King was detained fora month, when he was taken to Windsor. To Carisbrooke were sent the tworoyal children, the year succeeding their father’s judicial murder, butin less than a month the Princess Elizabeth was found dead in her room,her face resting on the Bible given her by her father at their lastinterview. Prince Henry remained there nearly two years. An attack wasmade on the castle at the outbreak of the civil war by the mayor andpeople of Newport, in obedience to the instructions of the Parliament,in order to get rid of the King’s captain, the Earl of[176] Portland,and his successor, Lord Pembroke; and the fortress was yielded onhonourable terms. After the Restoration, the governor, Lord Cutts, madegreat and lamentable alterations in the old fabric, quite modernizing apart of it; but at a recent date the Government have restored the workin a judicious manner, and brought to light some hidden and interestingfeatures.

The Norman keep of Richard de Redvers stands on the ancient Englishmound at the north-east angle of the inner ward, surrounded by itsmoat; it is an irregular polygon in shape, a shell keep sixty feetacross, with walls of great strength and thickness, the access to whichis by a long flight of stairs, the postern being protected by doublegates and a portcullis. One room only remains, in which is a deep well,the others are destroyed, but there remains a small staircase to thetop, whence a very fine view is obtained; at the foot was a sally-portdefended by a bastion, which has disappeared. The entrance is on thewest by a fine machicolated gateway, flanked by two round embattledtowers, through a high pointed archway with portcullis grooves; allthis was built by Anthony, Lord Scales, who had the lordship in 1474,and whose arms are on the gatehouse, as they are on Middleton Towernear Lynn with the Rose of York. Inside are the older gates, withlatticed ironwork, and on the right the ruins of the guardhouse, andthe chapel of St. Nicholas, built in 1738 on the site of the ancientchapel. On the north are the ruins of the buildings occupied by KingCharles, a small room being shown as his bedroom. The governor’squarters, barracks[177] and other buildings are all of different periods.In the centre of the south wall are remains of a mural tower, and thereare the ruins of the Mountjoy, a Norman tower in the south-east corner,the walls here being eighteen feet thick: east are two other towers.Anciently there must have been some outworks, as in the DomesdaySurvey, the area of this castle is said to be one virgate, or twentyacres.

The Pantheon, the most perfect pagan building in the city, was builtB.C. 27, by Marcus Agrippa, the bosom friend of AugustusCæsar, and the second husband of his daughter Julia. The inscription,in huge letters, perfectly legible from beneath, “M. Agrippa, L. F.Cos. Tertium Fecit,” records its construction. Another inscriptionon the architrave, now almost illegible, records its restorationunder Septimius Severus and his son Caracalla, c. 202, who,“Pantheum vetustate corruptum cum omni cultur restitverunt.”Some authorities have maintained that the Pantheon was originally onlya vast hall in the baths of Agrippa, acknowledged remains of whichexist at no great distance; but the name “Pantheum” was in use as earlyas A.D. 59.

In A.D. 399 the Pantheon was closed as a temple in obedienceto a decree of the Emperor Honorius, and in 608 was consecrated asa Christian church by Pope Boniface IV., with the permission ofthe Emperor Phocas, under the title of Sta. Maria ad Martyres. Tothis dedication we owe the preservation of the main features of thebuilding, though it has been terribly maltreated. In 663, the EmperorConstans, who had come to Rome with great pretence of devotion to itsshrines and relics, and who only stayed there twelve days, did notscruple, in spite of its religious [179]dedication to strip off the tilesof gilt bronze with which the roof was covered, and carry them off withhim to Syracuse, where, upon his murder, a few years after, they fellinto the hands of the Saracens. In 1087, it was used by the anti-popeGuibert as a fortress, whence he made incursions upon the lawful pope,Victor III., and his protector, the Countess Matilda. In 1101, anotheranti-pope, Sylvester IV., was elected here. Pope Martin V., afterthe return from Avignon, attempted the restoration of the Pantheonby clearing away the mass of miserable buildings in which it wasencrusted, and his efforts were continued by Eugenius IV., but UrbanVIII. (1623–1644), though he spent 15,000 scudi upon the Pantheon, andadded the two ugly campaniles, called in derision “the asses’ ears,” oftheir architect, Bernini, did not hesitate to plunder the gilt bronzeceiling of the portico, 450,250 lbs. in weight, to make the baldachinoof St. Peter’s, and cannons for the Castle of Saint Angelo. BenedictXIV. (1740–1758) further despoiled the building by tearing away all theprecious marbles which lined the attic to ornament other buildings.

The Pantheon was not originally, as now, below the level of the piazza,but was approached by a flight of five steps. The portico, which is onehundred and ten feet long and forty-four feet deep, is supported bysixteen grand Corinthian columns of oriental granite, thirty-six feetin height. The ancient bronze doors remain. On either side are niches,once occupied by colossal statues of Augustus and Agrippa.

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The Interior is a rotunda, 143 feet in diameter, covered by a dome.It is only lighted by an aperture in the centre, twenty-eight feet indiameter. Seven great niches around the walls once contained statuesof different gods and goddesses, that of Jupiter being the centralfigure. All the surrounding columns are of giallo-antico, except four,which are of pavonazzetto, painted yellow. It is a proof of the greatvalue and rarity of the giallo-antico, that it was always impossible toobtain more to complete the set.

Some antiquarians have supposed that the aperture at the top of thePantheon was originally closed by a huge “Pigna,” or pine-cone ofbronze, like that which crowned the summit of the mausoleum of Hadrian,and this belief has been encouraged by the name of a neighbouringchurch being S. Giovanni della Pigna.

The Pantheon has become the burial-place of painters, Raphael, AnnibaleCaracci, Taddeo Zucchero, Baldassare Peruzzi, Pierino del Vaga, andGiovanni da Udine, are all buried here.

The third chapel on the left contains the tomb of Raphael (born April6, 1483; died April 6, 1520). From the pen of Cardinal Bembo is theepigram:

Taddeo Zucchero and Annibale Caracci are buried on either side ofRaphael. Near the high altar is a monument to Cardinal Gonsalvi(1757–1824), the faithful secretary and minister of Pius VII., byThorwaldsen. This, however,[181] is only a cenotaph, marking the spot wherehis heart is preserved. His body rests with that of his beloved brotherAndrew in the church of S. Marcello.

During the Middle Ages the Pope always officiated here on the day ofPentecost, when, in honour of the descent of the Holy Spirit, showersof white rose-leaves were continually sent down through the apertureduring service.

In the Piazza della Rotunda is a small obelisk found in the CampusMartius. Following the Via della Rotunda from hence, in the thirdstreet on the left is the small semicircular ruin called, from afancied resemblance to the favourite cake of the people, Arco diCiambella. This is the only remaining fragment of the baths of Agrippa,unless the Pantheon itself was connected with them.

Behind the Pantheon is the Piazza della Minerva, where a small obeliskwas erected in 1667 by Bernini, on the back of an elephant. It isexactly similar to the obelisk in front of the Pantheon, and they wereboth found near this site, where they formed part of the decorations ofthe Campus Martius. The hieroglyphics show that it dates from Hophres,a king of the 25th dynasty.

Once in the train bound for Nuremberg, every sight on the road seemsto bring one nearer to Mediæval Germany, and is a fitting prelude toits charms. The storied prettiness of the Rhine district left behind,ripening vines give way to festoons of hops and plots of tobacco; youpass through forests of fir and larch, and come to fields of goldbrocade where the lupines are in bloom. Woodlands merge into pleasantmeadows watered by swiftly-running streams; every village is crownedby a ruined castle; and there are storks’ nests on clustered roofsabout the red church spires. Flaxen-haired children are driving flocksof fat geese; here and there is a battlemented monastery; then cometracts of moorland flushed pink and purple with heather; you dive intohill-sides; you sight dark masses of pine-trees beyond a winding rivercrossed by an occasional ferry; you halt at mediæval towns capped bycrumbling yellow walls of palace and prison, and before long at thespick and span station of manufacturing Fürth (where most of the toysand wood-carvings are now made). And then you see a confusion of dusky,jagged roofs pierced by lofty spires and high walls; massive towersloom above the greenery of a steep hill-side, and you know that yourgoal is reached. This is Nuremberg, the “jewel-casket of [183]the GermanEmpire.” Your first impression is that it should rather be named thecity of wonderful roofs. Mighty roofs heave their four and five rowsof dormers high in air above a forest of lower dwellings, with roofsof every degree of steepness, covered for the most part with smallinverted tiles of reddish-brown hue. This arrangement gives them asoft and curious shagginess that greatly adds to their effect. Drivingfirst round the town, before passing its gates, you see that it isalmost entirely surrounded by dark-red walls, studded by numeroussteeple-crowned watch-towers, and further guarded by a dry moat ahundred feet wide and fifty deep, now draped with vines and plantedwith vegetables and fruit-trees. The River Pegnitz runs through thecity, and issues from it in two arms at either end; its islands andcovered bridges, with smaller bridges (hinterbrücke) swungunderneath, supply deliciously pictorial incidents of towers and shedsand mills and timber-yards, with fascinating peeps up and down streaminto the interior of the town.

St. Sebald is the patron saint of the older part of the city near thecastle, St. Laurence of the portion across the river, dating from theThirteenth Century.

Passing through the “Lady Gate,” with its massive Sixteenth Centuryfortifications, the König’s Strasse lies before us, and we are in theGermany of the Middle Ages. What matter modern shop-fronts or glidingtrams? We hardly see them; can only look at the wonderful houses oneither hand, their steep, jagged roofs, their gables and steppedgables, their pepper-caster towers, projecting casements,[184] bays andoriels and mullions, carved doors and eaves and balconies, fantasticgargoyles and cross-timbered fronts. In short, all the exquisiteirregularities and details of mediæval domestic architecture. And, aswe look, we think of Grimm’s household tales, the beloved dog’s earedtreasure of our childish days. Yonder broad-shouldered inn, Zumgrünen Weinstock (the Green Vine) might well be the lodging wherethe soldier with the blue light played his naughty pranks on the king’sdaughter.

But now the street widens; other gabled avenues branch off from it,and we are face to face with the red-brown bulk of St. Laurence. Thereit is, the beautiful church of the twin towers, with its sculpturedportals and grand wheel windows! It almost seems to fill the squarein which it stands, and where ancient red houses, deep-porched withjutting galleries and many-storied roofs are set about the stones ofthe precincts.

We wandered round the church to admire its exterior, and dally asit were with the wonderland within, but a fierce easterly wind gavean edge to our desire, and we speedily knocked at the side entranceappointed to sightseers. A wonderland indeed—rather a perfectsymphony of form and colour! St. Laurence is certainly one of themost beautiful, perhaps one of the finest Gothic interiors in Europe,with a special charm of its own, that makes your first moments in itmoments breathless with delight. Presently you begin to analyze yoursensations, and study the details of the lovely scene that has stirredyour sense of beauty to so reverent a joy. St. Laurence is very lofty[185]and admirably proportioned, being 322 feet long by 104 broad. Itspointed Gothic arches spring from their tall, slender shafts with thegrace and somewhat the effect of a grove of palms. Windows of richeststained glass lend a magic glow to the delicate avenues of stone, andon all sides are picturesque details: monuments, statues, paintings,and relics of ancient days. Midway up the nave is suspended thecoloured group in wood carved by the famous Veit Stoss, and known asthe “Angel’s Greeting.” Sculptured saints and virgins project from thecolumns, and make you in love with the naïve realism of early Germanart. One wooden Madonna is absolutely romping with her babe. The sidechapels are lined with quaint, rich tapestries from the designs ofAlbert Dürer, representing Scriptural scenes. There are many picturesof the Nuremberg school, of which the best are those of Wohlgemuth,Dürer’s master; several interesting mural tombs and curious crucifixes.But the chief art treasure of the church is, of course, the Ciborium,or “Sacraments Hauslein” of Adam Krafft, erected against one of thepillars of the choir. It is a poem in stone. Its leading motive is thecrown of thorns, but all the scenes of the passion are represented onsmall tablets in high relief; its base is supported by the kneelingfigures of the sculptor and his two assistants. It is in the shape of afive-sided tower, gradually tapering to a curled finial sixty-four feetfrom the ground. Every detail is a marvel of grace and delicacy, andthe faces of Krafft and his men are full of life and expression. Theyhad worked on this masterpiece for four years.

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In this beautiful church you are grateful to the happy tolerance thathas preserved the art relics of Catholicism in the temple of a purerfaith. Nuremberg was one of the first cities to protest against thesale of indulgences, to adopt the tenets of Luther and Melancthon, andin 1530 it subscribed to the Augsburg Confession.

This great change was accomplished in the most peaceable way. Oneby one, the convents and monasteries were suppressed, and when theCatholic bishop of Bamberg called on the Swabian Bund to opposethese measures by force, he was told that the Bund had no concern inthe matter, and that the free city claimed the right of freedom ofconscience.

So much for the history, but we cannot leave St. Laurence withoutrelating some of the old-world legends attached to its walls. Thecathedral was begun in 1278, but the Fifteenth Century was growing oldbefore its completion; and when the north tower (finished in 1498) wascommenced there was a great squabble among the builders. The mastermason was unjustly dismissed by the intrigues of two of his men, whowere jointly promoted to his post. But the accomplices soon quarrelled,and, vowing a mortal hate, each sought the other’s destruction.One day they had to mount the half-built tower together to inspectthe works, and as one leant forward from a window the other rushedon him and tried to throw him out. But the first man turned on hisassailant, gripped him hard; both fell and both were dashed to pieceson the stones below. It chanced that their ill-treated predecessor wascrossing the[187] square at the time, and was standing still gazing at thetower he was to have built just when his two enemies came crashingdown within an inch of him. The town council heard of his miraculousescape, and likewise how the dead men had ousted him from his post.So they reinstated him as master builder, and decreed him the rightof recording on the tower stones in what manner God had chastised theguilty and preserved the life of the innocent. But the master builderrefused to exercise this privilege, and only craved permission todestroy all trace of the dreadful event. He had the window walled up,and it remained so for centuries. And even after the gilded roof wasstruck by lightning in 1865, and half the tower had to be rebuilt, theblank window was still left untouched. Only in 1874 public opinion wasroused on the subject, and satirical rhymes circulated on the offenceto taste of this blind window. So now, north and south towers have anequal number of openings.

Another legend recounts how in the Thirteenth Century a monk wassolemnly walled up in the south-western corner of the church, wherethe bell-ropes hang. The criminal was young, his offence slight, andgeneral horror and pity were excited by his dreadful doom. Peopleshuddered as they passed that darksome corner, but for the sacristan’spretty daughter it seemed to have a curious attraction. She had weptbitterly on hearing the fate of the young monk whom she had so oftenseen praying at the altar, but her pity did not affect her appetite,for it was noticed that this had suddenly increased. One day thebell-ringers of St.[188] Laurence were surprised to see a rat spring from ahole in the wall with a fresh cabbage-leaf in his mouth. They talked ofthe strange sight; a watch was set, search made. And when the hole wasenlarged, behold! it led to the niche of the condemned monk, who wasfound not only alive, but well nourished, after having been buried forweeks! The sacristan’s daughter had supplied him with food through thecrack in the wall. The affair made a great noise. It was the hand ofProvidence cried the townsfolk. And so the prisoner was pardoned, andallowed to go free. There the story ends, but we hold to the idea thathe did not go alone.

But the most picturesque of the many legends, of which the cathedral isthe scene, is that of the “Mass of the Dead.”

A lady of the Imhoff family, being left a widow in her youth, couldin no way resign herself to God’s will, remained sunk in grief andattended every service at St. Laurence in the vain hope of obtainingrelief by prayer. Even in the coldest winter season she was alwaysto be seen at early mass. One All Saint’s Eve she was awakened fromher first sleep by the sound of the church-bells. The moon was stillshining, but the lady thought it was the first break of day, and,rising from her bed, wrapped herself in a thick cloak and hastenedacross the square to the church. Its doors stood wide open, and anunusually large congregation was already assembled. Kneeling in heraccustomed place, she saw that the priest was already bending beforethe altar, and the candles burnt with so[189] strange a light that thefaces of her fellow-worshippers appeared ghastly pale. And when thepriest turned she recognized him as one who had died and been buriedduring the past year. She glanced right and left with terrified eyes,and on all sides were persons she had once known but who were no longerliving. As she sank back in her chair in mortal dismay, there glidedclose to her an old friend whose death she had recently mourned andwhose body she had helped to clothe in the garments of the grave. Infaint, far-away tones the friend whispered in her ear: “Beloved Clara,as soon as the bell rings for the elevation of the Host fly thouquickly from the church, or Death will chastise thee for disturbing bythy presence the souls of the dead.” And having uttered these words,the form vanished from her side, and Widow Clara fled towards the dooras fast as her trembling limbs could carry her. She heard a dreadfulrustling and clattering behind; it seemed as though the whole ghostlycompany were in full pursuit at her heels. As she hurried through thechurchyard she saw that all the graves were gaping, and fell faintingon her own threshold. There she was found by her attendants, who,alarmed by hearing her rise and go out in the middle of the night,were coming to seek her just as the church-bell struck one. The moonhad gone down, and the deepest stillness reigned in the cathedralprecincts. The next day the cloak, which had slipped from the lady’sshoulders in her terrified flight, was found torn into tiny fragmentsand scattered among the gravestones.

I arrived at a hotel, threw my valise into a patio, and went toroam about the city. It seemed to me to be a larger, a more beautifuland an enriched Cordova. The streets are wider, the houses taller, andthe patios more spacious; but the general appearance of the cityis the same. Here is the same spotless whiteness, the same intricatenetwork of small streets, the general odour of oranges, the delightfulfeeling of mystery and that strange Oriental look that produces in theheart that sweet sentiment of melancholy and in the mind the thousandfancies, desires and visions of a far-away world, a strange life, anunknown people and an earthly paradise full of love, delight and peace.In these streets you read the history of the city: every balcony,fragment of sculpture and solitary cross-road recall the nocturnaladventures of a king, the dreams of a poet, the adventures of a beauty,a love-scene, a duel, an abduction, a fable, and a feast. Here is areminiscence of Maria de Pedilla, there of Don Pedro, farther awayone of Cervantes and elsewhere of Columbus, Saint Theresa, Velasquezand Murillo. A column reminds you of the Roman rule; a tower, themagnificence of the monarchy of Charles V.; an Alcazar recalls thesplendours of the Arabian courts. Superb marble palaces stand beside[191]modest white houses; the tiny, winding streets lead to immense squaresfilled with orange-trees; from lonely and silent cross-streets youemerge, after a sharp turn, into a street filled with a noisy crowd.Wherever you go, through the graceful gratings of the patios,you see flowers, statues, fountains, rooms, walls covered witharabesques, Arabian windows and slender columns of precious marble; andat every window and in every garden there are women dressed in whitehalf hidden, like shy nymphs, behind the grapevines and rose-bushes.

Passing from one street to another, at last I come to a promenade onthe banks of the Guadalquiver, called the Christina, which bears thesame relation to Seville that the Lungarno does to Florence. Here youmay enjoy a sight that is simply enchanting.

First I went to the famous Torre del Oro. This tower, called The GoldenTower, was so-named from the fact that in it was placed the gold thatthe Spanish ships brought from America, or because the King Don Pedrohid his treasures there. Its form is octagonal with three recedingstoreys, crowned by battlements and washed by the river. Accordingto tradition, this tower was built by the Romans and here the mostbeautiful favourite of the King dwelt until the tower was joined to theAlcazar by a building that was destroyed to make room for the Christinapromenade.

This promenade extends from Torre del Oro to the Duke of Montpensier’spalace. It is thickly shaded by oriental plane-trees, oaks, cypresses,willows, poplars, and[192] other northern trees which the Andalusiansadmire as we should admire the palms and aloes in the fields ofPiedmont and Lombardy. A large bridge spans the river and leads to thesuburb of Triana from which one sees the first houses on the oppositebank. A long line of ships, golettas (a species of light boat)and barks are on the river; and between the Torre del Oro and theDuke’s palace there is a constant coming and going of boats. The sunwas setting. A crowd of ladies swarmed through the streets, troops ofworkmen crossed the bridge, the ships showed more signs of life, a bandhidden among the trees began to play, the river became rose-coloured,the air was filled with the perfume of flowers, and the sky seemed tobe aflame.

On the road from Siena to Rome, half-way between Ficulle and Viterbo,is the town of Orvieto. Travellers often pass it in the night-time.Few stop there, for the place is old and dirty and its inns areindifferent. But none who see it even from a distance can fail to bestruck with its imposing aspect, as it rises from the level plain uponits mass of rock among the Apennines.

Orvieto is built upon the first of those huge volcanic blocks which arefound like fossils, embedded in the more recent geological formationsof Central Italy, and which stretch in an irregular but unbroken lineto the Campagna of Rome. Many of them, like that on which CivitaCastellana is perched, are surrounded by rifts and chasms and fosses,strangely furrowed and twisted by the force of fiery convulsions. Buttheir advanced guard, Orvieto, stands up definite and solid, an almostperfect cube, with walls precipitous to the north and south and east,but slightly sloping to the westward. At its foot rolls the Paglia, oneof those barren streams which swell in winter with the snows and rainsof the Apennines, but which in summer-time shrink up and leave barebeds of sand and pestilential canebrakes to stretch irregularly roundtheir dwindled waters.

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The weary flatness and utter desolation of this valley present asinister contrast to the broad line of the Apennines swelling tier ontier, from their oak-girdled basements set with villages and towers,up to the snow and cloud that crown their topmost crags. The time tosee this landscape is at sunrise; and the traveller should take hisstand upon the rising ground over which the Roman road is carried fromthe town—the point, in fact, which Turner has selected for his vagueand misty sketch of Orvieto in our Gallery. Thence he will command thewhole space of the plain, the Apennines, and the river creeping in astraight line at the base; while the sun, rising to his right, willslant along the mountain flanks and gild the leaden stream, and floodthe castled crags of Orvieto with a haze of light. From the centre ofthis glory stand out in bold relief old bastions built upon the solidtufa, vast gaping gateways black in shadow, towers of churches shootingup above a medley of deep-corniced tall Italian houses, and, amidthem all, the marble front of the Cathedral, calm and solemn in itsunfamiliar Gothic state. Down to the valley from these heights there isa sudden fall; and we wonder how the few spare olive-trees that growthere can support existence on the steep slope of the cliff.

The great Duomo was erected at the end of the Thirteenth Century tocommemorate the Miracle of Bolsena. The value of this miracle consistedin its establishing unmistakably the truth of transubstantiation. Thestory runs that a young Bohemian priest who doubted the dogma wasperforming the office of the mass in a church at Bolsena,[195] when, at themoment of consecration, blood issued from five gushes in the wafer,which resembled the five wounds of Christ. The fact was evident toall the worshippers, who saw blood falling on the linen of the altar;and the young priest no longer doubted, but confessed the miracle,and journeyed straightway with the evidence thereof to Pope UrbanIV. The Pope, who was then at Orvieto, came out with all his retinueto meet the convert and do honour to the magic-working relics. Thecircumstances of this miracle are well known to students of art throughRaphael’s celebrated fresco in the Stanze of the Vatican. And it willbe remembered by the readers of ecclesiastical history that Urban hadin 1264 promulgated by a bull the strict observance of the CorpusChristi festival in connection with his strong desire to re-establishthe doctrine of Christ’s presence in the elements. Nor was it withoutreason that, while seeking miraculous support for this dogma, he shouldhave treated the affair of Bolsena so seriously as to celebrate it bythe erection of one of the most splendid cathedrals in Italy; for thepeace of the church had recently been troubled by the reforming ardourof the Fraticelli and by the promulgation of Abbot Joachim’s EternalGospel. This new evangelist had preached the doctrine of progressionin religious faith, proclaiming a Kingdom of the Spirit which shouldtranscend the Kingdom of the Son, even as the Christian dispensationhad superseded the Jewish supremacy of the Father. Nor did he fail atthe same time to attack the political and moral abuses of the Papacy,attributing its degradation to the[196] want of vitality which pervaded theold Christian system, and calling on the clergy to lead more simple andregenerate lives, consistently with the spiritual doctrine which hehad received by inspiration. The theories of Joachim were immature andcrude; but they were among the first signs of that liberal effort afterself-emancipation which eventually stirred all Europe at the time ofthe Renaissance. It was, therefore, the obvious policy of the Popes tocrush so dangerous an opposition while they could; and by establishingthe dogma of transubstantiation, they were enabled to satisfy thegrowing mysticism of the people, while they placed upon a firmer basisthe cardinal support of their own religious power.

In pursuance of his plan, Urban sent for Lorenzo Maitani, the greatSienese architect, who gave designs for a Gothic church in the samestyle as the Cathedral of Siena, though projected on a smaller scale.Fergusson in his Handbook of Architecture, remarks that thesetwo churches are perhaps, taken altogether, the most successfulspecimens of “Italian pointed Gothic.” The Gottico Tedesco had neverbeen received with favour in Italy. Remains of Roman architecture, thenfar more numerous and perfect than they are at present, controlled theminds of artists, and induced them to adopt the rounded rather thanthe pointed arch. Indeed, there would seem to be something peculiarlyNorthern in the spirit of Gothic architecture: its intricacies suitthe gloom of Northern skies, its massive exterior is adapted to theseverity of Northern weather, its vast windows catch the fleetingsunlight[197] of the North, and the pinnacles and spires which constituteits beauty are better expressed in rugged stone than in the marblesof the South. Northern cathedrals do not depend for their effect uponthe advantages of sunlight or picturesque situations. Many of themare built upon broad plains, over which for more than half the yearhangs fog. But the cathedrals of Italy owe their charm to colour andbrilliancy: their gilded sculpture and mosaics, the variegated marblesand shallow portals of their façades, the light aërial elegance oftheir campanili, are all adapted to the luminous atmosphere of asmiling land, where changing effects of natural beauty distract theattention from solidity of design and permanence of grandeur in theedifice itself.

The Cathedral of Orvieto will illustrate these remarks. Its design isvery simple. It consists of a parallelogram, from which three chapelsof equal size project, one at the east end, and one at the north andsouth. The windows are small and narrow, the columns round, and theroof displays none of that intricate groining we find in Englishchurches. The beauty of the interior depends on surface decoration,on marble statues, woodwork, and fresco-paintings. Outside, there isthe same simplicity of design, the same elaborated local ornament.The sides of the Cathedral are austere, their narrow windows cuttinghorizontal lines of black and white marble. But the façade is atriumph of decorative art. It is strictly what Fergusson has styled a“frontispiece”; for it bears no relation whatever to the constructionof the building. Its three gables rise high above the aisles. Itspinnacles and parapets and turrets[198] are stuck on to look agreeable. Itis a screen such as might be completed or left unfinished at will bythe architect. Finished as it is, the façade of Orvieto is a wildernessof beauties. Its pure white marble has been mellowed by time to a richgolden hue, in which are set mosaics shining like gems or pictures ofenamel. A statue stands on every pinnacle; each pillar has a differentdesign; round some of them are woven wreaths of vine and ivy; acanthusleaves curl over the capitals, making nests for singing-birds orCupids; the doorways are a labyrinth of intricate designs, in whichthe utmost elegance of form is made more beautiful by incrustationsof precious agates and Alexandrine glasswork. On every square inchof this wonderful façade have been lavished invention, skill, andprecious material. But its chief interest centres in the sculpturesexecuted by Giovanni and Andrea, sons and pupils of Nicola Pisano. Thenames of these three men mark an era in the history of art. They firstrescued Italian sculpture from the grotesqueness of the Lombard and themonotony of the Byzantine styles. Sculpture takes the lead of all thearts. And Nicola Pisano, before Cimabue, before Duccio, even beforeDante, opened the gates of beauty, which for a thousand years had beenshut up and overgrown with weeds. As Dante invoked the influence ofVirgil when he began to write his mediæval poem, and made a heathenbard his hierophant in Christian mysteries, just so did Nicola Pisanodraw inspiration from a Greek sarcophagus, which had been cast uponthe shore at Pisa. He studied the bas-relief of Phædra and Hippolytus,which[199] may still be seen upon the tomb of Countess Beatrice, in theCampo Santo, and so learned by heart the beauty of its lines, and thedignity expressed in its figures, that in all his subsequent works wetrace the elevated tranquillity of Greek sculpture. This imitationnever degenerated into servile copying; nor, on the other hand, didNicola attain the perfect grace of an Athenian artist. He remained atruly mediæval carver, animated with a Christian, instead of a Paganspirit, but caring for the loveliness of form which art in the DarkAges failed to realize.

Whether it was Nicola or his sons who designed the bas-reliefs atOrvieto is of little consequence. Vasari ascribes them to the father;but we know that he completed his pulpit at Pisa in 1230, and his deathis supposed to have taken place fifteen years before the foundation ofthe Cathedral. At any rate, they are imbued with his genius, and bearthe strongest affinity to his sculptures at Pisa, Siena, and Bologna.To estimate the influence they exercised over the arts of sculpture andpainting in Italy would be a difficult task. Duccio and Giotto studiedhere; Ghiberti closely followed them. Signorelli and Raphael madedrawings from their compositions. And the spirit which pervades thesesculptures may be traced in all succeeding works of art. It is notclassic; it is modern, though embodied in a form of beauty modelled onthe Greek.

The bas-reliefs are carved on four marble tablets placed beside theporches of the church, and corresponding in size and shape with thechief doorways. They represent the[200] course of Biblical history,beginning with the creation of the world, and ending with the LastJudgment. If it were possible here to compare them in detail with thesimilar designs of Ghiberti, Michel Angelo, and Raphael, it might beshown that the Pisani established modes of treating sacred subjectsfrom which those mighty masters never deviated, though each stampedupon them his peculiar genius, making them more perfect as time addedto the power of art. It would also be not without interest to show thatin their primitive conceptions of the earliest events in history, theworks of the Pisan artists closely resemble some sculptures executed onthe walls of Northern cathedrals, as well as early mosaics in the southof Italy. We might have noticed how all the grotesque elements whichappear in Nicola Pisano, and which may still be traced in Ghiberti,are entirely lost in Michel Angelo, how the supernatural is humanized,how the symbolical receives an actual expression, and how intellectualtypes are substituted for mere local and individual representations.For instance, the Pisani represent the Creator as a young man, standingon the earth, with a benign and dignified expression, and attendedby two ministering angels. He is the Christ of the Creed, “by whomall things were made.” In Ghiberti we find an older man, sometimesappearing in a whirlwind of clouds and attendant spirits, sometimeswalking on the earth, but still far different in conception from theCreative Father of Michel Angelo. The latter is rather the PlatonicDemiurgus than the Mosaic God. By every line and feature of his faceand flowing hair, by each movement of[201] his limbs, whether he ride onclouds between the waters and the firmament, or stand alone creating bya glance and by a motion of his hand Eve, the full-formed and consciouswoman, he is proclaimed the Maker who from all eternity has held thethought of the material universe within his mind. Raphael does notdepart from this conception. The profound abstraction of Michel Angeloruled his intellect, and received from his genius a form of perhapsgreater grace. A similar growth from the germinal designs of the Pisanimay be traced in many groups.

But we must not linger at the gate. Let us enter the Cathedral and seesome of the wonders it contains. Statues of gigantic size adorn thenave. Of these the most beautiful are the work of Ippolito Scalza,an artist whom Orvieto claims with pride as one of her own sons. Thelong line of saints and apostles whom they represent, conduct us tothe high altar surrounded by its shadowy frescoes, and gleaming withthe work of carvers in marble and bronze and precious metals. Butour steps are drawn towards the chapel of the south transept, wherenow a golden light from the autumnal sunset falls across a crowd ofworshippers. From far and near the poor people are gathered. Most ofthem are women. They kneel upon the pavement and the benches, sunburntfaces from the vineyards and the canebrakes of the valley. The oldlook prematurely aged and withered—their wrinkled cheeks bound up inscarlet and orange-coloured kerchiefs, their skinny fingers fumblingon the rosary, and their mute lips moving in prayer. The younger womenhave great listless[202] eyes and large limbs used to labour. Some of themcarry babies trussed up in tight swaddling-clothes. One kneels besidea dark-browed shepherd, on whose shoulder falls his shaggy hair; andlittle children play about, half-hushed, half heedless of the place,among old men whose life has dwindled down into a ceaseless roundof prayers. We wonder why this chapel alone in the empty Cathedral,is so crowded with worshippers. They surely are not turned towardsthat splendid Pietà of Scalza—a work in which the marble seems tolive a cold, dead, shivering life. They do not heed Angelico’s andSignorelli’s frescoes on the roof and walls. The interchange of lightand gloom upon the stalls and carved work of the canopies can scarcelyrivet so intense a gaze. All eyes seem fixed upon a curtain of red silkabove the altar. Votive pictures and glass cases full of silver hearts,wax babies, hands and limbs of every kind, are hung around it. A bellrings. A jingling organ plays a little melody in triple time; and fromthe sacristy comes forth the priest. With much reverence, and with ashow of preparation, he and the acolytes around him mount the altarsteps, and pull a string which draws the curtain. Behind the curtainwe behold Madonna and her child—a faint, old, ugly picture, blackenedwith the smoke and incense of five hundred years, a wonder-workingimage, cased in gold, and guarded from the common air by glass anddraperies. Jewelled crowns are stuck upon the heads of the mother andthe infant. In the efficacy of Madonna di San Brizio to ward off agues,to deliver from the pangs of childbirth or the fury of the storm, tokeep the lover’s troth[203] and make the husband faithful to his home,these pious women of the marshes and the mountains put a simple trust.

While the priest sings, and the people pray to the dance-music ofthe organ, let us take a quiet seat unseen, and picture to our mindshow the chapel looked when Angelico and Signorelli stood before itsplastered walls, and thought the thoughts with which they coveredthem. Four centuries have gone by since those walls were white andeven to their brushes; and now you scarce can see the golden aureolesof saints, the vast wings of the angels, and the flowing robes ofprophets through the gloom. Angelico came first, in monk’s dress,kneeling before he climbed the scaffold to paint the angry Judge, theVirgin crowned, the white-robed army of the Martyrs, and the gloriouscompany of the Apostles. These he placed upon the roof, expectant ofthe Judgment. Then he passed away, and Luca Signorelli, the rich manwho “lived splendidly and loved to dress himself in noble clothes,” theliberal and courteous gentleman, took his place upon the scaffold. Forall the worldliness of his attire and the delicacy of his living, hisbrain teemed with stern and terrible thoughts. He searched the secretsof sin and of the grave, of destruction and of resurrection, of heavenand hell. All these he has painted on the walls beneath the saints ofFra Angelico. First come the troubles of the last days, the preachingof Antichrist, and the confusion of the wicked. In the next compartmentwe see the Resurrection from the tomb; and side by side with that ispainted Hell. Paradise occupies another portion of the chapel.

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After viewing these frescoes, we muse and ask ourselves whySignorelli’s fame is so inadequate to his deserts? Partly, no doubtbecause he painted in obscure Italian towns, and left few easelpictures. Besides the artists of the Sixteenth Century eclipsed alltheir predecessors, and the name of Signorelli has been swallowed upin that of Michel Angelo. Vasari said that “esso Michel Angeloimitò l’andar di Luca, come può vedere ognuno.” Nor is it hardto see that what the one began at Orvieto the other completed in theVatican. These great men had truly kindred spirits. Both struggledto express their intellectual conceptions in the simplest and mostabstract forms. The works of both are distinguished by contempt foradventitious ornaments and for the grace of positive colour. Bothchose to work in fresco, and selected subjects of the gravest and mostelevated character. The study of anatomy, and the correct drawing ofthe naked body, which Luca practised, were carried to perfection byMichel Angelo. Sublimity of thought and self-restraint pervade theircompositions. He who would understand Buonarotti must first appreciateSignorelli. The latter, it is true, was confined to a narrower circlein his study of the beautiful and the sublime. He had not ascendedto that pure idealism superior to all the accidents of place andtime, which is the chief distinction of Michel Angelo’s work. At thesame time, his manner had not suffered from too close a study of theantique. He painted the life he saw around him, and clothed his men andwomen in the dress of Italy.

Such reflections, and many more, pass through our mind[205] as we sitand ponder in the chapel, which the daylight has deserted. Thecountry-people are still on their knees, still careless of the frescoedforms around them, still praying to the Madonna of the Miracles. Theservice is well-nigh done. The benediction has been given, the organiststrikes up his air of Verdi, and the congregation shuffles off, leavingthe dimly-lighted chapel for the vast sonorous dusky nave. How strangeit is to hear that faint strain of a feeble opera sounding where ashort while since, the trumpet-blast of Signorelli’s angels seemed tothrill our ears!

The north-eastern approach to Agra is through a waste of land at thesame time flat and broken. Formless hillocks and ditches, colourlesssand and dead turf, the whole scene was mean and depressing. I raisedmy eyes, and there, on the edge of the ugly prairie, sat a fair whitepalace with domes and minarets. So exquisite in symmetry, so softlylustrous in tint, it could hardly be substantial, and I all but cried,“Mirage!” It was the Taj Mahal.

And now we were clanking over an iron bridge above a dark-green riverthat filled barely a quarter of its sandy bed; deep, broad staircasesstepped down to its further bank with pillared pleasure-housesoverlooking them. Now on the right rose a great mosque, its bellyingdomes zig-zagged with red and white; dawn from the left frowned theweather-worn battlements of a great red fortress. This was the city ofShah Jehan, emperor and devotee, artist and lover.

And this, in a few words, is the passionate story of Shah Jehan. He wasthe grandson of Akbar the Great, the first Mogul Emperor of Hindustan.While yet Prince Royal, conquering India for the Moguls, he married thebeautiful Persian, Arjmand Banu, called Mumtaz-i-Mahal, the [207]chosenof the palace, and loved her tenderly beyond all his wives for fourteenyears. But only a year after he became Sultan she died in travail ofher eighth child. Shah Jehan in his grief swore that she should havethe loveliest tomb the world ever beheld, and for seventeen years hebuilt the Taj Mahal. Also he built the palace of Agra, the fort andpalace of Delhi, and the great mosque of Agra; he took to wife manyfair ladies, and lived in all luxuriousness, ministering abundantly toevery sense, till he had reigned thirty years. Then his son Aurungzeberose up and dethroned him, and kept him a close prisoner in his ownprivate mosque, which he had built within the palace of Agra. There helived seven years more, attended by his daughter Jehanara, who wouldnot leave him, till at last, in 1645, being grown very feeble, hebegged to be laid in a chamber of the palace wherefrom he could see theTaj Mahal. This was granted him, so that he died with his eyes upon thetomb of the love of his youth. There they buried him beside her. Andhis daughter, when her time came, wrote a Persian stanza begging thatno monument should be set up to “the humble transitory Jehanara,” andpraying only for her father’s soul.

Agra is the mirror of Shah Jehan. In the fort and palace you can readall the story of the warrior and the lover—in the fort so nakedlygrim without and the palace so richly voluptuous within. Under thebrow of the sheer sandstone walls you are dwarfed to a pigmy. Beforeand beneath the great gateway stands a double curtain of loophole andmachicolation and tower: you go in through[208] cavernous guard-houses,up a ramp between sky-closing walls. Only thus do you reach thereal entrance—the great Elephant Gate—two jutting octagon towerssupporting spacious chambers thrown across the passage. On the lowerstorey all is closed, and only white plaster designs relieve thesavage masses of the sandstone; in the upper balconies are windows andrecesses, all decked with white, and above all runs a gallery crownedwith cupolas.

Under this arch you go, a dome above, deep and lofty recesses on eitherhand; now you are past the sternness. Shah Jehan is soldier no longerbut artist and amorist at large. You come to the Pearl Mosque. Thereis a Pearl Mosque at Delhi, sandstone slabs without, marble within,as this is; but the Delhi mosque is a bauble to this. This is a broadcourt, paved with slabs of marble, veined with white and blue, grayand yellow. This is all marble—marble walls with moulded panels,marble cloisters of multifoliate arches, marble gateways breaking threewalls of the square, marble columns supporting bell-cupolas abovethem and at each corner, a marble basin in the centre of the court,a marble sundial beside it. Along the west side of the court shinesthe glorious face of the mosque itself—only a roofed quarter of thewhole space, a mere portico, but colonnaded with three rows of sevenpillars apiece, each branching to right and left, to front and back,with eight-pointed, nine-leaved arches. Along the entablature aboveruns a Persian inscription in mosaic of black marble; on the roof, overeach pillar of the front row is a cupola with four columns, and at eachcorner a cupola with eight[209] columns. Three domes fold their broad whitewings behind and above all.

Three steps for the mullah to preach from, and that is all thecatalogue. No altar or shrine or image: there is no god but God. Nocarving or lattice-work: but the simple pillars and arches, the fewcupolas and domes, are yet the richest of ornamentation. No paint orgems—only the clear harmonious veining of the marble. Only spaceand proportion, form and whispers of colour—and it is so beautifulthat you can hardly breathe for rapture. The radiant marble ripplesfrom shade to shade—snow-white, pearl-white, ivory-white—till itseems half alive. The bells and pinnacles are so light that they seemto float in the air. It cannot be a building, you whisper: it isenchantment.

But now go on to the palace. It has been battered and sacked—theJats of Bhurtpur carried away the precious stones from the walls; butthrough the restorations you can dream of some of its delights when itheld the houris of Shah Jehan. Dream this and it is all enchantment;you have arrived at last—at last, after so many years, after so manyleagues—in the dear country of your earliest dreams, and the Arabiannights are come to life. Under this pillared hall the ambassadorsof Shiraz and Samarkand are making their obeisance and displayingrich gifts. Above, in the marble alcove festooned with flowers andtendrils in pietra dura, reclines the Sultan of the Indies on a couchof white marble. Up the stairs—and here, enclosed by a colonnade oftwo storeys, is the fish-pond; on the upper terrace under that canopy,which is one block of creamy[210] marble embossed with flowers, sits thelovely favourite Schemselnihar, and makes believe to angle. She risesand follows the other lights of the harem into the little square courtand portico that miniature the great Pearl Mosque without. But some ofthe beauties turn aside to the gallery, where, below, is an enclosedbazaar; handsome young merchants of Baghdad tempt them with silks andbrocades—and with looks that sigh and languish. They had best beprudent: eyes as fathomless as theirs have grown dim in the dungeonsunder the terraces, below the water. From lust to cruelty is only astep; and when the Sultan raised the marble and the gems he sank thedungeon, remote in a labyrinth of tunnels. Across it is a beam with anoose for soft necks and a shoot for frail bodies that tumbles theminto the Jumna.

The Sultan has risen from his audience: he walks round the terrace,through the delicious Hall of Private Audience, whose walls are marble,whose pillars are festooned with creepers in agate and jasper, jade andcornelian, whose ends are profound and graceful recesses, half-arch,half-dome. He passes to the heavy slab of the black marble throne onthe riverside brink of the quadrangle; in the pit below they let outbuffaloes and tigers to fight before him; on the white seat behind himsits the court jester to make him merry.

And now—it is the full moon that rises from an arch of the pavilionto the right—the full moon, though it is still broad day? It is theSultaness-in-Chief looking out at the fight from her abode in theJasmine Tower. She has[211] grown tired of throwing the dice, while herhandmaidens stand for pieces on the pachisi-board that is let intoher marble pavement—there, behind those duenna screens, the gauzeof lattice-work that encloses her courtyard. She has grown tired ofdabbling in the fountain that tinkles on the shallow basin of figuredmarble, weary of her bower of marble inlaid with gems. The Sultanrises, and it is the signal for the bath—the bath in the dark MirrorPalace, lighted with a score of flambeaux and walled with a milliontiny mirrors, that reflect.... No; we must not think of it—nor of thefeast in the Private Palace, under the ceiling emblazoned with blueand crimson and gold—nor yet of the disrobing in the Golden Pavilion,where the ladies thrust their jewels into holes in the wall too narrowfor a man’s arm to follow them.... No; you should not listen to whatthe Jester is saying now.

But if you envy Shah Jehan, look again later into the tiny Gem Mosqueand the cupboard at the side, too small to turn in, where he is theuncrowned prisoner of his son. No Mirror Palace now; the ceiling isblack where they heat the water for his bath, in a hole of a cisternwhere he cannot stretch out his limbs. Look again into the littlegilt-domed cupola, where he lies dying, and Jehanara’s voice soundssuddenly far away; and the very Taj, though he knows every angle andcurve of it, swims in a grey-white blur; and nothing is left clearsave the voice and face of the beautiful Persian, Arjmand Banu, whosepalankeen followed all his campaigns in the days when empire was stilla-winning, whose children called him father—Arjmand[212] Banu, silent andunseen now for four-and-thirty years, the wife of his youth.

Now follow him to the Taj. Under the great gateway of strong sandstoneribbed with delicate marble, its vaulted red arch cobwebbed with whitethreads, and then before you—then the miracle of miracles, the finalwonder of the world. In chaste majesty it stands suddenly before you,as if the magical word had called it this moment out of the earth.On a white marble platform it stands exactly four-square, but thatthe angles are cut off; nothing so rude as a corner could find placein its soft harmonies. Seen through the avenue, it looks high ratherthan broad; seen from the pavement below it, it looks broad ratherthan high; you doubt, then conclude that its proportions are perfect.Above its centre rises a full white dome, at each corner of whose basenestles a smaller dome, upheld on eight arches. The centre of each faceis a lofty-headed gateway rising above the line of the roof; withinit is again a pointed caving recess, half arch, half dome; withinthis, again, a screen of latticed marble. On each flank of these,and on the facets of the cut-off angles, are pairs of smaller, blindrecesses of the same design, one above the other. From each junctionof facets rises a slim pinnacle. Everywhere it is embellished withelaborate profusion. Moulding, sculpture, inlaid frets and scrollsof coloured marbles, twining branches and garlands of jade and agateand cornelian—here is every point of lavish splendour you saw in thepalace combined in one supreme embodiment—superb dignity matched withgraceful richness.

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But it is vain to flounder amid epithets; the man who should describethe Taj must own genius equal to his who built it. Description haltsbetween its mass and its fineness. It makes you giddy to look up at it,yet it is so delicate you feel that a brick would lay it in shivers atyour feet. It is a rock temple and a Chinese casket together—a giantgem.

Nothing jars; for if the jewel were away the setting would still beamong the noblest monuments on earth. The minarets at the four cornersof the platform are a moment’s stumbling-block: they look irreverentlylike the military masts of a battleship, and the hard lines wherethe stones join remind you of a London subway. But look at the Tajitself, and the minarets fall instantly into place; they set off itsglories, and, standing like acolytes, seem to be challenging you notto worship it. At each side, below the Taj, is a triple-domed buildingof sandstone and marble; the hot red throws up the pearl-and-ivorysoftness of the Taj. The cloisters round the garden, the lordlycaravanserai outside the gate, the clustering domes and mosaic textsfrom the Koran on the great gate itself—all this you hardly notice;but when you do, you find that every point is perfection. As forthe garden, with shady trees of every hue, from sprightly yellow tofunereal cypress, with purple blossoms cascading from the topmostboughs, with roses and lilies, phloxes and carnations—and the channelof clear water with twenty fountains that runs through the garden, andthe basin with the goldfish.... It is pure Arabian Nights! You listenfor the speaking bird and the[214] singing tree. And was it not hitherthat Prince Ahmed, leaving his brother Ali to cuddle Nuronnihar in thepalace, followed his arrow? And is not that the fairy Peri-Banu comingout of the pleasure-house to welcome him? Surely man never made sucha Paradise: it must be the fabric of a dream wafted through gates ofsilver and opal.

O Shah Jehan, Shah Jehan, you are bewitching a respectablenewspaper-correspondent. The thought of you is strong wine. Shah Jehan,with your queens and concubines without number, their amber feetmirrored in marble, their ivory limbs mirrored in quicksilver; ShahJehan, who starved them in the black oubliettes, and hung them from themouldy beam, and sluiced their beautiful bodies into the cold river;Shah Jehan, with elephants and peacocks; Shah Jehan, returning from theconquered Dekhan, dismounting in the Armoury Square, hastening throughthe Grape Garden, hastening past the fair ones in the Golden Pavilionto the fairest within the Jasmine Tower!

Shah Jehan—Grape Garden—Golden Pavilion—Jasmine Tower—there isdizzy magic in the very names. And when I turn aside in your garden,shunning your fierce black-and-scarlet petals to bring back my senseswith English stocks and pansies, the sight of your Taj through thetrees sends my brain areel again. I go in and stand by your tomb. Thejewel-creepers blossom more luxuriantly than ever in the trellisedscreen that encloses it, and the two oblong cenotaphs are embowered ingems. But here it is dark and cool: light comes in only through doublelattices of feathery marble. You look up into a dome,[215] obscure andmysterious, but mightily expansive, as it were the vault of the heavenof the dead. It is very well; it is the fit close. In this breathlesstwilight, after his battles and buildings, his ecstasies and torments,his love and his loss, Shah Jehan has come to his own again for ever.

Of all the persons whom the mighty business of providing sustenance forthe population of London leads among the pens, and crowds, and filthof the great Metropolitan beast-market—of all those whom pleasureattracts to the gingerbread and shows, and gong-resounding din of thegreat Fair—or, lastly, of all those whom chance, or a dim remembranceof the popular memories of the place, its burnings, tournaments, etc.,or any other motive, brings into Smithfield—we wonder how many, asthey pass the south-western corner of the area, look through theancient gateway which leads up to the still more ancient church of St.Bartholomew, with a kindly remembrance of the man (whose ashes thererepose) from whom these, and most of the other interesting features andrecollections of Smithfield, are directly or indirectly derived? Wefear very few. Time has wrought strange changes in the scene around;and it is not at all surprising that we should forget what has ceasedto be readily visible. Who could suppose, from a mere hasty glance atthe comparatively mean-looking brick tower, and the narrow restrictedsite of St. Bartholomew, that that very edifice was once the centreonly, of the splendid church of a splendid monastery—a church [217]whichextended its spacious transepts on either side, and sent up a nobletower high up into the air, to overlook, and, as it were, to guard, thestately halls, far-extending cloisters, and delightful gardens thatsurrounded the sacred edifice? Or, again, who would suspect that thesite of this extensive establishment (now in a great measure coveredwith houses), and most probably the entire space of Smithfield, was,prior to the foundation of the former, nothing but a marsh “dunge andfenny,” with the exception of a solitary spot of dry land, occupiedby the travellers’ token of civilization, a gallows? Yet such are thechanges that have taken place, and for all that is valuable in them ourgratitude is due to the one man to whom we have referred—Rahere.

The history of the Priory is indeed the history of this singularindividual; and, by a fortunate coincidence, the historical materialswe possess are as ample as they are important. Among the manuscripts ofthe British Museum is one entirely devoted to the life, character, anddoings of Rahere, written evidently shortly after his death by a monkof the establishment, and which, for the details it also gives of thecircumstances attending the establishment of a great religious housein the Twelfth Century, its glimpses into the manners and customs,the modes of thought and feeling of the time—and, above all, for itsmarked superiority of style to the writings that then generally issuedfrom the cloister—forms one of the most extraordinary, as it certainlyis one of the most interesting, of monastical documents.

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Rahere, it appears, was a “man sprung and born from low kynage:when he attained the flower of youth, he began to haunt the householdsof noblemen and the palaces of princes; where under every elbow ofthem, he spread their cushions with japes and flatterings, delectablyanointing their eyes, by this manner to draw to him their friendships.And he still was not content with this, but often haunted the King’spalace, and among the noiseful press of that tumultuous court informedhimself with polity and cardinal suavity, by the which he might drawto him the hearts of many a one. There in spectacles, in meetings,in plays, and other courtly mockeries and trifles intruding, heled forth the business of all the day. This wise to the King andgreat men, gentle and courteous known, familiar and fellowly hewas.” The King here referred to is Henry I. Stow says Rahere was“a pleasant-witted gentleman; and therefore in his time called theking’s minstrel.” To continue: “This manner of living he chosein his beginning, and in this excused his youth. But the inwardSeer and merciful God of all, the which out of Mary Magdalen castout seven fiends, the which to the Fisher gave the Keys of Heaven,mercifully converted this man from the error of his way, and added tohim so many gifts of virtue.” Foremost in repentance as he had been insin, Rahere now “decreed himself to go to the court of Rome, covetingin so great a labour to do the works of penance. And while he tarriedthere, in that meanwhile, he began to be vexed with grievous sickness;and his dolours little and little taking their increase, he drew to theextreme of life. He[219] avowed that if health God would him grant, that hemight return to his country, he would make an hospital in recreationof poor men, and to them there so gathered, necessaries minister afterhis power.” And not long after the benign and merciful Lord beheld thisweeping man, gave him his health, approved his vow.

When he would perfect his way that he had begun, in a certain night hesaw a vision full of dread and sweetness. It seemed to him to be borneup on high of a certain beast, having four feet and two wings, and sethim in a high place. To whom appeared a certain man, pretending incheer the majesty of a king, of great beauty and imperial authority,and his eye on him fastened. “O man,” he said, “what and how muchservice shouldest thou give to him that in so great a peril hathbrought help to thee?” Anon he answered to this saint, “Whatsoevermight be of heart and of might diligently should I give in recompenceto my deliverer.” And then, said he, “I am Bartholomew, the apostle ofJesus Christ, that come to succour thee in thine anguish and to opento thee the secret mysteries of Heaven. Know me truly, by the willand commandment of the Holy Trinity and the common favour of thecelestial court and council, to have chosen a place in the suburbsof London, at Smithfield, where in my name thou shalt found a church.”

A man like this could not but succeed in whatever he essayed; andaccordingly the work “prosperously succeeded, and after the Apostle’sword all necessaries flowed unto the hand. The church he made ofcomely stonework,[220] tablewise. And an hospital-house, a little longeroff from the church by himself he began to edify. The church wasfounded (as we have taken of our elders) in the month of March, 1113.President in the Church of England, William, Archbishop of Canterbury,and Richard, Bishop of London;” who “of due law and right,” halloweda part of the adjoining field as a cemetery. “Clerks to live underregular institution were brought together, and Rahere, of course, wasappointed Prior, who ministered unto his fellows necessaries, not ofcertain rents, but plenteously of oblations of faithful people.” Thecompletion of the work, under such circumstances, evidently exciteda large amount of wonder and admiration, not unmixed with a kind ofsuperstitious awe. In 1410, during the prelacy perhaps of brother Johnthe Priory was rebuilt. At this time, and perhaps before, it possessedwithin itself every possible convenience for the solace and comfortof its inmates. We read of Le Fermery, Le Dorter, Le Frater, LesCloysters, Les Galleries, Le Hall, Le Kitchen, Le Buttry, Le Pantry,Le olde Kitchen, Le Woodehouse, Le Garnier, and Le Prior’s Stable,so late as the period of the dissolution in the Sixteenth Century.There was also the Prior’s house, the Mulberry-garden, the Chapel nowthe Church of St. Bartholomew the Less, etc., etc. It was entirelyenclosed within walls, the boundaries of which have been carefullytraced in the Londini Illustrata, and for which we abbreviatethe following description:—The north wall ran from Smithfield, alongthe south side of Long Lane, to its junction with the east wall, aboutthirty yards west[221] from Aldersgate Street. It is mentioned by Stow, andshown in Aggas’ plan, who represents a small gate or postern in it.This gate stood immediately opposite Charter House Lane, where is nowthe entrance into King Street or Cloth Fair. The west wall commencedat the south-west corner of Long Lane, and continued along Smithfield,and the middle of Duc Lane (or Duke Street) to the south gate, orGreat Gate House, now the principal entrance into Bartholomew Close.The south wall, commencing from this gate, ran eastward in a directline towards Aldersgate Street, where it formed an angle and passedsouthward about forty yards, enclosing the site of the present AlboinBuildings, then resumed its eastern direction and joined the corner ofthe eastern wall, which ran parallel with Aldersgate Street, at thedistance of about twenty-six yards. This wall was fronted for the mostpart by houses in the street just mentioned, some of them large andmagnificent, particularly London House, between which and the wall wasa ditch. At first there were no houses in the immediate neighbourhood;but the establishment of the monastery, and the fair granted to it,speedily caused a considerable population to spring up all around, andultimately within. This grant was obtained from Henry II. The fair wasto be kept at Bartholomew tide for three days, namely, the eve, thenext day, and the morrow; and unto it “the clothiers of England and thedrapers of London repaired, and had their booths and standings withinthe churchyard of this priory, closed in with walls and gates, lockedevery night and watched, for safety of men’s[222] goods and wares.” A Courtof Pie-powders sat daily during the fair holden for debts and contracts.

Although the present church, which was the choir of the more ancientstructure belonging to the Priory, stands some distance backwards fromSmithfield, there is little doubt that its front was originally on aline with the small gateway yet remaining, and that the latter indeedwas the entrance from Smithfield into the southern aisle of the nave,the part of the church now entirely lost. It is useless to inquirewhat kind of front was here presented to the open area before it;but if we may judge of it by this gateway, and by the general styleof the interior parts of the choir, it must have been a grand work.The gateway is of a very beautiful character, with a finely pointedarch, consisting of four ribs, each with numerous mouldings, recedingone within the other, and decorated with roses and zigzag ornaments.Straight before us as we pass through this gateway are the churchyardand church, the former having around it a range of large and verydingy-looking lath-and-plaster houses, which, however, derive somewhatof a picturesque appearance from their gable ends, and their windowsscattered about in “most admired disorder.” The exterior of the church,as it here appears to us, consists of a brick tower, erected in 1628,and by its side the end of the church, from which the nave has been cutaway, and the wall and large window erected to terminate the structureat this point. The foundations of the nave still lie below the soilof the churchyard some three or four feet. The wall of the latter, onthe right or southern side, now[223] faced with brick, is very ancientand of immense thickness, and forming most probably the original wallof the south aisle. On stepping into the apartments of the adjoiningpublic-house, to which the wall now belongs, we find traces of a pastvery different from what we see at present. Rooms with arched ceilings,a cornice with a shield extending through two or three of them, andthus showing that they have formed but one room, and a chalk cellarbelow the house—all betoken that we are wandering among the ruinsof the old Priory. By the side of this house is a yard, filled withcostermongers and their donkeys, and surrounded by black and decayedsheds and habitations, with balconied galleries.

Entering the church by the gateway below the tower, we get the firstglimpse of the new world as it were that opens upon us, or rather weshould say the old world of seven hundred years ago that has passedaway. Everything is solemn, grand, and apparently eternal. Thoseimmense pillars that we look upon have lost nothing as yet of theiroriginal strength; there is no token that they will ever lose it.Within the porch are the remains of a very elegant pointed arch inthe right wall, leading we presume into the cloisters, but of anolder date than those glorious Norman pillars to which some, of aspeculiarly slender make, belonging to another and opposite arch, appearto have been attached, somewhat we think to the injury of their simplecharacter. One of the most interesting features of the choir is thelong-continued aisle, or series of aisles, which entirely encircle it,opening into the former by the spaces[224] between the flat and circulararch-piers of the body of the structure. It is about twelve feet wide,with a pure arched and vaulted ceiling in the simplest and truestNorman style, with windows of different sizes slightly pointed. Thepillars against the wall opposite the entrance into the choir are flat.One of the most beautiful little architectural effects of a simplekind that we can conceive is to be found at the north-eastern cornerof the aisle. Between two of the grand Norman pillars projecting fromthe wall is a low postern doorway; and above, rising on each side fromthe capitals, a peculiarly elegant arch, something like an elongatedhorse-shoe. The connexion between two styles so strikingly different inmost respects as the Moorish, with its fantastic delicacy and varietyand richness, and the Norman with its simple (occasionally uncouth)grandeur, was never more apparent. That little picture is alone worth avisit to St. Bartholomew’s.

Let us now enter the Choir, and, ascending the gallery to the side ofthe organ, gaze on the impressive and characteristic work before us,which seems scarcely less fresh and solid than when Rahere beheld inits vast piers and beautiful arches the realization of the vision forwhich he had so long yearned. We are standing in the centre of fourarches of the most magnificent span, fit bearers of the great towerthat they lifted so airily, as it were a thing of nought, into the air.Two of these are round and two slightly pointed. The last (which wereoriginally open and formed the commencement of the transepts) havebeen referred to as among the various instances of the occasional[225] useof pointed arches by the Normans before their systematic introductionas a style. In each of the spandrels formed by these arches is asmall lozenge-shaped panel containing ornaments which bear a strikingresemblance to the Grecian honeysuckle, and deserve notice from theirsingularity. Behind us are arches showing the original continuationof the church into the nave. The roof is very ancient, and notparticularly handsome looking. It consists of massy timbers, some ofthem braced up in the middle, apparently to prevent their falling.Prior Bolton’s elegant oriel window in the second story appears tohave been built as a kind of pew or seat, from which the Prior couldoverlook the canons when he pleased, without their being aware of hispresence, as it communicated with his house at the eastern extremity ofthe church. The piers which support the range of pointed arches formingthe uppermost story are pierced longitudinally, so as to leave open apassage all round the upper part of the building. The dimensions ofthe church are stated somewhat differently by different writers, andwe have no means of reconciling the discrepancy. According to Malcolm,the height is about forty feet, the breadth sixty feet, and the lengthone hundred and thirty-eight feet; to which if we add eighty-seven feetfor the length of the nave, we have two hundred and twenty-five feet asthe entire length of the Priory church within the walls. Osborne, inhis English Architecture, gives the height as forty-seven feet,the breadth fifty-seven feet, and the length of the present church onehundred and thirty-two feet. We may here observe that[226] when the firebroke out in 1830, the interior of the church was much injured, and theentire pile had a narrow escape from destruction.

Lastly, and as we began, so should we end, with Rahere, who is thepresiding spirit of the place, we find the monument of the founder inthe north-eastern corner, almost immediately opposite the beautifuloriel window which Prior Bolton there erected, in order, perhaps thatwhen he sat in it the home of the ashes of his illustrious predecessormight be forever before him. This is a work in every way worthy ofthe man whom it enshrines. It is one of the most elegant specimens ofthe pointed style of architecture, consisting mainly of a very highlywrought stonework screen, enclosing a tomb on which Rahere’s effigyextends at full length. The roof of the little chamber, as we maycall it, is most exquisitely groined. At what period the monument waserected is uncertain; but the style marks it as of a later date thanthat of the founder’s decease. But it was most carefully restored byBolton; and the fact is significant of its antiquity. As the latterfound, no doubt, a labour of love in making these reparations, soTime itself seems to have seconded his efforts, and to have sharedin the hopes of its builders that a long period of prosperity shouldbe granted to it, by touching it very gently. Here and there thepinnacles have been somewhat diminished of their fair proportions,and that is pretty well the entire extent of the injury the work hasexperienced. The monument, it must be added, is richly painted as wellas sculptured, and shows us the black robes of Rahere and[227] of themonks who are kneeling at his side—the ruddy features of the former,and the splendid coats-of-arms on the front of the tomb below. Eachof the monks has a Bible before him, open at the fifty-first chapterof Isaiah. And often and often, no doubt, has Rahere, as he read suchverses as that (the third) we are about to transcribe, received freshaccession of strength to complete his arduous task, until what he hadfirst looked upon as holy words of encouragement only became to hisrapt fancy a prophecy which he was chosen to fulfil. When others spokeof the all but impossible task (for such it was generally esteemed)he had undertaken, of cleaning and building upon the extensive marshallotted, he smiled in his heart to think what One had said greaterthan they:—“The Lord shall comfort Zion: he will comfort all her wasteplaces; and he will make her wilderness like Eden, and her desertlike the garden of the Lord; joy and gladness shall be found therein,thanksgiving and the voice of melody.”

Delhi is still seamed with the scars of her spoilers, and stilljewelled with remnants of the gems they fought for. If you take them inorder, you will go first, not into the city, but eleven miles south,to the tower Kutb Minar. Through the dust of the road, rising out ofthe springing wheat, among the mud-and-mat huts before which squat thebrown-limbed peasants, you see the country a litter of broken walls,tumbling towers, rent domes. There are fragments of seven cities builtby seven kings before the present Delhi was. Eleven miles of them bringyou to the tower and mosque of Kutb.

Kutb-ed-Din was a slave who raised himself to Viceroy of Delhi whenthe Mussulmans took it, then to Emperor of Hindustan and founder of adynasty. Whether he or his son or the last of the Hindu kings built thetower, antiquaries are undecided and others careless. It is enough thathere is one landmark in Delhi’s history, one splendid monument rearedfor a symbol of triumph by a victor whom now nobody can certainlyidentify. It is a colossal, five-storied tower, two hundred and fortyfeet high, of nearly fifty feet diameter at the base, and taperingto nine feet at the top. Tiny balconies with balustrades mark thejunctions of the stories: the three lower are red stone, the [229]twoupper—dwarfed just under the sky—faced with white marble. All the redpart is fluted into alternate semicircles and right angles, netted allover with tracery, and belted with inscriptions under the balconies.But the details strike you little: the vertical lines of the flutingonly give the impression that this is one huge pillar with a redshaft and a white capital—a pillar that might form part of the mosttremendous temple in the world, yet stands quite seemly alone by reasonof its surpassing bigness.

Pant to the top. It will do you good, though the view is nothing. Thecountry is an infinite green-and-brown chess-board of young corn andfallow, dead-flat on every side, ugly with the complacent plainness ofall very rich country. Beyond the sheeny ribbon of the Jumna, north,south, east, west, into the blurred horizon, you can see only land andland and land—a million acres with nothing on them to see—except thewealth of India and the secret of the greatness of Delhi.

Then look down past your toes and you will see the evidence of some ofDelhi’s falls. From the ground you will have noticed ruins about you;but there the Kutb Minar dwarfs everything. Now you see that you standabove a field of broken arches, solitary pillars, stumps of towers, andin the middle of what must once have been a town of mosques and tombs.Before it was that, it was a town of Hindu temples and palaces. In thecourt of the ruined mosque stands a solid wrought-iron pillar—littleenough to look at, but curious, because it is at least fifteen hundredyears old, and there is nothing else quite like it in the[230] world. Itbears a Sanskrit inscription to the effect that this is “the Arm ofFame of Raja Dhava, who conquered his neighbours and won the undividedsovereignty of the earth.”

Poor Raja Dhava! The temples of generations that had already forgottenhim are swept utterly away; the mosque of their conquerors stands nowonly as a few shattered red arches and pillars with defaced flowerswilting on them. Beyond that is the base of what was once to be a towermore than twice as high as the Kutb Minar, but was never even finished.The very tower you stand on has been buffeted by earthquake, and greatpart of it is mere restoration. And Delhi, which in the year Onestood here, has drifted away almost out of sight from the summit andleft these forlorn fragments to decay without even the consolation ofneighbourhood.

I take a carriage to visit the Kutb Minar, the great tower that rearsitself up about ten miles from Delhi.

This is Asia’s Appian Way. Ruins from every century, left by threeraces and three religions, are scattered over a large and dismal plain.The remains of ancient Hindu Delhi, of Afghan Delhi, and of MogulDelhi, cover a dead expanse of seventy square miles. Slowly, during theflow of centuries, the city has changed its site, as a river changesits bed. As far as the eye can reach, dilapidated domes and brokencolumns reveal themselves in the midst of the dry brushwood. Theseyellowish hillocks are the ruins of Indra-Partha, the city of Indra,for which the five brothers of Mahabarata fought three thousand yearsago. Farther away a granite pillar, covered with Pali characters,proclaims the edicts of the Buddhist King Asoka. Everywhere, liketombs in a cemetery, the débris of Mongolian art, monumentalmausoleums and domes surrounded by kiosks are heaped together, allcorroded by time and merged into the uniform tint of the sad and dryvegetation that Nature provides. Several tombs are as large as those ofAkbar at Secundra and rise up solitary upon the arid steppe. The bluepeacocks that are roaming about are the only living things that hauntthe place. Generations have[232] swarmed here and of their living pastthis almost imperceptible residue is all that is left, just as ancientforests have had to exist in order to make a little piece of coal. TheVedic age, the Brahmanical age, the Buddhist age, the first Mussulmandynasties, the Mogul Empire,—each historical period has left here asmall deposit.

You can gather this history around the Kutb: four old Hindu forts,still quite recognizable, once surrounded a large city and someBuddhist temples where the monks in yellow robes with shaven headswalked about peacefully; there remains a large iron post charged withsome Sanskrit inscriptions. About the year 1000, over the wall of theHimalayas overflowed the first hordes of the Mussulmans. The city wasrazed and from the stones of the great temple a mosque was built, theruins of which now lie around us. Here is a triple colonnade whereyou recognize the old Buddhist pillars, and the patient, complicated,confused work of the poor Hindu workman, with all of its childishindecency. They are deeply worked, overcharged with chisellingsthat time has made almost illegible; here and there, figures of asymbolical obscenity appear, a few mutilated by the moral superiorityof the conqueror. Little by little, you accustom yourself to read whatthe eaten away stone has to say, the lines form themselves afresh.You recognize processions of gods surrounded by guards and faithfulfollowers, animals, tigers, lewd monkeys and elephants, which, from avery early period, occupy the Hindu mind. These thousands of stones,which ought to be arranged in irregular chapels and leafy roofs,the Mussulmans[233] have erected into columns, rectangular galleries,or in geometrical and simple rows. Upon the great bare walls,cabalistic numbers and letters that look like the tracks of birds aredirected against the unbelievers. Above all, dominating the immensecemetery-like plain, inviolate through time, the Kutb throws itsstraight rocket of red stone and white marble, two hundred and fiftyfeet into the sky. Six centuries ago, from its top the sharp chant ofthe Muezzin broke the silence of the great plain when the sun droppedbehind the horizon.

Apart from the great historical interest attaching to these magnificentruins, they deserve, architecturally, the closest examination andstudy, containing, as they do, elaborate specimens of the bestconstructions, in both military and domestic branches, during thedifferent periods of the art in this country. We find first themassive square Norman keep, which had its protecting moat. This wasthe work of the original grantee, Geoffrey de Clinton, the treasurerand chamberlain of Henry I. Next comes an era, from 1180 to 1187, whenwe find entries for building and repairs to walls and fortifications;and again, from 1212 to 1216, the castle being then in the hands ofKing John, vast sums were expended upon the outer line of walls, withtheir flanking defences of Lunn’s Tower and the Water Tower, and upona chamber and other accommodation for the King, most of which stillremains, though the timber constructions inside and against the wallshave, of course, not survived. The next development is in the LateDecorated or Perpendicular style including the ruins of the great Halland some other buildings at the west end of the inner court stillcalled Lancaster’s Buildings, of the Fourteenth Century, rather late inthe reign of Edward III., being some of the additions made by John ofGaunt, after he obtained Kenilworth by his first wife.

[235]

After this portion come the various alterations and insertions ofthe Elizabethan period, the beautiful gatehouse on the north side,and the towers and works added by Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicesterand called the Leicester Buildings. Here are, therefore, examplesof four different periods in each of which the particular work iscapable of proof by existing documents, showing the gradations andchanges which these buildings underwent, according to the requirementsof the different ages, in passing from the barbarism of a militarydespotism to the comforts and splendour of later civilization. It isa magnificent specimen, and one easy of access. As we have said, theManor of Kenilworth was bestowed by Henry I. upon Geoffrey de Clinton,who founded here a castle and a monastery; deriving, doubtless, froma Norman follower of Duke William, he must have been of worth andeminence among the barons, since besides the Royal posts which heoccupied, the King appointed him to the Chief Justiceship of England.He was succeeded by his son Geoffrey, married to Agnes, daughter ofRoger, Earl of Warwick, whose son, Henry, parted with Kenilworth, mostprobably on compulsion, to King John, who made it a Royal residence.One of the rebellious sons of Henry II. had taken possession of it, andheld it for a time. Henry III., on his sister, the Princess Eleanor,marrying Simon de Montfort, Earl of Leicester, settled Kenilworth onher for life but in 1254 it was granted for the joint lives of theEarl and Countess of Leicester, and they made their home here. Duringthe Baron’s War which followed, this castle was made the base[236] ofoperations by de Montfort, who provided it with warlike engines ofdefence not then known in England, and stores of all sorts, and afterthe battle of Lewis, Richard, King of the Romans, Henry’s brother,with his youngest son, Edmund, was sent prisoner to Kenilworth, underthe care of Leicester’s second son Simon. In 1265, after effectinghis escape from the custody of the barons at Hereford, Prince Edward,by a daring night attack, beat up the quarters of young de Montfortat Kenilworth, and took temporary possession of the place, makingprisoners thirteen knights bannerets, with their followers, who wereunguardedly sleeping in houses around the castle perhaps for the sakeof an early bath. Young de Montfort and his pages narrowly escapedcapture and only did so by a headlong race “some stark naked, some inbreeches or drawers, some in shirts and many with their clothes undertheir arms.” Departing thence Prince Edward rapidly effected a junctionwith his friends in the West, and overwhelmed and slaughtered the Earlof Leicester at the battle of Evesham. After this the Royal forcesreturned to Kenilworth which still held out manfully under the Earl’ssecond son Simon and underwent a close siege that lasted for six months.

Trenches were cut on the land side of the castle and huge woodentowers, holding slingers and archers, were advanced against the wall,while barges, transported overland from Chester maintained the attackacross the castle lake; but the garrison which numbered 1,200 men, metthese assaults with the mangonels and other engines of de Montfort,and only gave in when reduced by famine, when,[237] with the surrender ofKenilworth, the Civil War came to an end in December, 1265.

Having thus recovered possession of the fortress, King Henry bestowedit and the manor upon his youngest son Edmund, whom he created, twoyears later, Earl of Lancaster. In 1279, under the encouragement ofthat martial prince, Edward I., a very magnificent tournament was heldat Kenilworth, under Mortimer, Earl of March, for the space of threedays, at which, besides the sports of tilting and the barriers, thenew military game of the Round Table was introduced. King Edward II.,after his flight and capture, was brought a prisoner here to meet thecommission appointed by Parliament, from whose lips he received theannouncement of his deposition in favour of his son, at hearing whichhe fell senseless to the ground. Of the presence chamber, where thismournful scene was enacted, little remains but fragments of walls andtwo large bay windows festooned with ivy. The unfortunate King wasshortly after, on December 5, removed hence to his hideous doom atBerkeley Castle on January 25. On the accession of Edward III., thecastle again became the seat of baronial splendour under the Earls ofLancaster, the third of whom, Henry, was created Duke of Lancaster,but dying s. p. male (35 Edward III.), his two daughters became heirsto his great estates: Blanche, the younger, inheriting Kenilworth andbringing it, and afterwards, on her sister’s death the whole propertyof her father, in marriage to John of Gaunt, fourth son of EdwardIII., who shortly after revived in him the title of Duke of Lancaster.The[238] wealth thus obtained from his father enabled in great measure theduke’s son and heir, Henry of Bolingbroke, in later days to oust hiscousin, Richard II., from the throne, and to take his place thereon asKing Henry IV., being greatly driven thereto by the King’s treatment ofhim in regard to Kenilworth.

The range called Lancaster Buildings was caused to be erected by Johnof Gaunt between his accession to the property and his death in 1399.They lie on the south side of the inner quadrangle and there is a towerwith three stories of arches adjoining the hall on the north, also ofthis date; the same origin is given to the Strong, or Mervin’s Tower,as it is called by Sir Walter Scott. The ancient garden of the castlewas situated near the north-east angle of the outer wall, where theSwan Tower meets the lake and wet ditch on the north.

Of course on Henry IV. succeeding, the crown resumed the ownership ofthe fortress, and thus it continued, often enlivened by the visitsof royalty, until the days of Elizabeth, who bestowed it on herfavourite, Robert Dudley, fifth son of the Duke of Northumberland,with all the royalties thereto belonging. Without enlarging on thehistory of this courtier, it is enough to say that he seems to haveexpended the enormous emoluments derived from the many dignities withwhich Elizabeth overwhelmed him in his lavish outlay upon Kenilworth.The additions and alterations made there by this Dudley involved anexpenditure of £60,000—an incredible sum in those days. He erectedthe great gatehouse on the north, also the mass of square[239] rooms fromthe north-east angle of the upper court, the buildings, called afterhim, and the gallery and lower gatehouse towers, together with agreat range of stabling. He removed the Norman windows from the keep,replacing them by more modern ones; and it is evident that the greatobject of his outlay was to provide magnificent accommodation for theentertainment of his Queen and her Court.

This reception took place in July, 1575, and the festivities werecontinued for seventeen days during which every sort of prodigalextravagance possible at that age was indulged in. It cost Leicester£1,000 a day. At his death he bequeathed the castle to his brotherAmbrose, Earl of Warwick, for life, and afterwards to his own son SirRobert Dudley, upon whose birth and legitimacy the father (who iscertainly one of the dark characters in English history) chose to throwdoubts.

This seems to have incited that greedy monarch, James I., to refusethe succession to Sir Robert, whom he forced to consent to a nominalsale of the property to Henry, Prince of Wales, at one-third of itsvalue, and even that was never paid. Dudley, in disgust, withdrew fromEngland, and lived in much honour at Florence, when he died about theyear 1650.

When the place fell into the hands of Oliver Cromwell, a sort ofcommission of army officers was sent to Kenilworth to divide and sharethe property between them, and they, caring nothing for historicalassociations, the splendour of the structure, or the richness of thefurniture and[240] plenishing (it was but seventy-five years after theentertainment of Elizabeth there) proceeded to strip the place, to cutthe timber, kill the deer, and even to sell the walls and roofing, forthe value of the bare materials.

At the restoration, Charles II. granted the reversion of the manorto Lawrence, Lord Hyde, second son of Chancellor Clarendon, whom hecreated Baron Kenilworth and Earl of Rochester. His grandson leavingonly a daughter, the lands and ruins came by marriage to the Essexfamily and, afterwards, by marriage to Thomas Villiers, the second sonof the Earl of Jersey, created, in 1756, Baron Hyde, in whose familythey still continue.

At Kenilworth was immured Eleanor Cobham, the wife of Humphrey, Earlof Gloucester, after the performance of her penance on a charge ofpracticing witchcraft against Henry VI. and here she ended her days.

As in most other cases the Norman baron founded his castle on the siteof a Saxon home with a fortified burh; a square keep was built on themost commanding position, perhaps on the mound, and a large walledenclosure was made, defended on the west, south and east sides by alake and by a deep ditch across the north front. Somewhat on the westside of this was formed the inner ward a rectangular enclosure, nearlyone and one-half acres in area, the north-east corner of which wasoccupied by Clinton’s keep. This is a plain late Norman edifice with aforebuilding on the west side, and containing a vaulted basement andone upper floor only, the former being entirely filled with earth. Themain floor formed one immense room thirty-four feet[241] by sixty-four andabout forty feet high. The forebuilding contained the staircase ofapproach to the entrance doorway, and above was a room, possibly anoratory. Large corner turrets, three containing mural chambers and onelarge spiral stair, cap the angles of the keep, the walls of which areof immense thickness. There is no evidence as to what was the natureof the Norman buildings in this ward, since they have been replacedby the work of the Earls of Lancaster, and of John of Gaunt, and arecalled by their name. West from the keep are the ruined kitchens,showing a huge fireplace and baking ovens. At the north-west angleis the Strong Tower, of three stages, which was, perhaps, used as aprison for persons of consequence. Adjoining this is the Hall, a purePerpendicular building, due to John of Gaunt, beyond which was thewhite hall, and next the State rooms, which are connected with a largegarderobe tower. Then at the south-east corner comes the range to whichthe name of Leicester’s Buildings has been given, and the east face tothe keep is made up by the site of Dudley’s Lobby and Henry VIII.’slodgings, but all this has perished.

The outer ward is a large oblong enclosure, 270 yards long from eastto west by 174; at its east end were domestic offices, the entrancesand the chapel. Originally this ward was divided by a ditch seventyfeet wide running north and south with a bridge for access to theinner ward, part of it remaining in front of Leicester’s buildings,and the rest having probably been filled in by Dudley after the visitof Elizabeth. This outer ward contains about nine[242] acres, having acircumference of 750 yards; it is formed by a strong curtain wallembracing six important buildings; namely, the octagon Swan Tower onthe north-west, Mortimer’s Tower, or the gatehouse, at the head ofthe dam across the lake, called either after Lord Mortimer of Wigmore(temp. Edward III.), or from Sir John Mortimer, imprisoned here in thereign of Henry V. Then towards the east came the Warden’s Tower, andnext the Water Tower at the south-east corner, a complete mural bastionof Early Decorated style; whence the curtain runs to Lunn’s Tower atthe north-east angle, a round building thirty-six feet in diameter andforty high. At the back of this part of the wall is a long range ofstabling and farm buildings, with an upper half-timbered storey, saidto have been built by the great Earl Thomas of Lancaster, in the reignof Edward II., but some part is Late Perpendicular. Next to this isthe chapel. West of Lunn’s Tower is the building called Leicester’sGatehouse, built in 1570, a rectangular tower with octangular cornerturrets. On the north side of the great ditch, which is cut through therock and forms the north defence, is Clinton’s green, where are stillbanks of earth, probably survivals of the great siege by Henry III.

In front of Mortimer’s Tower is the dam, eighty yards long, across thevalley, having at its further end the remains of a flood-gate and outergatehouse, or the gallery tower, with a drawbridge here over the outerditch. This was the point at which Queen Elizabeth made her entry.Beyond it was called the Brayz, where tournaments were held, as[243] theyalso were on the dam itself. On both sides of the dam extended a lake,half a mile long on the west, and some twelve feet deep, upon which theattack by ships was made by Henry III. Finally, beyond the Brayz was agreat curved outwork forming a tête-du-pont in front of the entrance.

The keep, or Clinton’s Tower was perhaps built between 1170 and 1180.Lunn’s Tower may be the work of King John. Henry III. expended largesums at Kenilworth, and to him is ascribed the great dam, the Water andWarden’s Towers, and much of the curtain on the south and east. RobertDudley, Earl of Leicester, altered the keep into Tudor Style, andbesides the buildings called by his name, added the Gallery Tower andthe gatehouse at the north-east, “a very fine example of a decliningperiod in English architecture.” John of Gaunt certainly built thegreat Hall (circ. 1390), “one of the most beautiful examples of EarlyPerpendicular work in the kingdom,” and he is said to have built theportion called Lancaster’s Buildings, between Cæsar’s Tower and thehill. It was at Kenilworth, during one of her visits in August, 1572,while out hunting, that Queen Elizabeth read, as she rode, the terriblenews of the massacre of Saint Bartholomew.

“SANTA MARIA DELLA SALUTE,” Our Lady of Health, or of Safety, would bea more literal translation, yet not perhaps fully expressing the forceof the Italian word in this case. The church was built between 1630and 1680, in acknowledgment of the cessation of the plague:—of courseto the Virgin, to whom the modern Italian has recourse in all hisprincipal distresses, and who receives his gratitude for all principaldeliverances.

The hasty traveller is usually enthusiastic in his admiration of thisbuilding; but there is a notable lesson to be derived from it, whichis not often read. On the opposite side of the broad canal of theGuidecca is a small church, celebrated among Renaissance architects asof Palladian design, but which would hardly attract the notice of thegeneral observer, unless on account of the pictures by John Belliniwhich it contains, in order to see which the traveller may perhapsremember having been taken across the Guidecca to the Church of the“Redentore.” But he ought carefully to compare these two buildings witheach other, the one built “to the Virgin,” the other “to the Redeemer”(also a votive offering after the cessation of the plague of 1576): theone, the most conspicuous church in Venice, its dome, the principal oneby which she is first [245]discerned, rising out of the distant sea; theother, small and contemptible, on a suburban island, and only becomingan object of interest, because it contains three small pictures! Forin relative magnitude and conspicuousness of these two buildings, wehave an accurate index of the relative importance of the ideas of theMadonna and of Christ in the modern Italian mind.

The Church of Santa Maria della Salute on the Grand Canal, one ofthe earliest buildings of the Grotesque Renaissance, is renderedimpressive by its position, size, and general proportions. These latterare exceedingly good; the grace of the whole building being chieflydependent on the inequality of size in its cupolas, and pretty groupingof the two campaniles behind them. It is to be generally observed thatthe proportions of buildings have nothing whatever to do with the styleor general merits of their architecture. An architect trained in theworst schools, and utterly devoid of all meaning or purpose in hiswork, may yet have such a natural gift of massing and grouping as willrender all his structures effective when seen from a distance: such agift is very general with the late Italian builders, so that many ofthe most contemptible edifices in the country have good stage effect solong as we do not approach them. The Church of the Salute is fartherassisted by the beautiful flight of steps in front of it down to theCanal; and its façade is rich and beautiful of its kind, and was chosenby Turner for the principal object in his well-known view of the GrandCanal. The principal faults of the building are the meagre windows in[246]the sides of the cupola, and the ridiculous disguise of the buttressesunder the form of colossal scrolls; the buttresses themselves beingoriginally a hypocrisy, for the cupola is stated by Lazari to beof timber, and therefore needs none. The sacristy contains severalprecious pictures: the three on its roof by Titian, much vaunted, areindeed as feeble as they are monstrous; but the small Titian, “St.Mark, with Sts. Cosmo and Damian,” was, when I first saw it, to myjudgment, by far the first work of Titian’s in Venice. It has sincebeen restored by the Academy, and it seemed to me entirely destroyed,but I had not time to examine it carefully.

At the end of the larger sacristy is the lunette which once decoratedthe tomb of the Doge Francesco Dandolo; and at the side of it, one ofthe most highly finished Tintorets in Venice, namely The Marriagein Cana, an immense picture, some twenty-five feet long by fifteenfeet high, and said by Lazari to be one of the few which Tintoretsigned with his name.

To what race shall we attribute the foundation of the city ofCarcassonne? We cannot say exactly, so many races having occupied thispart of the valley of the Aude in turn; the first in point of timewas that of the Iberians, that mysterious people, who had colonizedSouthern Europe long before the coming of the Aryan race. Withouttaking any more account than is necessary regarding the hypothesis ofthe etymologists, we may recall the fact that the celebrated Williamvon Humboldt attaches the vocable Carcaso, as well as manyothers from the south of Gaul and the north of Spain, to the Ibericlanguage.

Erected into a Latin colony by Cæsar himself, or by his adoptedson, Augustus, Carcassonne vegetated obscurely for three centuriesuntil the day when the invasion by the Barbarians and the civilwars brought about the ruin of the Empire. At this moment she wasshorn of her ancient glory; and from a Latin colony, she became asimple castrum, which many manuscripts of the Notitiadignitatum, written about the year 400, do not even mention. Butif the old city lost her importance with regard to civil life, shegained it in military life. At the moment the Germans, those hereditaryenemies of Rome, spread over the[248] whole of Gaul, the cities repairedtheir too long neglected fortifications in great haste; open spacesthey surrounded with high walls; the ancient citadels were reinforced;and in their haste, just as happened later during the Hundred Years’War, many sumptuous buildings erected by Latin architects, weresacrificed to make the defences. Carcassonne is now furnished witha strong enclosure, the honour of which many archæologists, amongthem Viollet-le-Duc, wish to give to the Visigoths; but it seems moreprudent to attribute them to the last engineers of the expiring Empire.This enclosure, of which some parts still exist to-day, is composed ofcurtains of medium height, surmounted by a parapet without projectionsand flanked at intervals with semicircular towers opened at the gorge,or closed by a flat wall.

The towers were bare up to the level of the circling road, higher theycomprised two or three stories. Viollet-le-Duc supposes that they werecovered with a roof, and restored one according to this hypothesis.Much more elevated than the curtain, these Gallo-Roman towers commandedit from above, and on each of their flanks the curtain is interruptedby a gap connected by a narrow bridge, which was easy to destroy incase of an attack.

One must imagine the city of Carcassonne, with this enclosure composedof high curtains with parapets and turrets, and, at intervals, hightowers, dominating the country and commanding the neighbouringdefences. Such she was at the end of the Empire and such she remainedfor several centuries. Occupied by the Visigoths, vainly besieged[249]several times by Clovis and by the successors of that prince, she wasnot forced before the Eighth Century. At this date, she fell into thehands of the Arabs, with all of the surrounding country. The dominationof the Mussulmans, however, was very ephemeral; occupied by them about720, Carcassonne again became Christian thirty years later, in 759.

Carcassonne became an important town. The city remains a fortress ofthe first order, almost impregnable, with its towers, its curtainsand its vast château; but around it, on the slopes and atthe base of the hill between the Aude and the city, extensive andflourishing boroughs are forming. These bourgs are mentionedin 1067; more recent discoveries tell us that the two principal oneswere Saint-Vincent and Saint-Michel. The latter was a commercial towninhabited by common people and workmen whose turbulent character causedgreat embarrassment to the viscounts during the Twelfth Century. Fromthe beginning of that century, the notables of Carcassonne took theside of the enemy of their legitimate master, the Count of Barcelona,gave him their oath, and on two different occasions the Viscount,Bernard Aton, was chased by them from his capital. When he returned, in1125, he took rigorous measures to assure his rule in the future. Eachtower on the wall was confided to the care of a faithful noble who hadto live in it with his family and his men, to do what was called leservice d’estage. The feudal acts have preserved for us the name ofseveral towers, the turris monetaria vetus, for example, but itwould be[250] difficult to state precisely to which of the existing towersthe old names were given.

To the same viscount, Bernard Aton, is attributed the construction ofa great part of the present wall of the city, and almost the entirechâteau; from the reign of the same prince dates also the oldpart of the church Saint-Nazaire. Let us begin with the château.An act of the year 1034 already mentions the residence of the Counts ofCarcassonne, and the sala, in which the Bishop of Gerona, PierreRoger, lived; it speaks of the kitchens, the chambers, the stablesand the chapel Saint-Marcel. Later, the castellum Carcassonneis always carefully distinguished from the citadel; the acts, inmentioning a camera rotunda, speak of the elm that ornamentedthe court and under which the feudal lords rendered justice, as SaintLouis did later at Vincennes. But these give very meagre informationwhich the study of this building will happily permit us to complete.

The ordinary residence of the suzerain, the Château deCarcassonne, like the donjons of the North, was designed toprotect him against all attacks that came from outside as well as fromwithin the town. A last refuge for faithful defenders, it had to be ashelter during a regular siege, or a personal attack, and to protectthe suzerain against enemies without and traitors within. Therefore,a special wall was erected against the town and against the country.The Château de Carcassonne was no exception to the generalrule. Supported by the exterior wall on the side of the town, it isdefended by a wide moat and by a circular barbican over the end ofa bridge that was thrown[251] over the moat; it forms a parallelogram,flanked by towers and high curtains. The masonry is the same andis composed of yellowish stones placed in regular layers of fromfifteen to twenty centimetres in height. The domes have the form ofhemispherical caps, with regular arches and are unornamented. Thebays are semicircular without mouldings, or projections; nowhere isthere any sacrifice to decoration, with the exception of certain upperopenings that are inaccessible to attack, and these have received afew ornaments,—mouldings and little columns of marble that garnishthe corners of the windows. The principal entrance towards the citywas defended by two portcullises and two successive gates; afterhaving passed these obstacles, you find yourself in a large court ofhonour which was flanked on one side by the walls of the city, andon the other by dwellings, shops, and light wooden buildings, thathave disappeared to-day, or have been restored in the style of theThirteenth Century. A few halls of the Twelfth Century have, however,survived; they are not very attractive, with their surbased vaults andtheir narrow openings.

Let us now turn our back on the château and enter thelices, for this is what they called the space circumscribed bythe two walls of the City. We have seen above that from 1240 the townhad a double wall, but the first, probably much damaged by the lords ofTrencavel, was doubtless reconstructed in, and appears to date almostentirely from, the reign of St. Louis. It is composed of curtainselevated upon the rock and which never could have been[252] of a greatheight: since the ground of the lices was made, it has gained inheight. Sometimes the two curtains were quite far apart, sometimes, onthe contrary, they are close together, and the straight passage betweenthem was formerly closed by walls with battlements and solid gates.Most of the towers which flank the exterior wall are very simple andare quite low; as a rule, they are composed of two storeys and theirplatform is covered with a pointed roof covered with slate.

The interior enclosure, which is much stronger and better preservedthan the exterior, dates only in part from the Thirteenth Century, butif the royal architects have respected the work of their predecessorsas scrupulously as possible, they have never hesitated to transformthe defective or insufficient portions, whenever they felt itpractical. This second enclosure is at once higher and stronger thanits neighbour, the towers are closer together and better arranged fordefence. The elevated and spacious curtains still carry traces of thehourds which surmounted them in times of war; in many of thosenear the château, the base dates from the time of a remoteepoch,—perhaps the time of the Romans, but the tops were remodelled inthe Thirteenth Century by Saint-Louis, or Philip the Bold. Moreover,these princes made no other changes in the whole wall that extends fromthe château to the Tower of the Inquisition; you particularlynotice the Tower of Justice, a beautiful building with four storiesof the feudal period, and the Visigoth Tower, cleverly restored, toocleverly perhaps, by Viollet-le-Duc, but an interesting example[253] of themilitary system of the Gallo-Romans of the Decadence.

The Tower of the Inquisition appears to date from the reign of Philipthe Bold. It is a beautiful building of four storeys which in theThirteenth and Fourteenth Centuries, sheltered the ecclesiasticaltribunal the name of which it bears.

Before the Revolution, the city was deserted; in 1744, the bishopfollowed the general example and left his old palace of the ThirteenthCentury. The new régime was not equally just. For a long time,the city remained a military post, mutilated by military genius, on thepretext of maintaining and improving it; a great number of towers wererazed and transformed into low curtains, absurd defences which couldnot have held out two hours against a strong attack. This admirablecollection of mediæval military art was exposed to the greatestdanger; let us thank the archæologists who interested the State inthe preservation of these venerable remains. Restored to-day with areverent care, the old citadel is assured a long life. As for the Cityherself, she can never become what she was in the Thirteenth Century,a rich and populous town, but she will certainly remain forever anadmirable museum, where everyone who is interested in national historywill come to study the military art of old France.

The student of the Romanesque who transports himself suddenly from theArno and the Apenines to the river-basin of the Po will find himselfspirited away into a new architectural world. Let him flit from Pisato Modena. Pistoia, a city of high interest on other grounds, will notlong detain him. A single noble campanile is attached to a basilicanduomo which would hold a third or fourth-rate place at Lucca,and which at Pisa no one would think of mentioning at all. But atModena his halt must be longer. The church of Pisa and the church ofModena are contemporary buildings, and the Great Countess is honouredas a benefactress by both; but they are as unlike one another as anytwo buildings of the same date and general style well can be. At Modenawe get our first glimpse of the genuine Lombard form of the ItalianRomanesque, a form wholly unlike either the domical or basilicantype, and which makes a far nearer approach to the Romanesque of thelands beyond the Alps. The approach is indeed only an approach; theduomo of Modena is Italian, and not English, French, or German;still it is a form of Italian far less widely removed from English,French, or German work than the style of Pisa or St. Vital. As at Pisa,the architect seems to have halted between two [255]opinions. The churchis cruciform, but the transepts have no projection on the ground-plan;there are real lantern-arches, not obscured as they are at Pisa, butthey do not bear up any central dome or tower. The lantern-arches arepointed; but here, as at Pisa, the pointed form is more likely tobe Saracenic than Gothic. Without, three eastern apses, rising frombetween pinnacles of quite Northern character, group boldly with oneof the noblest campaniles of Italy, which is certainly not improved bythe later addition of a spire. The great doorways rest on lions; thewest front has a noble wheel window; the greater part of the outside islavishly arcaded, but the arcading is of a different type from the longrows of single arcades at Lucca and Pisa; the favourite form at Modenais that of several small arches grouped under a containing arch.

With such an outside, we are not surprised to find, on entering thechurch, an elevation more nearly after the Northern type than anythingwhich we have yet seen in Italy. At Pisa we saw an arcade, triforium,and clerestory; but the triforium was not so much the Northern typeitself as the Northern type translated into Italian language. But atModena we find as genuine a triforium as in any minster of England orNormandy. Its form indeed seems somewhat rude and awkward, as if thecontaining arch had been crushed by the lofty clerestory above. Andeyes familiar with Norman detail may possibly be amazed at the sight ofmid-wall shafts, and those of a somewhat rough type, showing themselvesin such a position. But the mid-wall[256] shaft is constructively asmuch in its place in a triforium as it is in a belfry window, and inthe whole elevation there is nothing lacking. There is pier-arch,triforium, and clerestory, and the deep splay of the highest rangehinders the presence of any continuous blank spaces such as we haveseen in the Basilican churches. The capitals are a strange mixture ofclassical and barbaric forms, and in the alternate piers, supportingthe arches which span the nave, we find huge half-columns, which forma marked contrast to the tall slender shafts commonly used in likepositions in Northern churches. Altogether the Cathedral of Modena isstrictly an Italian church, yet the approaches to Northern forms arevery marked, and they are of a kind which suggests the direct imitationof Northern forms or the employment of Northern architects.

The basilica of Rheims is the ideal type of a great Gothic cathedral.Everything has been gathered together here to enchant the eye and touchthe mind.

From the outside, with its eight spires, and the lace-work of itsbell-towers, and its galleries boldly mounting to the sky, with thebreadth of its arrangement, the splendid development of its cruciformplan, with its two cloisters and its magnificent dependencies, itappears as the sublime expression of western genius and the culminatingpoint of the Christian idea.

Within, it is dazzling. All the resources of decoration have beenprodigally employed. Indeed, the eye does not know which of the marvelsto select, and if this stupendous whole has been preserved to us bya miracle, nothing in the world can be compared to it. The brilliantseries of windows, one of the most complete and beautiful in existence;the pavement, with its labyrinth and countless mortuary tombs; the richaltars and chapel paintings; the tomb of St. Nicaise; the pulpit of St.Remi; the rood-screen, a master work by Colard de Givry, made in 1417;the railings of the choir, with precious hangings and stalls; the highaltar charged with relics, and presents from the Kings of France; itsgolden retable and its splendid[258] ciborium of the Thirteenth Century,in silver gilt; the sacrarium, the fonts, and the sepulchres;—form agreat mass of treasure.

And how greatly is the feeling increased by memories when youreconstruct the public life of Notre-Dame of Rheims, and the events ofwhich she was the theatre during the long course of centuries; when youdream of all the coronations, councils, and meetings that have takenplace beneath its vaults! No edifice, in truth, is, in this respect,more worthy of our honour and admiration.

Notre-Dame of Rheims measures in round numbers one hundred andthirty-nine metres long and thirty-eight metres high beneath thevault; it is not surpassed in length by the Cathedral of Mans, thanksto the unusual dimensions of its absidal chapel, nor in height byBeauvais, Cologne, Metz, Amiens, or Saint-Quentin. The great divisionsof the whole, founded upon a triple scale, in height and breadth, areclearly accentuated. From the lower part of the nave the view is oneof striking grandeur and harmony; the dazzled glance loses itself inthese vast depths, under the luminous sheets of light which spread outfrom the lateral bays, while the large vault, clouded in the mysteriouspenumbra of the high windows, ornamented with their glass, invites youto meditation. No cathedral offers so powerful an opposition to light.The arrangement of the great piers cantoned by four half-columns boundtogether also increases the fleeting perspective.

Of the whole building, I have only to criticize the composition of thetriforium, which is truly not of the first[259] order; it demands moreelegance and firmness; the arches of that gallery, the decorativefunction of which is so important in a Gothic church, seem heavy and asif crushed between the robust piers of the ground-floor and the largebays of the upper story.

In all that belongs to the Thirteenth Century, the execution bearswitness to an extreme care and luxury. The Cathedral of Rheims,principally in its interior work, is a model that has never beensurpassed from the point of view of technique, of show and of thejudicious use of material. The carving is of the first order. Thecapitals of Rheims are celebrated, and very justly. The independenceof the Style champenois has introduced some elements of lifeand fantasy which give them a character of their own. Some of themost beautiful, notably the capital of the Vendanges (TheVintages), have been made popular by the mouldings in the Musée of theTrocadéro; but all of them are remarkable on account of the varietyof the motives that decorate them. Viollet-le-Duc has justly observedthat the capitals of Rheims present a decisive progress in the union ofthe capital of the principal column with the capitals of the connectedcolumns: a very great difficulty which Gothic architects did not solveuntil after numerous groupings. Here the monotony has been avoided bya division of the bound columns into two segments, separated by anastragal. The effect of this division is most happy and constitutes oneof the most striking peculiarities of the Cathedral of Rheims.

The choir is unanimously admired. However, it has[260] not the breadthnor the spring of the great choirs of Bourges, Amiens and Mans; butit derives its originality from its depth and its radiating chapels;and to the preservation of its most exquisite windows it owes a poeticcharm that very few interiors can equal. The windows of Rheims are,in reality, the most perfect we have seen after those of Chartres,Bourges, Mans and Auxerre. In purity of expression they surpass thewindows of Soissons, Troyes, and Châlons. The windows in the apsis aremasterpieces; their sweet intensity, in the scale of blue, is trulyenchanting. They were executed from 1227 to 1240 under the episcopateof Henri de Braisne, whose figure appears in the principal window, inthe centre of nine large, high windows, between the twelve suffragansof Rheims, arranged in order, according to their rank in the province:Soissons, Laon, Beauvais, Noyon, Senlis, Tournai, Cambrai, Châlons,Thérouanne, Amiens, etc., each having at his side a Gothic cathedral.

These figures of bishops of gigantic proportions have a majesty thatcannot be described. But in the midst of these splendours, it isthe rose of the western window which is perhaps the most worthy ofeverything to hold your attention. Composition, brilliancy, harmony andelegance of position,—it possesses all these qualities. It would bedifficult to find a more admirable witness of the decorative sense ofthe old glass-workers. When across the network of the immense surface,the light from the setting sun is thrown, the whole interior of thechurch is[261] illuminated as if by a conflagration. The preservation ofthis masterpiece is unfortunately greatly compromised by the crack likea sabre cut which crosses the façade near the rose. The high windows inthe nave represent the Kings, just as in the Cathedral of Sacres; theyare still more beautiful, however, of deep rich colours, but of a lesscareful execution than the great rose and the windows in the choir.

All these marvels, however, pale before the carved decoration thatsurrounds on the inside the lower part of the three doors of thefaçade, a kind of drapery in relief, as unique by the character of itsinvention as by the perfection of its workmanship.

This extraordinary decoration envelops up to their summits the threeogival windows that open upon the porch. It goes up as high as thetriforium, by a succession of seven rows of niches closed by trefoilarches, and separated from them by panels and corner-pieces of leavesborrowed from the flora of the country and divinely carved. You seein turn: the laurel, the vine, the pear, the apple, the holly, theoak, the ivy, the water-lily, the bulrush, the peony, the clover,the chestnut, the liverwort, and the olive. A hundred and twenty-twostatues of incomparable beauty, rivalling the most beautifulproductions of sculpture of former times, occupy the niches, and,deliciously set off by the floral decoration of the plain surfaces,stand out like living personages from the dark background of the niches.

Each one of these figures is a most precious work, studied from naturewith a sovereign knowledge of drapery[262] and movement. Here is a priestofficiating in his chasuble and holding the Eucharist; there, is awarrior in coat-of-mail, who seems to have just returned from theCrusades; moreover, there are some prophets of heroic mien, noblevirgins with trailing robes, and martyrs, illuminated with ecstasy.All this mural decoration was made in the spirit of the architecture,intended to complete the iconography of the great door and to amplifystill further the cyclic character,—the general theme being thehistory of Christ and the glorification of the Virgin, with theaccessory scenes that belong to it.

Let us cross the threshold: we are outside, before the façade. We mustwalk farther away in order to embrace all the lines and take in themasterly idea of the whole. It is most celebrated, that is well-known;for a long time, its richness has been a synonym of beauty in mediævalart. I have already said that the general conception is of the highestorder, the upward movement is magnificent, the statues blossom with abewildering luxuriance, and the infinite multiplication of the details,which—miraculous fact—do not obliterate the majestic section ofthe lower stages, so happily cut by the tall bays scattered in thebell-towers. Nevertheless, when you come nearer, you are surprised atfinding so much uncertainty in the conduct of this terrible enterprise!How much weakness and lassitude in the highest parts! You perceive bothhaste and economy there. All that dates from the end of the Fourteenthand the beginning of the Fifteenth Century is mediocre; the sculpture,cut in bad materials that are[263] injured by the frost, is coarse andflabby: the nobility of the contours is lost beneath the excessiveornamentation, and the absence of the spires deprives this aërialbuilding of its necessary finish.

To be satisfied, the eye must rest below the row of Kings made duringthe reign of Charles V.

While the upper stories have been made of soft stone of a bad quality,the lower parts, built of hard stone, have acquired in the course oftime the hues of Florentine bronze. It is here that the Champagnesculptor has lavishly exhibited the treasures of his spirit, hisaudacity and his genius. When the great statues of the portals ofRheims are mentioned, everybody is of one accord.

The Queen of the basilica, the Virgin, is the soul of this cosmos, thecentre from which everything radiates.

She is crowned by Christ beneath the daïs of the great gable, and thiscomposition, which is still brightened by the remains of the goldbackground from which it stands out, is one of the most exquisitecreations of Christian Art; the Virgin is also on the pier; she isdirectly or indirectly in every scene of the life of Jesus. Her memory,her legend, her poetry are everywhere: she is at once the culminatingpoint and the humble pretext of all this magnificence. At Paris, atBourges and at Amiens, it is Christ; here, it is the Virgin; andaround this admirable theme a powerful thought has quickened intobeing a race of statues, a people in whom life, movement and fantasycirculate, beneath the compassionate gaze of the Mother of God andunder the influence of her adorable grace. Charm[264] is really the specialcharacteristic of the sculpture at Rheims,—a special charm that isalways evident, a charm carried to the point of morbidezza whichin certain figures has been compared, and not without reason, to themysterious charm of Leonardo da Vinci.

All these personages of high stature, blackened and polished by time,possess an indescribable grace, smiling and familiar, an indescribableand eloquent gravity that puts them into communion with the spectator;they are indeed of our country and of our race; their idealism, alwaysyouthful despite the centuries, is not too far removed from earth torespond even now to the secret aspirations of our souls; they are theglory of the portals of Rheims, the glory of French sculpture.

Beautiful as these figures are, they must not let us forget thepopulation of two thousand five hundred statues that make the Cathedralof Rheims a unique monument of decorative and monumental sculpture.All the images of this old basilica deserve attentive study. An entirevolume would scarcely suffice to enumerate them. It is necessary totake a trip to the roof to measure fully this incredible wealth:giants of stone, angels with spread wings, apostles, saints and royalfigures, fantastic animals, more than forty metres high, which occupythe pinnacles of the buttresses, are lined along the galleries ofthe transepts or fortify the balustrade of the roof; figures full ofvitality that project from the corners, the springs of the arches, thejunction of curves, as crowns, supports, caryatides, mascarons, andgargoyles; capricious, expressive and energetic figures, to[265] executewhich the Champagne chisel, the freest and most supple of Gothicchisels, has given itself full scope, with an exuberant joy.

Despite the devastations of the rococo period, to which was added thatof the Revolutionary period, the Cathedral of Rheims has not beenentirely stripped of her incomparable artistic treasures. She haspreserved a great portion of her tapestry hangings, and her Treasury isstill one of the richest in France.

The tapestries of Rheims have been very learnedly described by M.Ch. Loriquet. Before the Revolution the collection was unique.Hincmar, Hérivée, Regnault de Chartres, Juvénal des Ursins, Robert deLenoncourt, the great Cardinal of Lorraine, the Cardinal of Guise,Henri de Lorraine, the Kings of France and the Chapter were theprincipal donators.

These tapestries were used to decorate the cathedral on days of specialsolemnity. Of the magnificent collection there only remain the fifteenpieces by Lenoncourt, two of the six tapestries of the Grand RoiClovis, given by the Cardinal of Lorraine, fifteen tapestriesexecuted by Pepersack, at the order of Henri de Lorraine, the fourpieces ordered from Lombart d’ Aubusson by the Chapter, four tapestriescalled the Cantiques and two Gobelins after Raphael’s Cartoons.

The most remarkable are certainly those by Lenoncourt and those of theClovis set. The first were offered to the cathedral by the ArchbishopRobert de Lenoncourt; one of them bears the dedication of 1530. Theyrepresent[266] the Life of the Virgin. They are of Flemish originand of a very fine execution. The composition is rich, spirited and ofan extremely graceful style. Some of them have not lost the freshnessof their colours and can still be counted among the best specimens ofthe art of tapestry at the beginning of the Sixteenth Century. Theseprecious hangings occupy the wall surfaces of the side-aisles of thenave, where they produce a sumptuous effect.

The Ponte S. Angelo is the Pons Elius of Hadrian, built as an approachto his mausoleum, and only intended for this, as another public bridgeexisted close by, at the time of its construction. It is almostentirely ancient, except the parapets. The statues of St. Peter andSt. Paul, at the extremity, were erected by Clement VII., in the placeof two chapels, in 1530, and the angels, by Clement IX., in 1688. Thepedestal of the third angel on the right is a relic of the siege ofRome in 1849, and bears the impress of a cannon-ball.

These angels, which have been called the “breezy maniacs” of Bernini,are only from his designs. The two angels which he executed himself,and intended for this bridge, are now at S. Andrea della Fratte. Theidea of Clement IX. was a fine one, that “an avenue of the heavenlyhost should be assembled to welcome the pilgrim to the shrine of thegreat apostle.”

From the Ponte S. Angelo, when the Tiber is low, are visible theremains of the bridge by which the ancient Via Triumphalis crossedthe river. Close by, where Santo Spirito now stands, was the PortaTriumphalis, by which victors entered the city in triumph.

Facing the bridge, is the famous Castle of S. Angelo,[268] built by theEmperor Hadrian as his family tomb, because the last niche in theimperial mausoleum of Augustus was filled when the ashes of Nerva werelaid there. The first funeral here was that of Elius Verus, the firstadopted son of Hadrian, who died before him. The Emperor himself diedat Baiæ, but his remains were transported hither from a temporary tombat Pozzuoli by his successor Antoninus Pius, by whom the mausoleum wascompleted in A.D., 140. Here also were buried, AntoninusPius, A.D., 161; Marcus Aurelius, 180; Commodus, 192; andSeptimius Severus, in an urn of gold, enclosed in one of alabaster,A.D., 211; Caracalla, in 217, was the last Emperor interredhere. The well-known lines of Byron:

seem rather applicable to the Pyramid of Caius Cestiusthan to this mausoleum.

The Castle, as it now appears, is but the skeleton of the magnificenttomb of the Emperors. Procopius, writing in the Sixth Century,describes its appearance in his time. “It was built,” he says, “ofParian marble; the square blocks fit closely to each other withoutany cement. It has four equal sides, each a stone’s throw in length.In height it rises above the walls of the city. On the summit are[269]statues of men and horses, of admirable workmanship in Parian marble.”Canina, in his Architectura Romana, gives a restoration ofthe mausoleum, which shows how it consisted of three stories: 1, Aquadrangular basement, the upper part intersected with Doric pillars,between which were spaces for epitaphs of the dead within, andsurmounted at the corners by marble equestrian statues; 2, a circularstory, with fluted Ionic colonnades; 3, circular story, surroundedby Corinthian columns, between which were statues. The whole wassurmounted by a pyramidal roof, ending in a bronze fir-cone.

The history of the Mausoleum, in the Middle Ages is almost thehistory of Rome. It was probably first turned into a fortress byHonorius, A.D., 423. From Theodoric it derives the name of“Carcer Theodorici.” In 537, it was besieged by Vitiges, when thedefending garrison, reduced to the last extremity, hurled down all themagnificent statues which decorated the cornice, upon the besiegers. InA.D., 498, Pope Symmachus removed the bronze fir-cone at theapex of the roof to the court of St. Peter’s, whence it was afterwardstransferred to the Vatican garden, where it is still to be seen betweentwo bronze peacocks, which probably stood on either side of theentrance.

Belisarius defended the castle against Totila, whose Gothic troopscaptured and held it for three years, after which it was taken byNarses.

It was in 530 that the event occurred which gave the building itspresent name. Pope Gregory the Great was leading a penitentialprocession to St. Peter’s, in order to[270] offer up prayers for thestaying of the great pestilence which followed the inundation of589; when, as he was crossing the bridge, even while the people werefalling dead around him, he looked up at the Mausoleum and saw anangel on its summit, sheathing a bloody sword, while a choir of angelsaround chaunted with celestial voices, the anthem, since adopted bythe church in her vesper service—“Regina cœli, lætare—quia quemmeruisti portare—resurrexit, sicut dixit, Alleluja.”—To which theearthly voice of the Pope solemnly responded: “Ora pro nobis Deum,Alleluja.”[10]

In the Tenth Century the fortress was occupied by the infamous Marozia,who, in turn, brought her three husbands (Alberic, Count of Tusculum;Guido, Marquis of Tuscany; and Hugo, King of Italy), thither, totyrannize with her over Rome. It was within the walls of this buildingthat Alberic, her son by her first husband, waiting upon his royalstepfather at table, threw a bowl of water over him, when Hugo retortedby a blow, which was the signal for an insurrection, the people takingpart with Alberic, putting the King to flight, and imprisoning Marozia.Shut up within these walls, Pope John XI. (931–936), son of Maroziaby her first husband, ruled under the guidance of his stronger-mindedbrother Alberic;[271] here, also, Octavian, son of Alberic and grandsonof Marozia, succeeded in forcing his election as John XII. (being thefirst Pope who took a new name), and scandalized Christendom by a lifeof murder, robbery, adultery and incest.

In 974, the Castle was seized by Cencio (Crescenzio Nomentano), theconsul, who raised up an anti-pope (Boniface VII.) here, with thedetermination of destroying the temporal power of the popes andimprisoned and murdered two popes, Benedict VI. (972), and John XIV.(984), within these walls. In 996, another lawful pope, Gregory V.,calling in the Emperor Otho to his assistance, took the Castle andbeheaded Cencio, though he had promised him life if he would surrender.From this governor the fortress long held the name of Castello deCrescenzio, or Turris Crescentii, by which it is described in mediævalwritings. A second Cencio supported another anti-pope, Cadolaus, herein 1063, against Pope Alexander II. A third Cencio imprisoned GregoryVII. here in 1084. From this time the possession of the Castle wasa constant point of contest between popes and anti-popes. In 1313,Arlotto degli Stefaneschi, having demolished most of the other towersin the city, arranged the same fate for S. Angelo, but it was saved bycession to the Orsini. It was from hence, on December 15, 1347, thatRienzi fled to Bohemia, at the end of his first period of power, hiswife having previously made her escape disguised as a friar.

“The cause of final ruin to this monument,” is described by Nibby tohave been the resentment of the citizens[272] against a French governor whoespoused the cause of the anti-pope (Clement VII.) against Urban VI. in1378. It was then that the marble casings were all torn from the wallsand used as street pavements.

A drawing of Sangallo of 1465 shows the upper part of the fortresscrowned with high square towers and turreted buildings; a cincture ofbastions and massive square towers girding the whole; two square-builtbulwarks flanking the extremity of the bridge, which was then soconnected with these outworks that passengers would have immediatelyfound themselves inside the fortress after crossing the river.Marlianus, 1588, describes its double cincture of fortifications,—“alarge round tower at the inner extremity of the bridge; two towers withhigh pinnacles, and the cross on their summits, the river flowing allaround.”

The Castle began to assume its present aspect under Boniface IX. in1395. John XXIII., 1411, commenced the covered way to the Vatican,which was finished by Alexander VI.; and roofed by Urban VIII., in1630. By the last named pope the great outworks of the fortress werebuilt under Bernini, and furnished with cannon made from the bronzeroof of the Pantheon. Under Paul III. the interior was decorated withfrescoes, and a colossal marble angel erected on the summit, in placeof a chapel (S. Angelo inter Nubes), built by Boniface XIV. for theexisting angel of bronze, by a Dutch artist, Verschaffelt.

Of the Castle, as we now see it externally, only the quadrangularbasement is of the time of Hadrian; the[273] round tower is of that ofUrban VIII., its top added by Paul III. The four round towers of theoutworks, called after the four Evangelists, are of Nicholas V., 1447.

The interior of the fortress can be visited by an order. Excavationsmade in 1825 have laid open the sepulchral chamber in the midst ofthe basement. Here, stood in the centre, the porphyry sarcophagus ofHadrian, which was stolen by Pope Innocent II. to be used as his owntomb in the Lateran, where it was destroyed by the fire of 1360, thecover alone escaping, which was used for the tomb of Otho II., inthe atrium of St. Peter’s, and which, after filling this office forseven centuries, is now the baptismal font of that basilica. A spiralpassage, thirty feet high and eleven wide, up which a chariot could bedriven, gradually ascends through the solid mass of masonry. There iswonderfully little to be seen. A saloon of the time of Paul III. isadorned with frescoes of the life of Alexander the Great, by Pierinodel Vaga. This room would be used by the pope in case of his havingto take refuge in S. Angelo. An adjoining room, adorned with a stuccofrieze of Tritons and Nereids, is that in which Cardinal Caraffa wasstrangled (1561) under Pius IV., for alleged abuses of authority underhis uncle, Paul IV.—his brother, the Marquis Caraffa, being beheadedin the castle the same night. The reputed prison of Beatrice Cenci isshown, but it is very uncertain that she was ever confined here,—alsothe prison of Cagliostro, and that of Benvenuto Cellini, who escaped,and broke his leg in trying to let himself down by a rope from theramparts. The statue of the angel by[274] Montelupo is to be seen stowedaway in a dark corner. Several horrible trabocchette (oubliettes) areshown.

On the roof, from which there is a beautiful view, are many modernprisons, where prisoners suffer terribly from the summer sun beatingupon their flat roofs.

Among the sculptures found here were the Barberini Faun, now at Munich,the Dancing Faun, at Florence, and the Bust of Hadrian at the Vatican.The sepulchral inscriptions of the Antonines existed till 1572, whenthey were cut up by Gregory XIII. (Buoncompagni), and the marble usedto decorate a chapel in St. Peter’s! The magnificent easter display offireworks (from an idea of Michael Angelo, carried out by Bernini),called the girandola, used to be exhibited here, but now takes placeat S. Pietro in Montorio, or from the Pincio. From 1849 to 1870, theCastle was occupied by French troops, and their banner floated here,except on great festivals, when it was exchanged for that of the pope.

Running behind and crossing the back streets of the Borgo, is thecovered passage intended for the escape of the popes to the Castle.It was used by Alexander VI. when invaded by Charles VIII. in 1494,and twice by Clement VII. (Giulio de’ Medici), who fled, in 1527, fromMoncada, viceroy of Naples, and in May, 1527, during the terrible sackof Rome by the troops of the Constable de Bourbon.

“The Escape” consists of two passages; the upper open like a loggia,the lower covered, and only lighted by loop-holes. The keys of both arekept by the pope himself.

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S. Angelo is at the entrance of the Borgo, promised at the Italianinvasion of September, 1870, as the sanctuary of the papacy, thetiny sovereignty where the temporal sway of the popes should remainundisturbed,—the sole relic left to them of all their ancientdominions.

Salisbury Cathedral, from the point of view of the architecturalartist, is the most beautiful and the most perfect in England. Thevisitor who sees it first on a bright day, can never forget theimpression it has made on his mind. Unlike the architects of theso-called “Great Gothic Revival,” the builders of Salisbury put theirtrust in proportion. Incidentally they made their details as elaborateand perfect as possible; but they were subordinated to the generaleffect, and when during the frightful ravages of the “restorers,” letloose upon the church in the past and present centuries, many of thebest and most precious of these details and ornaments perished or wererenewed, the main building survives, raising its exquisitely gracefulspire into the blue sky, its thousand pinnacles all pointing upward andgleaming white against the deep green of the old trees and the emeraldturf of the surrounding close. “How long,” asked an American visitor,“does it take to grow such turf?” “Oh! not long,” was the reply; “onlya couple of centuries.” One feels at Salisbury that whether the answerwas given there or at Oxford, of no place could it be more true. Thoughwhen we look near enough, we can see that fresh and white as is thegeneral effect, the masonry of Salisbury is [277]of great antiquity,except, of course, where it has been restored; and antiquity addsanother charm, for Salisbury was the first complete cathedral builtafter the Romanesque tradition had died out, as St. Paul’s is thefirst built after it had been revived. In other cathedrals there areportions and fragments of the same style, and they are always the mostbeautiful features of the whole building. We can recall the westernporch at Ely, and the angel choir at Lincoln, and the Chapter-house atSouthwell; but here at Salisbury, we have the whole vast cathedral,all in the same supreme style, every part fitting into its place, andadding its contribution to the general effect, never in contrast, butalways in harmony until the effect is attained. What that is may beread in countless books of travel or criticism. Salisbury cathedral,like the Parthenon and all the other—there are not many—buildingswhich tempt one to call them poems in stone—produces a differentfeeling in the minds of all who see it. I am not going to add anotherto the descriptions of the view. On the contrary, I am going aboutthe prosaic task of trying to find out to what circumstances itsbeauty is due, and why the name of Richard Poore is honoured amonglovers of good architecture with that of Christopher Wren, no otherEnglishman being worthy to make a third. The chief points to be notedabout Salisbury are these. The effect does not in any way depend uponornamental details. This may be proved by two examples taken from thebuilding. The west front was greatly injured at different times, itscarving broken, and its figures defaced. The carving has been copiedand[278] “restored,” and new figures have replaced the old. The front isnow neat and spick and span, but the general effect is in no wiseimproved, but rather deteriorated, by having its antiquity destroyed.It is the same with the chromatic decoration of the interior, and withthe “improvement” of the Chapter-house. The painting on the roof tendsto lower it; the gaudy, shiny aspect of the Chapter-house goes far tospoil, if it could spoil, the exquisite design and subtle proportions.

Another point to be noticed is this: Salisbury does not owe its beautyto size, nor yet altogether to the style in which it is built. This iseasily proved. The great French cathedral of Amiens exceeds Salisburyin all its dimensions, and was built, allowing for the differencebetween France and England, in the self-same style. Both are examplesof First Pointed, and Amiens is, according to Fergusson, at leasttwice as large in its cubic contents. “The French church covers 71,000square feet, the English only 55,000. The vault of the first is onehundred and fifty-two feet in height, the latter only eighty-five.”There is still a more remarkable difference between the central spiresof the two churches. That of Amiens rises to a height of 422 feet;that of Salisbury, the tallest in England, only to 404. Yet the greatheight of the roof at Amiens robs its spire of any preponderance itmight otherwise boast, and leaves the comparatively small steeple ofSalisbury a feature of grandeur and beauty only approached by the stilllower dome of St. Paul’s, which rises at its highest part, the cross,to 365 feet above the ground level.

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It will be seen, therefore, that Salisbury owes its effect to somethingbeyond ornament or size. The extraordinary order and regularity ofthe masonry may have something to say to it, although the stones, ascompared with what may be seen in Egypt, and elsewhere, are not verylarge. But you can trace the same course all round the church andthe same stone, oolite from the quarry at Chilmark, has been usedthroughout. This communicates a certain look of stability to thestructure, which is, in itself, more pleasing to the eye than anyamount of ornament out of place, or intended, as in modern Gothic, todivert the eye from the poverty of the materials or the absence ofproportion. The proportions of Salisbury, like those of St. Paul’s, orthe Parthenon, are calculated to give the building its full measure ofbeauty, without anything extraneous.

That Salisbury should have this unity of age and design is owing to acurious fact in the history of the place. The “bishop’s stool” had beenupon the bleak, chalk down which borders Salisbury Plain. The place wasreally a castle whose fortifications are still visible; the cathedralwithin the walls must have been Norman in design, to judge in dryseasons from the marks still visible among the grassy mounds, and fromfragments of carved stone built into the wall or cross. Mr. Walcottgives its dimensions as follows: “A nave one hundred and fifty feetby seventy-two feet, a transept one hundred and fifty feet by sixtyfeet, and a choir sixty feet in length, in all two hundred and seventyfeet.” The situation was in every way inconvenient, having been chosenfor security not comfort.[280] After the King took the fort and filled itwith his own soldiers, a governor superseding the bishop, the positionof the ecclesiastics became unendurable. The inhabitants in times ofcomparative peace and security migrated to the rich pastures by theAvon and the Bourne below, while cold winds in winter, and a scarcityof water in summer, finally determined Bishop Poore and his canons, forSarum was a church of the old foundation, to seek a better country. Theold legend says that the site of the new cathedral was determined bythe fall of an arrow in Merrifield (or more likely Mirifield), shot bya stalwart archer from the ramparts. The church was raised in a greenvale, surrounded by the downs. Pepys, in describing his journey fromHungerford says, “So, all over the Plain by the sight of the steeple,the Plain high and low; to Salisbury by night.”

“Of the cathedral,” Pepys remarks that it is “most admirable; as big,I think, and handsomer than Westminster, and a most large close aboutit.” Pepys’ comparison of Westminster and Salisbury is a very justone; both were built in the then new First Pointed style, but thereis no doubt about the superiority of Salisbury in either design orcompleteness.

In the close, which occupies an extent of half a square mile, thereare three gates, the South or Harnham, the East or St. Anne’s, and theNorth or Close Gate, built about 1327. The ground-plan of the churchembraces a nave of ten bays, with aisles; a northern porch; a main anda choir transept of four and three bays each; to the east a[281] choir andpresbytery, each of three bays, and the so-called Lady Chapel, allhaving aisles. The cloister is on the south side, and to eastwards ofthe cloister is the Chapter-house. An octangular canon’s vestry andmuniment room is to the south of the south-east transept. The pyramidaldisposition of the leading lines is very observable from certainpoints of view. It is the only ancient cathedral in England begun andfinished on a uniform plan and in one style. The foundations were laidunder Bishop Poore, on the Feast of St. Vitalis (April 28), 1220, andit was built by Elias of Dereham, clerk of the works, and by Nicholasof Portland, and Richard of Farleigh, his successors, the last namedcompleting the spire in 1375. The Beauchamp and Hungerford Chapels,both subsequently removed, were built in the Lady Chapel in theFifteenth Century. Bishop Audley’s Chantry in the choir was built in1502. In the close, near the north aisle of the nave, as at Chichester,was the Clochard or Campanile. There are several points of resemblance,of which this is one, between Chichester and Salisbury. Thisbell-tower was taken down in “cold blood” as we may say, or by way of“restoration” in 1799. About the same time Wyatt made many structuraland other alterations, which are detailed with undisguised approbationby contemporary writers. Dodsworth gives particulars received fromWyatt himself. They are in form and language, and, I may add, conceit,so like what the “restorer” of to-day uses of a building which he hasdone his best to ruin, and are besides so interesting, historically,that I am tempted to quote some sentences. Wyatt[282] was first let looseon Salisbury about 1789. He went to work without a doubt or a scruple.The Hungerford and Beauchamp Chapels were “defects.” He “expressed hisastonishment at the temerity of their builders. They were destroyed,though the consent of their owners had to be obtained first. Theirfragments were used in the alterations, some in the organ screen,some in the choir. The walls and buttresses of the Lady Chapel wererestored, the windows brought to their proper level, the seats whichdisfigured it removed, and the pavement was raised a few inches to givean ascent from the choir.” The phrase “proper level” is good. Then camealmost the worst of Wyatt’s “restorations.” It was found “necessary”to remove several monuments. New sites were prepared—the result beingwhat we now see in the nave, where the mixture of the fragments ofone monument with the ruins of another of a different period has noteven the merit of being picturesque. The tomb ascribed traditionallyto Bishop Poore and nine others were destroyed, portions being neatlyarranged as in a kind of museum “along the plinth between the seriesof pillars on each side of the nave.” Two small porches, one at thenorth end of the great transept, and the other on the south side, nearthe Lady Chapel, “were considered as neither adding to the beauty, norto the convenience of the building. They were accordingly taken down.”The “accordingly” is another happy expression. We might be reading areport of Sir G. Scott, or Mr. Pearson, or Mr. Butterfield. Yet thiswas written close on a hundred years ago. A very interesting[283] seriesof paintings, representing the months or the Zodiac, were on some ofthe eastern bays of vaulting. They were highly admired, we are told, bythose “regard the mere antiquity of an object as a sufficient title toadmiration.” These are precisely the words used lately by an architectabout the north transept of Westminster Abbey. Wyatt promptly wipedoff the traces of these decorations, and “judiciously coloured thearches and ribs of the choir like the original stone. As the Campanileintercepted the most striking view of the structure it was taken down.”

When we enter by the west door the first view is hardly so striking asthe first view of the exterior. A closer examination and a comparisonwith other cathedrals shows how far Salisbury is in advance ofeverything else of its kind. The exquisite lightness and delicateproportions of the steeple are equally apparent in the nave and itsaisles, the slender columns, the pointed arches, the light triforium,the lancets of the clerestory, and the soaring vault. The same“order,” as the classical architect would say, is practically carriedround the church. As we advance eastward, and reach the crossingof the transepts, we observe the curious four centred buttressingarches erected by Bishop Wayte, 1415, to increase the supports of thetower. Similar precautions are seen in Canterbury, Hereford and WellsCathedrals. Under the tower is a brass plate in the pavement whichwas placed here in 1737, and marks the fact that the spire inclinestwenty-two and a half inches to the south-west. This inclination,which is perfectly visible[284] on the outside, was first calculated bySir Christopher Wren, who put iron “bandages” round the masonry, andmade other repairs. No increase of the deflection has been observedsince his time, although the spire was struck by lightning in 1741. Thechoir screen is by Skidmore. The organ is divided. Some ancient glassmay be seen in the triplet windows at the ends of the transepts. Thealtar stood to the eastward of the second or choir transept, and someparts of the old stalls are still to be seen, but almost everythingin this part of the church is new. The Audley chantry (1524), in thelatest style of Gothic, is on the north side. There are some remainsof the very curious and interesting if not unique iron chantry of LordHungerford, formerly in the Lady Chapel, made into a kind of pew orcage, about a hundred years ago, by the heirs of the family when Wyattdestroyed it. A somewhat similar example, or part of one, the Chantryof Edward IV. in St. George’s Chapel at Windsor, has already been“restored” away.

The Lady Chapel is probably not correctly described by that name. Thewhole church is dedicated to the Blessed Virgin. It is perhaps morecorrectly called Trinity Chapel. Here the colouring, modern, of theroof, and other amendments and improvements made and suggested byScott, for the most part, though Clutton also showed himself a worthysuccessor of Wyatt, are exceedingly offensive.

The cloisters are entered from the south-western transept. They areslightly later, in the same style as the church, but[285] were evidentlynot built till it was finished. In churches of the old foundationcloisters were an ornament, a luxury, and not a necessity, as atCanterbury or Gloucester, where they were needed for the use of themonks. The cloisters of Salisbury are the largest in England, each walkbeing, within, 181 feet long, or from wall to wall, without, 195 feet.Over the east walk is a fine Library, containing many illuminated andother manuscripts, including some early liturgies.

On the 7th of September, 1661, as night was falling, a company ofmusketeers crossed the drawbridge of the Castle of Angers. Scarcely hadthey entered the fortress when these musketeers expelled the garrison.This was the King’s order. A sub-lieutenant commanded these men: itwas d’Artagnan. A prisoner had been confided to him: this was NicholasFouquet. The superintendent’s servant, La Vallée, and his physician,Pecquet, taking pity upon Fouquet, who was the prey of a quartanfever, obtained leave to share his captivity. The Castle then had shutwithin it three prisoners, who were subjected to the most rigoroustreatment. We know by the official account of Fouquet’s detention thatthe bed in which he had to sleep on the 7th of September “was not ofthe cleanest.” Now for the rest, d’Artagnan, and his two officers,Saint Mars and Saint Leger, maintained an extreme reserve towards theirguests. There is no news from outside. Pecquet, before leaving Nantes,had, it is true, fortuitously met Gourville. It was from him thatPecquet got the news of the arrest of Pellisson and the exile of MadameFouquet. Sorrowful presage! The accused one began first of all toprepare his defence. He wrote several memoirs, but at the end of a fewdays, [287]writing was prohibited. The president of Chalain, suspected ofhaving wished to bribe a musketeer was also apprehended to be conductedto the Bastille. Louis XIV., Colbert, Le Tellier, and Séguier kepttheir eyes fixed on Angers. Fouquet lived there until the first ofDecember, having no other pastime between his two attacks of fever thanto contemplate with a melancholy look “la fillette du Roi.” Thiswas the name by which they designated an iron cage, in which, accordingto legend, a queen of Sicily had been shut up by her husband “forhaving built the church of Saint-Maurice at Angers too magnificently.”This legend was not calculated to reassure the Superintendent. He knewthat he was accused precisely of having used the money of the Treasuryto build Vaux-le-Vicomte, the magnificence of which had offended theKing. If, through misfortune, the thought of keeping him under suchgood guard, between these bars, had entered the heads of his enemies,of what advantage was the little bit of liberty that he still enjoyed?Moreover, he was not unaware of the refinements of cruelty that hadbeen practiced for the past two centuries upon the prisoners of State.The “fillette du Roi,” made at the order of Louis XI., had notbeen empty at any period. Had not Cardinal Balue, bishop of Angers,known this instrument of torture at the Château d’Onzain, nearBlois? Fouquet might well be afraid, for there entered perhaps far morepassion than justice in his disgrace. They did not go so far, however,as to put him in a cage. The vigilance and the loyalty of d’Artagnan,and the thickness of the walls of the Castle[288] seemed to Fouquet’senemies, a sufficient safeguard against all danger of his escape. Whatis then the Castle of Angers?

Péan de la Tuilerie—the d’Argenville angevin—comes to tell us.“The Castle is at one of the extremities of the city, on a rock, andsurrounded with deep moats, cut in the rock, which is an escarpment onthe bank of a river that flows at its base, and from which they lift,by means of a very convenient machine, all the munitions which arenecessary. It is of a triangular form, all built of slate and flankedby eighteen round towers and a crescent, which is the gate of thefaubourg.”

Péan de la Tuilerie wrote in 1778. His description is still very nearlyexact. To speak the truth, this military post forms less of a trianglethan a pentagon, but the appearance of the Castle remains what it wasin the last century. The girdle of moats has been, however, a littlechanged. The Maine rolls no longer beneath its towers. It is not, asyou will readily believe, that the course of the river has been turned.To change the position of the fortress would have been difficult.They considered it simpler to fill up the canal. Some factories, somecounting-houses, and some private dwellings occupy the place of themoat, and the traveller seeks vainly at the present moment for that“very convenient machine,” of which Péan speaks. Moreover, it would beuseless. The Castle has no more need of munitions. English, Bretonsand Normans have left it. Their attacks are ended. Angers ignoresto-day those savage incursions and perpetual threats, which for severalcenturies, troubling its repose,[289] kept its independence in check. Thenthe Castle had to sustain repeated sieges. The silence that envelops ithas grown out of the clank of arms and the cries of the combatants, whomany times made this stone colossus tremble to its very foundations.Ah! the noble rampart of the city! Its great days and its gloriouspast, haunt my memory.

Who chose its site? Count Eudes, under the royal approbation of Charlesthe Bald. The Plantagenets seem to have embellished and fortified thenorth turret of the building, but it is to Louis IX. that the primitivecastle is indebted to its transformation into a military post. Itsimposing towers, firmly planted on their bases of schist, are the workof Louis IX. Its large canals hollowed out of the slate date fromthe last years of the Fifteenth Century. They give character to thecitadel. You judge it most impregnable in measuring the depth of itsmoats with your eye; but how many times had the enemy been repulsed bythe rain of projectiles thrown from the Castle?

In 1444, the English approached the city. They ravaged the countrymercilessly, and pillaged and ruined according to their good pleasure.The army encamped near the fortress, intending to open the siege onthe following day. On the following day the English troops took theirdeparture. What could have been the cause of their retreat? One ofthe English chiefs was hit in the forehead by a shot and instantlykilled. This occasioned such confusion that the assailants fled. Anartilleryman thus saved the city.

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The Fifteenth Century was, moreover, the great epoch for the Castleof Angers. Louis XI., profound politician and crafty of action,meditated upon uniting the Duchy of Anjou to the crown of France.This was shown on two occasions. The second time, the Prince being atwar with Bretagne had levied previously upon the city of Angers forsubsidies for his troops. He came again. Behnard Guillaume Cerizay,his secretary, and three chamberlains entered Angers. They convokedand consulted with the notables. At this time plébiscites wereunknown. People did not have the character to defend their rights andtheir interests. They were minors. But if the Angevin populace couldhave spoken, it would not have spoken better than its representatives.The notables chose for France. “The assembly,” wrote M. Port, “throughthe voice of the Chancellor of Anjou, pledged its faith to the King.On the following day, Louis XI. had come to the Castle offeringa favourable reply to all requests, granting to the most zealouspetitions leave to have a house in the city.” The Castle in which thisact of submission to the King of France took place, was formerly theproperty of the Duc d’Anjou, who was at the same time Count of Provenceand King of Sicily, René, son of Yolande, poet, amateur, bibliophile,collector, and patron of poets, sculptors, goldsmiths, tapestry-workersand illuminators who filled his court,

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It was at the Castle of Angers, in a kind of little manor-house flankedby four turrets, that René first saw the light on the 16th of January,1409. The Maugine was his nurse in the citadel, the Maugine, Tiphaine,to whom in after years he erected a tomb, the touching inscriptionupon which is from his hand. Married at the age of twelve to Isabellede Lorraine, René d’Anjou, fighting everywhere for twenty-five years,made only rare appearances at the Castle of Angers; but soon comesthe death of Isabelle and upon it quickly follows the second marriageof the prince with Jeanne de Laval, upon which he establishes hisresidence at Angers. Farewell war, diplomacy, treaties and conquests!René yields himself up to the charm of his young wife. To her the poetconsecrates his loving stanzas of Regnault and Jeanneton, akind of autobiography of the husband and wife. The Shepherd and theShepherdess, a delicate pastorale composed in honour of Jeanne deLaval, will be put into its final form under the skies of Provence, atTarascon; but it is in the Angevin country that the poet finds all hisideas as he strolls at the side of the beautiful Jeanne. The writersof the time show us René going out of the Castle without escort,accompanied solely by his royal spouse, and taking the chemin de laBaumette. After passing through the field-gate, the illustriouspersonages got into a fisherman’s boat below the Basse-Chaîne,and descended the Maine to that solitary hermitage, where Rabelais willpresently come to study at the Cordeliers.

It is also from this Castle that René d’Anjou issues to[292] cross his“beautiful city” on foot to his dear hermitage, where he loved toconsort “with the citizens of Angers, the artists and the men oflearning of his Court.”

René disappeared; Louis XI. reigned. A century elapsed. Henri III.yielded to the request of the common people of the city who wishedfor the destruction of the Castle. The citadel suffered. Letterspatent from the King authorized the governor of Anjou to “raze tothe ground the stones of all the walls, towers, lodgings, buildingsand fortifications of the Castle.” Already the workmen are called.Who will direct this barbarous piece of work? Donadieu, Sieur dePuycharic, claims this honour. Puycharic is the governor of theCastle. They grant his wish. But a man of heart, a soldier, can heconscientiously annihilate the ramparts of a city? This military postof which he is the keeper has its past of glorious traditions. It isworthy of respect. Its services, it seems to him, ought to be takeninto consideration. This is what Puycharic thought aside, and for tenyears—you have read of this—for ten years—with clever ingenuity,Puycharic kept his army of destroyers busy without destroying anything.He yielded to the necessities of the hour by demolishing the outsidebuildings of the Castle which he had inherited from his predecessors; agarden pavilion, built by Louisa of Savoy, disappeared; the field-gate,whose defence was difficult, was altered; two useless towers losttheir turrets, and in proportion as the waggons full of stones leftthe Castle, the common people exulted, proud of their success. Fromtime to time, it is true, public opinion complained[293] of the slownessof the workmen at the town’s expense. “Isolated during the troubles,”M. Port has said of him, “in the heart of the Angevin league, thevaliant captain was not merely satisfied to guard the place but bravelyattacked the foe in the field, one day the Lion d’Angers, anotherBrissac, Rochefort, Beaupreau, and Chemillé, fighting for about tenyears in every kind of warlike adventure, fought against and fighting,holding the country in hand and preparing the place for the King.” Hisheadquarters were at the Castle. It was here that he rallied his menand came to heal his wounds between encounters. Peace being restored,Puycharic, being appointed senechal of Anjou, dismissed his workmen,who were greatly astonished and perhaps greatly pleased at havingrepaired, embellished and fortified the Castle that they thought theywere pulling down.

Puycharic died in 1605. His funeral was magnificent. He rests in thechapel of the Jacobins; and his brothers, the bishops of Saint-Papouland d’Auxerre erected to his memory a monument surmounted by hisstatue.

Southward out of Madras you still run through the new India, the oldIndia of the nursery. Now it is vivid with long grass, now tuftedwith cotton, then dark-green with stooping palm-heads or black withfirs; anon brown with fallow, blue with lakes and lagoons, black withcloud-shadowing pools starred with white water-lilies. Presently redhills break out of the woods, then sink again to sweeping pasturesdotted only with water-hoists and naked herdsmen.

Then in the placid landscape you are almost startled by the sightof monuments of religion. A tall quadrangular pyramid, its courseslined with rude statues, a couple of half-shaped human figures, tentimes human size, a ring of colossal hobby-horses sitting on theirhaunches like a tea-party in Wonderland—they burst grotesquely out ofmeadow and thicket, standing all alone with the soil and the trees. Noworshippers, no sign of human life near them, no hint of their originor purpose—till you almost wonder whether they are artificial at all,and not petrified monsters from the beginning of the world.

These are the outposts of the great pagodas of Southern India—thosesublime monstrosities which scarce any European ever sees,which most have never heard of, but which [295]afford perhaps thestrongest testimony in all India at once to the vitality and theincomprehensibility of Hinduism. The religion that inspired suchtoilsome devotion must be one of the greatest forces in history; yetthe Western mind can detect neither any touch of art in the monumentsthemselves nor any strain of beauty in the creed. Both command yourrespect by their size: that which is so vast, so enduring, can hardly,you tell yourself, be contemptible. And still you can see nothing inthe temples but misshapen piles of uncouthness, nothing in the religionbut unearthly superstitions, half meaningless and half foul.

The nearest approach to a symmetrical building is the great pagodaof Tanjore. Long before you near the gate you see its tall pyramidaltower, shooting free above crooked streets and slanting roofs.Presently you see the lower similar towers, so far from the firstthat you would never call them part of the same building. In realitythey are the outer and inner gateways—gopura is their propername—built in diminishing courses, garnished with carving andstatuary. From a distance the massive solemnity of their outlines,the stone lace of their decorations, strike you with an overwhelmingassertion of rich majesty. But you are in India, and you wait for theinevitable incongruity.

It comes at the very gate. The entrance is not under the statelygopura, but under a screen and scaffolding of lath and plaster daubedwith yellow and green grotesqueness—men with lotus-eyes looking outof their temples, horses with heads like snakes, and kings as tall aselephants. There is to be a great festival in a day or two, explainsthe[296] suave Brahman; therefore the gopuras are boarded up with picturesbeside which the tapestries of our pavement-artists are truth andbeauty. You walk through scaffold-poles into a great square round thegreat tower, and with reverence they show you that colossal monolith,the great bull of Tanjore. I wish I could show you a picture of him,for words are unequal to him. In size he stands, or rather sits,thirty-eight hands two. His material is black granite, but it is keptso piously anointed with grease that he looks as if he were made oftoffee. In attitude he suggests a roast hare, and he wears a half-smug,half-coquettish expression, as if he hoped that nobody would kiss him.

From this wonder you pass to the shrines of the chief gods. Theunbeliever may not enter, but you stand at the door while a man goesalong the darkness with a flambeau. The light falls on silk and tinsel,and by faith you can divine a seated image at the end. Next you are atthe foot of the great tower, and the ridiculous has become the sublimeagain. Every story is lined with serene-faced gods and goddesses,dwindling rank above rank, a ladder of deities that seems to climbhalf-way up to heaven. Then the Brahman shows you a stone bull seatedon the ground, like a younger brother of the great one. “It is inexistence,” he says, throwing out his words in groups, dispassionately,as though somebody else were speaking and it were nothing at all todo with him—“it is in existence—to show the dimensions—of fourother bulls—which are in existence—up there.” You lay your headback between your shoulder-blades, and up there, at the very top,among[297] gods so small that you wonder whether they are gods or onlypanels or pillars, are four more little brothers of the hare-shapedtoffee-textured monster below.

Reduplication is the keynote of Hindu art. The same bulls everywhere,the same gods everywhere, and all round the cloistered outer wallscores on scores of granite, fat-dripping, flower-crowned emblems, socrudely shapeless that you forget their gross significance—but allabsolutely alike. Next the Brahman leads you aside to piles and pilesof what look like overgrown, gaudily painted children’s toys. This isan exact facsimile of the Tower, reduced and imitated in wood. It isall in pieces, but at the festival the parts are fitted together andcarried on a car. Every god sculptured on the pyramid is represented ina section of this model, waiting to be fitted into his place. Only whatis richly mellow in tinted stone is garishly tawdry in king’s yellowand red lead—and again you tumble from the sublime to the infantile.

Next, a little shrine that is a net of the most delicate carving—stoneas light and fantastic as wood; pillar and panel, moulding andcornice, lattice and imagery, all tapering gracefully till they becomeminiatures at the summit. It is a gem of exquisite taste and patientlabour. And the very next minute you are again among flaming red andyellow dragon-tigers and duck-peacocks, and the one is just as holy andjust as beautiful to its worshippers as the other. From which objectsof veneration the Brahman passes lightly to the domestic life of thefrescoed rajahs of Tanjore. “This gentleman—marry seventeen wives—allone[298] day—doubtless in anxiety of getting son.” It is quite true. TheRajah, having but three wives and no child, resolved to marry sixmore young ladies, and collected seventeen to choose them from. Butthe fathers and brothers of the rejected eleven were affronted; andrather than have any unpleasantness on his wedding-day, his Majestytactfully married the whole seventeen, nine in the morning and eight inthe afternoon. “And here,” pursued the Brahman automatically, showinga tank, “he will let in water—and here he will play—with all hisfemales—and all that.”

That is all, except to write your name in the visitor’s book. As Iwent in to sign, I noticed a band of musicians standing at the doorand thought no more of it. But as my pen touched the paper, suddenlyreedy pipes and discordant fiddles and heady tom-toms began to play“God Save the Queen.” A huge chaplet of muslin and tinsel, like amagnified Christmas-tree stocking, was cast about my neck; betel andattar-of-rose were brought up in silver vessels, and flowers andfruits on silver trays. The pagoda keeps its character to the end: thecompliment was sublime—and I ridiculous.

Yet the temple of Tanjore is the most simple and orderly of all itskind. Visit the great pagoda of Madura and you will come out mazed withHinduism. All its mysteries and incongruities, its lofty metaphysicsand its unabashed lewdness, seem to brood over the dark chambersand crannying passages. The place is enormous. Over the four chiefgateways rise huge pyramid-towers, coloured like harlequins, red tigersjostling the multiplied arms and legs[299] of blue and yellow gods andgoddesses so thick that the gopuras seem built of them. In the puresunlight you almost blush for their crudity, just as you would blushif the theatre roof were lifted off during a matinée. But inside theplace is nearly all half-lighted, dim, and cryptic. You go through alabyrinth, that seems endless, of dark chambers and aisles. Now youare in thick blackness, now in twilight, now the sun falls on fretworkover pillared galleries and damp-smelling walls. But as the lightfalls on the pillar you start, for it is carved into the shape of anelephant-headed Ganesh, or a conventionally high-stepping Shiva. On yougo, from maze to maze, till there is no more recollection of directionor guess at size: you are lost in an underground world of gods that arehalf devils; you hardly distinguish the silent-footed, gleaming-eyedattendants from the stone figures. Some of the fantastic images aresmeared with red-lead to simulate blood: all drip with fat. A heavysmell of grease and stagnant tank-water loads your lungs.

You feel that you are bewitched—lost and helpless among uncleanthings. When you come out into the sun and the cleaner dirt of thetown, you draw long breaths. If you could understand the Hindureligion, you tell yourself, you would understand the Hindu mind. Butthat, being of the West, you never, never will.

Following a vagabond method, let us regain the Grand Canal and givesome details upon the Vendramin Palace, now occupied by the Duchessede Berry. It is of a rich and noble architecture, probably by PietroLombardo; in the entablature and above the windows, little cherubsuphold storied shields adorned with exquisite taste, and contributemuch elegance to this façade. A garden of somewhat restricted spacecontributes some green trees alongside this palace, which would not bedistinguished from the others if the large white and blue posts withropes did not indicate, by means of the fleur-de-lis painted upon them,a princely and semi-royal dwelling.

After having obtained permission to visit this palace, valets ingreen livery welcome you very politely at the base of the staircase,the steps of which are laved by the waters, fasten your boat to theposts, and take you into a vestibule, where you wait until all theformalities of admission are complied with.

This vestibule is just as long as the palace; it opens upon a kind ofcourt similar to the courts of our hotels.

Two hitched gondolas and a few earthen pots containing small firs andother poor plants that are dying of thirst are [301]all that adorn thebareness of this vast waiting-room that is found in every Venetianpalace,—an antechamber that is also a landing-place.

In the centre of this vestibule, a little to the left, a wide stairwaybetween two walls is seen where the same decoration of miserable plantsappear. A narrow carpet covers the steps leading to an immense hallresembling a vestibule, without furniture and without adornment. Fromthis, you enter the dining-room, the walls of which are hung withfamily portraits.

This is a long square room. It is very well lighted by two enormousFrench windows.

An oval table stands in the centre and a screen shields the entrance.Upon the wall to the right you notice the portrait of the Duchessede Bourgogne in a blue velvet dress; also of the Comte d’Artois andMadame la Princesse de Lamballe and several others. Upon the left wallopposite, is the full length portrait of Louis XV., and on either sideof him, his daughters.

In this dining-room, a masked door opens into a dark chapel, sosmall that it will barely hold six persons. You can count fourPrie-Dieu there. On the right, a large door opens into a verymodern drawing-room filled with pictures and a great number of smallpieces of furniture: English tables, Parisian coffers,—nothing islacking to produce that charming home-like feeling that is derivedfrom luxurious trifles. Two portraits of Her Royal Highness are placedopposite one another; that by Lawrence in a dress of white satin, witha rose on her breast, exhibits the[302] most charming little foot that canpossibly be admired in a white satin slipper.

On walking through the dining-room, you enter, by a door on the left, alittle salon, which seems relatively small after the preceding rooms,and perhaps overwhelmed by the sumptuous furniture that adorns it. Itcontains thirty splendid pictures; this is a kind of Uffizi or Saloncarré, where scarcely one of the greatest names in painting ismissing. Among these great masterpieces shines a Virgin by Andrea delSarto, so beautiful that it would make cold chills run through the mostelementary connoisseur and the most hide-bound and prosaic Philistine.

This Salon illumined by a soft and well distributed light, seems to methe select spot, the very heart of the building, and I left it withdeep regret to go and visit the famous salon which contains those twoporphyry columns whose value is so great that they are worth more thanthe entire palace. They are placed in front of a door, and thus produceas little effect as the lapis lazuli in the “Salon Serra” in Genoa,which you might well believe were painted and varnished, and whichstrongly resemble a metallic blue watered silk.

There is still another salon, but it is not remarkable in any way. Inthe four corners, four bracket pedestals support four busts: those ofthe Duc de Berry, of Charles X., and other members of the royal family.

The Vendramin-Calergi has gained an additional interest inrecent years on account of the fact that Richard Wagner died init on Feb. 13, 1883.—E. S.

The rising sun gilds the mosque, gilds it under the fresh plane-trees;in the air there is a white mist which is like the original veil ofday. The little Turkish cafés begin to open, and two or threeminims are already being shaved in the open air under the trees.

It is evidently very early, and I have time to stop here beforereturning to Pera. I sit down under the trellis ordering coffee withthose warm little bonbons that they sell here in the morning,and I think this better than the most delicate breakfast.

About two hours afterwards, about eight o’clock, a carriage takes meback to Stamboul in the company of an aide-de-camp of His Majesty; andin a solemn and desert-like quarter, where the grass pushes up betweenthe stones of the pavement, our coachman stops before a forbiddingenclosure like that of a Mediæval fortress.

These walls shut in a little corner of earth which is absolutelyspecial and unique, and which is the extreme point of OrientalEurope,—a promontory that juts out towards neighbouring Asia, andwhich was, moreover, for many centuries, the residence of the Caliphsand a place of incomparable splendour. This, and the sacred suburb of[304]Eyoub contain all that is most exquisite in Constantinople: this is the“Old Seraglio,”—a name that alone evokes a world of dreams.

They open for us a door in this wall, and, then, as soon as the barrieris passed, the delicious melancholy of interior things is revealedto us, and the dead Past takes us to itself and envelops us with itswinding-sheet.

At first, there is silence and shadow. Empty, desolate courts, wherethe neglected grass pushes through the flag-stones and where still liveancient trees that were contemporaries of the magnificent sultans offormer times: black cypresses as tall as towers, plane-trees which haveacquired unwonted forms, all hollowed out by time, being supported onlyby immense shreds of bark and bent like old men.

Then come the galleries with colonnades in the ancient Turkish style,painted with strange frescoes, under which the great Solomon forced theambassadors of the European kings to enter. And this place, happilynever open to profane visitors, has not yet become a common promenadefor tourists; behind the high walls, it preserves a little mysteriouspeace, it is all imprinted with the sadness of dead splendour.

Crossing these first courts, we have upon the right impenetrablegardens, where you see rising above the clumps of cypress old kioskswith closed windows,—the residences of imperial widows and agedprincesses who wish to end their days here in this austere retreat inone of the most wonderful sites in the world.

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It is all bathed in sunlight, all dazzling in tranquil light, thelast portion of this walled-in spot to which we have now come,—thevery last point of the Old Seraglio, and of Europe. It is a solitaryesplanade, very elevated and very white, dominating the distant blue ofthe sea and of Asia. The clear morning sunlight inundates those depthsof space out yonder, where the towns, the islets and the mountains aresketched out in light tints above the motionless sheet of Marmora.

Around us are old buildings also white, which contain all that israrest and most precious in Turkey.

First the kiosk, forbidden to infidels, where the cloak of the Prophetis kept in a cover embroidered with jewels. Then the kiosk of Bagdad,the interior of which is entirely clothed in those old Persianfaïences; which are priceless to-day: the branches of red flowers weremade upon them with coral that they liquified by a process now lost andspread upon them like pigment.

Then the Imperial Treasury, very white also under its layers ofwhitewash and barred like a prison; and whose iron gates will be openedfor me presently.

And finally, a palace, uninhabited, but well maintained, which weentered and sat down. Steps of white marble led us to the salons ofthe first floor, which were furnished about the middle of the lastcentury in the European taste. They are of the Louis XV. style, towhich an imperceptible mixture of Oriental singularity gives a specialcharm. The white and gold wainscots with old cherry or old lilac damaskwith white flowers show nothing[306] but light tints mellowed by time.There are some large Sèvres and Chinese vases, and few other objects,but all of them are old and rare. Much space, air, and light, and atranquil symmetry in the arrangement of everything—give a feeling ofchangelessness and neglect.

And there in a sort of sumptuous solitude, seated on thesefauteuils of a deliciously pale rose, before large openwindows, we have from this last promontory of Europe, the splendidview that charmed the Sultans of the past. To our left, and very farbelow us, the Bosphorus spreads, furrowed with ships and caïques; thewhiteness of the marble quays are reflected in it; the whiteness ofthe new imperial residences, Dolma Bagtche and Tcheragan, are mirroredinverted in long, pale lines; the row of palace and mosques is picturedmagnificently upon its banks. Opposite is Asia, still bluish in theremaining drifts of the morning mist; it is Scutari, with its domes andminarets, with its immense cemetery and its forest of dark cypresses.To the right, the infinite expanse of Marmora;—distant steamboatsare moving upon it, lost in all that diaphanous blue,—little greysilhouettes trailing delicate clouds of smoke.

How well it was chosen, this site, to dominate and watch from abovethat Turkey, seated superbly on two divisions of the world! And to-day,what peace and what melancholy splendour in this complete isolationfrom all the agitations of modern life, in this great silence ofabandonment, under this clear and mournful sun!

When the guardian of the Treasury—an old man with[307] a white beard—isready to open the iron door with his enormous keys, twenty individualscome to form a hedge, ten to the right, ten to the left, on each sideof the entrance.

We pass between this double row and enter the rather dark halls, intowhich they all follow us.

The cavern of Ali Baba could never have been filled with such wealth!For eight centuries they have been heaping up here the rarest jewelsand the most astonishing marvels of art. As our eyes become rested fromthe outside sunlight, and get accustomed to the shadowy interior, thediamonds begin to sparkle everywhere. Things in profusion, without ageor price, classified by species upon shelves. Arms of all periods, fromGenghis Khan to Mahomet; weapons of silver and gold set with jewels.Then there are collections of golden coffers of all sizes and of allstyles; some are covered with rubies, others with diamonds and otherswith sapphires; some of them are even cut out of a single emeraldas big as an ostrich’s egg. Then there are services for coffee, fordrinking, and ewers of antique and exquisite forms. And the stuffs fitfor fays; the saddles; the harness, the housings of parade in brocadesof gold and silver, embroidered and encrusted with flowers in preciousstones; the large thrones made to sit upon cross-legged: all these inruby and fine pearl together produce a rosy brilliancy; elsewhere,others covered with emeralds and brilliant in their green reflections,look as if bathed in sea-water.

In the last hall, there is waiting for us behind the windows[308] amotionless and terrible company: twenty-eight macabre dolls,of human size, standing up straight in a military row with theirelbows touching each other. They all wear that high pear-shaped turbanthat has not been in use for a century, and which is only to be seenupon the catafalques of distinguished personages, in the twilight ofmortuary kiosks, or carved upon the tombs—so that this kind of aturban is for me absolutely associated with the idea of death. Untilthe beginning of this century, whenever a sultan died, they broughthere a doll clothed in the ceremonial robes of the dead sovereign,they placed marvellous arms in his belt, put on his turban, and hismagnificent jewelled aigrette,—and it remained here forever coveredwith this eternally wasted wealth. The twenty-eight Sultans whosucceeded each other from the capture of Constantinople until the endof the Seventeenth Century are standing here in their imperial robes infacsimile; slowly has the sombre and sumptuous assembly increased, newfuneral dolls came one by one to range themselves in line with the oldones, who had awaited them for hundreds of years, sure of seeing themat last—and they are now touching each other’s elbows.

Their long robes are of the strangest brocades, with great mysteriousdesigns whose tints are dimmed by time; priceless poignards with largehandles made of a single precious stone, rust, notwithstanding thecare, in the silken belts; it even seems that the enormous diamonds ofthe aigrettes have lost some of their fire, and shine with a yellowishand dulled light.

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And this unheard of luxury, all powdered with dust, is sad to lookupon. Fabulously magnificent, the dolls with the high coiffure,objects of so much human covetousness guarded there behind the doubledoors of iron, useless and dangerous, see the seasons, years, reigns,revolutions and centuries pass by with the same immobility and thesame silence, with scarcely any daylight through the gratings of theold windows and in total darkness after the sun sets. Each one bearshis name, written like a common name upon a faded ticket—illustriousnames that were formerly terrible: Mourad the Conqueror, Soliman theMagnificent, Mohammed and Mahmoud. I believe that these dolls give methe most terrifying lesson of fragility and nothingness.

There are two Pisas: one in which people are bored and where they havelived in a provincial manner since the decadence; this is the greaterpart of the city, with the exception of a secluded corner: the otheris this corner, a marble sepulchre, where the Duomo, the Baptistery,the Leaning Tower and the Campo-Santo repose silently like beautifulthings that are dead. The true Pisa is here, and in these relics of anextinguished life, you find a world.

A renaissance before the renaissance, a second and almost antiquebudding of an antique civilization, a spring-time after six centuriesof snow,—such are the ideas and words that crowd into the mind.Everything is of marble, white marble, whose immaculate whitenessshines in the azure. On all sides are large solid forms, the cupola,the full wall, the balanced stories, the firmly-planted round or squaremass; but over these forms, revived from the antique, like delicatefoliage that clothes an old tree-trunk, there is spread an individualinvention and a new decoration of the small columns surmounted byarcades, and the originality and grace of this architecture thusrenewed cannot be described.

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In 1083, to honour the Virgin who had given them the victory over theSaracens of Sardinia, the Pisans began to build their Duomo.

This is almost a Roman basilica, I should say a temple surmounted byanother temple, or if you like better, a house having its gable fora façade, and this gable is cut off at the peak to support a stillsmaller house. Five stories of columns cover the entire façade withtheir superimposed porticoes. Two by two they are coupled togetherto support the little arcades; all these lovely columns of whitemarble under their black arcades make an aërial population that ismost graceful and unexpected. In no place here do you perceive thatsorrowful reverie of the Mediæval north; it is the holiday of a youngnation that is awakening, and, in the joy of its newly acquired wealth,honours its gods. She has gathered from the distant shores to whichher wars and trade led her, capitals, ornaments and entire columns andthese fragments of antiquity fit into the work without any incongruity;for the work is instinctively cast into the ancient mould and is onlydeveloped with a grain of fantasy on the side of delicacy and charm.All the antique forms re-appear, but remodelled in the same spirit, bya new and original vivacity. The exterior columns of the Greek templeare reduced, multiplied and elevated into the air and are not onlya support but have become an ornament. The Roman or Byzantine domeis elongated and its natural heaviness diminished beneath a crown ofslender little columns with a mitre ornament which girds it in thecentre with its delicate gallery. On the two sides of the great[312] doortwo Corinthian columns are enveloped with the luxuriant leaves, budsand twining stems of the acanthus, and from the threshold we see thechurch with its rows of black, and white columns of nave and transept,with their multitude of slender and beautiful forms rising up like analtar of candelabra. A new spirit appears here, a more delicate senseof feeling; it is not excessive and confused as in the north, but, atthe same time, it is not contented with merely the grave simplicity andthe robust nudity of antique architecture. This spirit is the daughterof a pagan mother, healthy and gay, but more feminine than her mother.

She is not yet an adult, sure of her steps; she makes awkward mistakes.The lateral façades outside are monotonous. The cupola within is areversed funnel, of a strange and disagreeable form. The union ofthe two arms of the cross is unpleasing, and a number of modernizedchapels dispel the charm of the purity found in Sienna. At the secondglance, however, all this is forgotten, and the effect of the whole isfelt again. Four rows of Corinthian columns, surmounted by arcades,divide the church into five naves and form a forest. A second passagealso as richly peopled with columns crosses the first one, and abovethe beautiful grove, rows of still smaller columns are carried alongand intersect each other in order to uphold in the air the quadruplegallery, also prolonged and intersected. The ceiling is flat; thewindows are little, and most of them without panes; they allow thewalls to exhibit the grandeur and solidity of their mass, and downthese long[313] lines of straight and simple windows the untempereddaylight makes these innumerable columns glow with the serenity of anancient temple.

It is not, however, wholly an ancient temple, and there lies itspeculiar charm: at the back of the choir the entire hollowed out apsisis occupied with a large Christ[11] in a golden robe, with the Virginand another smaller saint. His face is gentle and sad: on this goldenbackground in the dimness of the pale daylight he seems like a vision.Certainly, a number of pictures and constructions of the Middle Agessupply all the needs of ecstasy. Other fragments show the decadenceand the deep barbarism from which they sprang. There remains one ofthose ancient bronze doors covered with formless and horrible bronzebas-reliefs.

Such is what the descendants of the sculptors preserved out ofantiquity, such is what the human mind became in the chaos of theTenth Century at the time of the Hungarian invasions, of Marozzia andTheodora: sad, mournful, anæmic, dislocated and mechanical figures, Godthe Father and six angels, three on one side and three on the other,all leaning at the same angle like a row of cards leaning against oneanother; the twelve apostles all in a row, six in front and six in theintervening spaces, like those round rings with holes for eyes andlong lines for arms that children scribble in their exercise-books. Onthe other hand, the entrance doors, carved by John of[314] Bologna,[12]are full of life: leaves of the rose, the grapevine, the medlar, theorange and the laurel with their berries, their fruits and theirflowers, amongst which are birds and animals, twine about and makeframes for animated figures and groups that are energetic and imposing.This wealth of truthful and vital forms is peculiar to the SixteenthCentury: it discovered nature and man at the same time. Five centurieslie between the work of these two doors.

There is nothing more to say about the Baptistery or the Leaning Tower;the same idea, the same taste and even the same style are seen in them.The one is a simple isolated dome; the other is a cylinder; each hasits exterior decoration of columns. However, each has its own distinctand speaking physiognomy; but too much time would be occupied in eithertalking or writing about them and too many technical terms would beneeded to distinguish the subtle differences. I will only mentionthe inclination of the Tower. It is supposed that when the Tower washalf-finished, it leaned and that the architects kept on, and sincethey went on with it this inclination did not seem to have troubledthem. At all events, there are other leaning towers in Italy,—atBologna, for instance; voluntarily, or involuntarily, this fondness foroddity, this search for paradox and this yielding to fantasy, is one ofthe characteristics of the Middle Ages.

In the centre of the Baptistery is a superb eight-sided basin; eachone of three sides is incrusted with a rich and[315] complicated flowerin full bloom, and each flower is different. There is a circle oflarge Corinthian columns around it, supporting round-arched arcades;most of them are ancient and are ornamented with antique bas-reliefs:Meleager with his barking dogs and the nude bodies of his companionsis assisting at Christian mysteries. On the left, there is a pulpitsimilar to the one in Sienna, the first work of Nicholas of Pisa,[13]a simple marble coffer supported on marble columns and covered withcarvings. The feeling of the strength and nudity of antiquity isexhibited here in a striking manner. The sculptor understood thepostures and movements of the body. His figures, a little massive, aregrand and simple; sometimes he reproduces the tunics and the foldsof the Roman costume; one of his nude personages, a kind of Herculescarrying a lion on his shoulders, has that large chest and the strainedmuscles that the sculptors of the Sixteenth Century loved so much.What a difference to human civilization and what a hastening of itthere would have been if these restorers of ancient beauty, these youngRepublics of the Twelfth and Thirteenth Centuries, these precociouscreators of modern thought had been left to themselves like the ancientGreeks, if they had followed their natural bent, if mystical traditionhad not intervened to limit and divert their effort, if secular geniushad developed among them, as it formerly did in Greece, amongst free,rude and healthy institutions, and not, as it did, two centuries later,in the midst of the servitude and the corruptions of the decadence.

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The last of these edifices, the Campo-Santo, is a cemetery, theearth of which, brought from Palestine, is holy. Four high walls ofpolished marble surround it with their white and highly ornamentedpanels. Within, a square gallery forms a promenade and opens upon acourt through arcades trellised with ogival windows. It is filled withmortuary monuments, busts, inscriptions, and statues of every formand of every age. Nothing could be nobler or simpler. A framework ofdark wood supports the vault, and the naked crest of the roof cutsthe crystal of the sky. At the corners four cypresses rustle theirleaves in the light breeze. The grass grows in the court with freshnessand wild luxuriance. Here and there a climbing flower twines itselfaround a column, a little rosebush, or tiny shrub, glowing in a ray ofsunlight. Not a sound,—this quarter is deserted; now and then you hearonly the voice of a stroller which echoes as if beneath the vault ofa church. It is the veritable cemetery of a free and Christian city;here before the tombs of the great, you can well reflect upon death andpublic affairs.

The Romans, who always had a keen eye for favourable defensive sites,were scarcely likely to miss the high ground in the great bend of theMedway not far from where it falls into the Thames. The Watling Streetfrom Dover to London passed the river, moreover, at this point andreceived protection from the Roman camp. The Saxons and Danes alsomaintained the Castle of Hrofa here. The usual timber fortificationswere constructed in an oblong enclosure of about seven acres, includinga large conical mound of the Eastern chalk range called Bully Hill.It must even at that date have been a place of some strength, becausewhen it was besieged by the Danes in 885, it was able to hold out longenough for Alfred to come to its relief. At the Conquest, the Normansrecognized the strength of the position and added their own improvedmethods of fortification, enclosing a quadrangular space close to theriver with a strong curtain wall and afterwards building a massivesquare keep in the enclosure. The Saxon works were left outside andused merely as an outpost, as was the case at Warwick and Canterbury.The original quadrangular enclosure had a wall-circuit of 580 yards,the North and South walls measuring 160, and the East and West 130each. The East front faced the[318] cathedral which even at that day wasvenerable. The West wall ran along the river front. The other threewalls were defended by a broad and deep moat, traces of which stillremain. Much of the outer wall, with square open towers recurring atintervals also exists. The main entrance or gatehouse with drawbridge,which no longer exists, was at the North-east angle, from which therewas a steep descent to what is now the High Street. At the North-westangle, was a bastion tower with a postern gate. Although this towerno longer exists, it was still standing as late as 1735, immediatelyon the shore, commanding the bridge. A large round tower still standsat the South-east angle. It measures thirty feet in diameter; it hastwo floors and is loop-holed for archery. Two rectangular towersthat defended the East front are still in existence. Throughout theconstructions, we cannot fail to notice and admire the strength andmassiveness of the masonry. To this the ruin owes its preservation,for besides the destroying hand of time, the neglect of unappreciativegenerations, and the destruction wrought by greed and fanaticism, ithas also suffered from several sieges.

On the highest ground of the enclosure, near the South-east angle,stands the keep. In grandeur and impressiveness, this tower doesnot suffer in comparison with any English keep of the Normanperiod. Neither the smaller keep of Newcastle, nor the larger onesof Colchester, Canterbury, Norwich and Hedingham show the originalarrangement better than Rochester. Its base is more than seventy feetsquare, and it is 113 feet high. It is buttressed at[319] the angles withfour small towers each twelve feet square. These, rising twelve feetabove the principal mass, add greatly to the picturesque effect ofthe whole. Clinging like a limpet to the East angle of the keep is asmaller tower twenty-eight feet square and about seventy-five feethigh. This contained the chief entrance to the keep. It had a flightof steps and an arched gateway enriched. This and the other arches areconstructed of Caen stone brought from Normandy; the walls, from ten totwelve feet thick, are built with Kentish rag. Even when this smallertower was taken in an assault, the besiegers still had trouble to getinto the keep proper, for the vestibule was divided from the rooms ofthe great keep by a portcullis in the main wall. The groove in which itworked and traces of the ironwork still remain.

The keep contains three storeys of lofty apartments, with a vaultbeneath. As in the tower of London, it is divided into two nearly equalparts by a wall running East and West that rises to the roof. Itsthickness allows it to contain a well two feet nine inches in diameterwith openings by which each apartment might be supplied with water.By this arrangement, it was impossible for besiegers to cut off thedrinking supply of the garrison. The thickness of the walls also admitsof mural galleries, as in the White Tower, and a well staircase leadingfrom the vault to the roof, communicating with each apartment. Thebasement and first floor received their light through loop-holes; therooms of the higher storeys have their walls pierced with windows.

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On the second storey were the rooms of state, thirty-two feet high.It has two tiers of windows, the upper tier having a passage in thewall in front of the windows. On this floor, the apartments open intoone another through the central dividing wall by four arches; and inthe north-east corner is a large doorway leading into an oratory orchapel built over the great entrance. A flight of steps ascends to thewall gallery which goes all round the tower: as in the White Tower,it is vaulted. It is three feet high. In these apartments, there arefireplaces with enriched arches from which the smoke escaped throughopenings in the wall near the hearth. This primitive contrivance musthave rendered the council-chamber and banqueting-hall uncomfortablewith draughts.

Twenty-three steps lead from the wall gallery to the top floor whichcontains two handsome rooms twenty-five feet high. From this storey,the visitor may enjoy a lovely view, including the town and banksof the winding river, the Cathedral and its close, extending in thedistance to the junction of the Thames and Medway.

Above the third floor, are the battlements which had a rampart walk.The floorings were all carried by timber joists, and in the basementwas a prison.

The striking resemblance between this keep and the White Tower atLondon of the same date would lead us to conclude that both weredesigned by the same architect. They were in fact both plannedoriginally by Gundulf, who was consecrated Bishop of Rochester in theyear after the Conquest. Besides his other great attainments, this[321]bishop was a very able architect, and when the Conqueror wanted toerect a strong castle at Rochester, Gundulf was naturally entrustedwith the task.

The first important historical event connected with the castle wasthe rebellion of Odo, Bishop of Bayeux and Earl of Kent, half (andperhaps full) brother to William the Conqueror. Kent had alreadysuffered greatly from his rapacity, and his conduct finally led tohis dramatic arrest by William’s own hands. After William’s death, heplotted in Robert’s interest against his nephew Rufus. He attributedhis imprisonment to Archbishop Lanfranc, and when war broke out betweenthe brothers Robert and William in 1088, he plundered Kent, payingespecial attention to the Archbishop’s estates. Finally, being capturedat Pevensey, he was forced to give up all his possessions in England,including Rochester, and leave the country. He was sent under guard toRochester to complete the surrender and take ship for Normandy; buton his arrival, Eustace of Boulogne and Robert de Belême and othersupporters rescued Odo and refused to surrender the city. The castlewas garrisoned and William Rufus besieged it in person. It surrenderedafter a blockade of six weeks. William was very reluctant to grant anyterms, and indignantly refused Odo’s request for the honours of war.The English portion of William’s army, who were principally Kentishmen,were very bitter against the Bishop who had harried and oppressed them,and cried: “Halters! halters for the traitor bishop! Let not the doerof evil go unharmed!” Counsels of clemency,[322] however, prevailed; andOdo was allowed to go; and on this occasion Rochester saw the last ofhim.

The castle had been considerably injured in the siege, and Williamcommissioned Gundulf to spend £60, a large sum in those days, inbuilding a new tower.

In the twenty-seventh year of William’s successor, Henry, the king,with the consent of his barons, granted to the church of Canterbury,William (of Corbeil), archbishop of that see, the custody of thecastle of Rochester for ever, with liberty to build a fort and atower. This archbishop, who had the support of the king in the rivalryof Canterbury and York, was a great builder. He rebuilt RochesterCathedral and attended its dedication in 1130. Shortly before, hehad with great pomp completed and dedicated the great cathedral atCanterbury begun by Lanfranc. It was therefore about 1130 that the newcastle was also completed.

The castle with its splendid and strong keep was far too important amilitary post to remain in possession of the see of Canterbury forany length of time in that turbulent age. When the see became vacant,and on other occasions, the Crown resumed possession of it. In 1141,William of Ypres, a Fleming, was its governor for Stephen, as thearchbishop had sworn allegiance to the Empress Maud. When the Earl ofGloucester, a natural son of Henry I. was captured at Winchester, hewas imprisoned in this castle until exchanged for Stephen, who wastaken at Lincoln later in the year. William of Ypres being banished,Henry II. gave his earldom of Kent and the castle of Rochester to[323]Philip, Earl of Flanders, but the Earl never took possession.

In 1202, the castle was again restored to the archbishop, then StephenLangton, who later, during John’s wars with his barons, turned it overto William de Albini, a valiant and able commander, to be held in theinterests of the barons. John invested the stronghold in 1215, andsucceeded in gaining possession after an obstinate defence lastingthree months. The military engines could produce little impression, butthe walls were undermined, and then the keep was attacked in the sameway. The following year, Louis the Dauphin, being invited over by thebarons to assist them against John, landed at Sandwich and led his armyto Rochester. The damage had not yet been repaired and so the castleeasily fell. With other Crown possessions, it then came into the handsof Henry III. Much money was spent in repairs, especially in 1225–6–7.This was while Hubert de Burgh was constable of Rochester castle. In1240, the tower was ordered to be whitewashed where it had not yet beendone; and in 1247 both chapels were ordered to be wainscoted. One ofthese was in the outer ward, and used by the garrison.

In 1264, the king gave the charge of the castle to the celebratedRoger de Leybourne who had just joined his cause. He furnished it withsufficient arms, garrison, and provisions to stand a siege. Early inApril, the attack being imminent, the king’s brother-in-law, the Earlof Surrey, arrived at the castle with reinforcements. Just beforeEaster, Simon de Montfort came to besiege the castle.[324] On reachingthe western bank of the Medway, he found the passage of the bridgedisputed, and a palisade and breastwork thrown up on the opposite side,well defended. Having sent Gilbert de Clare to attack the south sideof the town, the Earl of Leicester in person assaulted the bridge,but was twice driven back by the citizens. At length, with the aid ofboats loaded with combustibles, he set fire to the bridge and the towerupon it which were both built of wood. During the confusion caused bythe fire, he crossed the river and destroyed the church and what wasleft of the priory. Richard de Leybourne for purposes of defence hadalready burned down all the suburbs and part of the priory. Simon deMontfort next made a furious assault upon the castle and captured theoutworks and all the towers except the great keep. The latter madesuch an obstinate resistance that after a seven days’ close siege,Simon suddenly relinquished the attempt and retreated to London.Shortly afterwards, in 1264, most of the garrison, under Leybourne,who had been badly wounded, left Rochester and joined the Royal armyat Lewes. The king’s disastrous defeat there resulted in the surrenderof Rochester castle to the Baron’s forces. When however the tide ofsuccess turned two years later, on the death of de Montfort at Evesham,and the fall of Kenilworth, Leybourne resumed his governorship.

In 1274, Robert de Hougham died constable of this castle, and wasfollowed by Robert de Septvans. Two other constables of Rochesterduring this reign were Sir[325] John de Cobham and Stephen de Dene. Duringthe next two centuries the following names occur among the holders ofthis office: William Skarlett, Lord Grey of Codnor, John de Newtrun,William Criol and Sir Thomas Cobham.

In 1367–8, extensive repairs were undertaken by Edward III., underPrior John of Rochester as chief of the works. Stone was imported fromBeer, Caen, and Reigate, with copings and crests for battlements,probably for buildings in the court. Edward IV. also repaired thecastle, but afterwards it lost its military importance and fell intodecay. A drawing, of the year 1518, shows the turrets domed over andcapped with vanes, like those of the White Tower.

Rochester much resembles Hedingham, which is a very perfect Norman keepwith three floors, the remains of a forebuilding and upper galleryin the main floor. In each ornamentation, the chevron moulding isprofusely employed.

Your Murray’s Guide tells you that this chapel of the Bardi dellaLibertà, in which you stand, is covered with frescoes by Giotto; thatthey were whitewashed, and only laid bare in 1853; that they werepainted between 1296 and 1304; that they represent scenes in the lifeof St. Francis; and that on each side of the window are paintings ofSt. Louis of Toulouse, St. Louis King of France, St. Elizabeth ofHungary, and St. Claire,—“all much restored and repainted.” Under suchrecommendation the frescoes are not likely to be much sought after;and accordingly, as I was at work in the chapel this morning, Sunday6th September, 1874, two nice-looking Englishmen, under guard of theirvalet de place, passed the chapel without so much as looking in.

You will perhaps stay a little longer in it with me, good reader, andfind out gradually where you are. Namely, in the most interesting andperfect little Gothic chapel in all Italy—so far as I know or canhear. There is no other of the great time which has all its frescoes intheir place. The Arena, though far larger, is of earlier date—not pureGothic, nor showing Giotto’s full force. The lower chapel at Assisi isnot Gothic at all, and is still only of Giotto’s middle time. You haveher developed Gothic, [327]with Giotto in his consummate strength, andnothing lost, in form, of the complete design.

By restoration—judicious restoration, as Mr. Murray usually callsit—there is no saying how much you have lost. Putting the question ofrestoration out of your mind, however, for a while, think where youare, and what you have got to look at.

You are in the chapel next the high altar of the great FranciscanChurch of Florence. A few hundred yards west of you, within tenminutes’ walk, is the Baptistery of Florence. And five minutes’ walk,west of that is the great Dominican Church of Florence, Santa MariaNovella.

Get this little bit of geography, and architectural fact, well intoyour mind. There is the little octagon Baptistery in the middle; here,ten minutes’ walk east of it, the Franciscan Church of the Holy Cross;there, five minutes’ walk west of it, the Dominican Church of St. Mary.

Now, that little octagon Baptistery stood where it now stands (andwas finished, though the roof has been altered since) in the EighthCentury. It is the central building of Etrurian Christianity,—ofEuropean Christianity.

From the day it was finished, Christianity went on doing her best, inEtruria and elsewhere, for four hundred years,—and her best seemedto have come to very little,—when there rose up two men who vowed toGod it should come to more. And they made it come to more, forthwith;of which the immediate sign in Florence was that she resolved to havea fine new cross-shaped cathedral instead of her quaint old littleoctagon one; and a tower beside it that[328] should beat Babel:—which twobuildings you have also within sight.

But your business is not at present with them; but with these twoearlier churches of Holy Cross and St. Mary. The two men who were theeffectual builders of these were the two great religious Powers andReformers of the Thirteenth Century;—St. Francis who taught Christianmen how they should behave, and St. Dominic, who taught Christian menwhat they should think. In brief, one the Apostle of Works; the otherof Faith. Each sent his little company of disciples to teach and topreach in Florence: St. Francis in 1212; St. Dominic in 1220.

The little companies were settled—one, ten minutes’ walk east of theold Baptistery; the other five minutes’ walk west of it. And after theyhad stayed quietly in such lodgings as were given them, preaching andteaching through most of the century; and had got Florence, as it wereheated through, she burst out into Christian poetry and architecture,of which you have heard so much talk:—burst into bloom of Arnolfo,Giotto, Dante, Orcagna, and the like persons, whose works you professto have come to Florence that you may see and understand.

Florence then, thus heated through, first helped her teachers to buildfiner churches. The Dominicans, or White Friars, the Teachers of Faith,began their church of St. Mary’s in 1279. The Franciscans, or BlackFriars, the Teachers of Works, laid the first stone of this church ofthe Holy Cross in 1294. And the whole city laid the foundations of itsnew cathedral in 1298. The Dominicans[329] designed their own building;but for the Franciscans and the town worked the first great master ofGothic art, Arnolfo; with Giotto at his side, and Dante looking on, andwhispering sometimes a word to both.

And here you stand beside the high altar of the Franciscan’s Church,under a vault of Arnolfo’s building, with at least some of Giotto’scolour on it still fresh; and in front of you, over the little altar,is the only reportedly authentic portrait of St. Francis, taken fromlife by Giotto’s master. Yet I can hardly blame my two English friendsfor never looking in. Except in the early morning light, not one touchof all this art can be seen. And in any light, unless you understandthe relations of Giotto to St. Francis, and of St. Francis to humanity,it will be of little interest.

Observe, then, the special character of Giotto among the great paintersof Italy is his being a practical person. Whatever other men dreamedof, he did. He could work in mosaic: he could work in marble; hecould paint; and he could build; and all thoroughly: a man of supremefaculty, supreme common sense. Accordingly, he ranges himself at onceamong the disciples of the Apostle of Works, and spends most of histime in the same apostleship.

Now the gospel of Works, according to St. Francis, lay in three things.You must work without money, and be poor. You must work withoutpleasure, and be chaste. You must work according to orders, and beobedient.

Those are St. Francis’s three articles of Italian opera. By which grewthe many pretty things you have come to see here.

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And now if you will take your opera-glass and look up to the roof aboveArnolfo’s building, you will see it is a pretty Gothic cross vault,in four quarters, each with a circular medallion, painted by Giotto.That over the altar has the picture of St. Francis himself. The threeothers, of his Commanding Angels. In front of him, over the entrancearch, Poverty. On his right hand, Obedience. On his left, Chastity.

Poverty, in a red patched dress, with grey wings and a square nimbus ofglory above her head, is flying from a black hound, whose head is seenat the corner of the medallion.

Chastity veiled, is imprisoned in a tower, while angels watch her.

Obedience bears a yoke on her shoulders, and lays her hand on a book.

Now, this same quatrefoil, of St. Francis and his three CommandingAngels, was also painted, but much more elaborately, by Giotto, on thecross vault of the lower church of Assisi, and it is a question ofinterest which of the two roofs was painted first.

Your Murray’s Guide tells you the frescoes in this chapel were paintedbetween 1296 and 1304. But as they represent, among other personages,St. Louis of Toulouse, who was not canonized till 1317, that statementis not altogether tenable. Also, as the first stone of the church wasonly laid in 1294, when Giotto was a youth of eighteen, it is littlelikely that either it would have been ready to be painted, or be readywith his scheme of practical divinity, two years later.

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Farther, Arnolfo, the builder of the main body of the church, died in1310. And as St. Louis of Toulouse was not a saint till seven yearsafterwards, and the frescoes therefore beside the window not paintedin Arnolfo’s day, it becomes another question whether Arnolfo left thechapels or the church at all, in their present form.

On which point—now that I have shown you where Giotto’s St. Louisis—I will ask you to think awhile, until you are interested; and thenI will try to satisfy your curiosity. Therefore, please leave thelittle chapel for the moment, and walk down the nave, till you come totwo sepulchral slabs near the west end, and then look about you and seewhat sort of a church Santa Croce is.

Without looking about you at all, you may find, in your Murray, theuseful information that it is a church which “consists of a very widenave and lateral aisles, separated by seven fine pointed arches.” Andas you will be—under ordinary conditions of tourist hurry—glad tolearn so much, without looking, it is little likely to occur toyou that this nave and two rich aisles required also, for your completepresent comfort, walls at both ends, and a roof on the top. It is justpossible, indeed, you may have been struck on entering, by the curiousdisposition of painted glass at the east end;—more remotely possiblethat, in returning down the nave, you may this moment have noticed theextremely small circular window at the west end; but the chances are athousand to one that, after being pulled from tomb to tomb round theaisles and chapels, you should take so extraordinary an additionalamount of pains as to look up at[332] the roof,—unless you do it now,quietly. It will have had its effect upon you, even if you don’t,without your knowledge. You will return home with a general impressionthat Santa Croce is, somehow, the ugliest Gothic church you ever werein. Well, that is really so; and now, will you take the pains to seewhy?

There are two features, on which, more than on any others, the graceand delight of a fine Gothic building depends; one is the springing ofits vaultings, the other the proportion and fantasy of its traceries.This church of Santa Croce has no vaultings at all, but the roofof a farmhouse barn. And its windows are all of the same pattern,—theexceedingly prosaic one of two pointed arches, with a round hole above,between them.

And to make the simplicity of the roof more conspicuous, the aisles aresuccessive sheds, built at every arch. In the aisles of the Campo Santoat Pisa, the unbroken flat roof leaves the eye free to look to thetraceries; but here, a succession of up-and-down sloping beam and lathgives the impression of a line of stabling rather than a church aisle.And lastly, while, in fine Gothic buildings, the entire perspectiveconcludes itself gloriously in the high and distant apse, here the naveis cut across sharply by a line of ten chapels, the apse being onlya tall recess in the midst of them, so that, strictly speaking, thechurch is not of the form of a cross, but of a letter T.

Can this clumsy and ungraceful arrangement be indeed the design of therenowned Arnolfo?

Yes, this is the purest Arnolfo-Gothic; not beautiful by[333] any means;but deserving, nevertheless, our thoughtfullest examination. Wewill trace its complete character another day: just now we are onlyconcerned with this pre-Christian form of the letter T, insisted uponin the lines of chapels.

Respecting which you are to observe, that the first Christian churchesin the catacombs took the form of a blunt cross naturally; a squarechamber having a vaulted recess on each side; then the Byzantinechurches were structurally built in the form of an equal cross; whilethe heraldic and other ornamental equal-armed crosses are partly signsof glory and victory, partly of light, and divine spiritual presence.

But the Franciscans and Dominicans saw in the cross no sign of triumph,but of trial. The wounds of their Master were to be their inheritance.So their first aim was to make what image to the cross their churchmight present, distinctly that of the actual instrument of death. Andthey did this most effectually by using the form of the letter T, thatof the Furca or Gibbet,—not the sign of peace.

Also their churches were meant for use; not show, norself-glorification, nor town-glorification. They wanted places forpreaching, prayer, sacrifice, burial; and had no intention of showinghow high they could build towers, or how widely they could arch vaults.Strong walls and the roof of a barn,—these your Franciscan asksof his Arnolfo. These Arnolfo gives,—thoroughly and wisely built;the successions of gable roof being a new device for strength muchpractised in his day.

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This stern humour did not last long. Arnolfo himself had other notions;most of all, Nature and Heaven. Something else had to be taught aboutChrist than that He was wounded to death. Nevertheless, look how grandthis stern form would be, restored to its simplicity. It is not the oldchurch which is in itself unimpressive. It is the old church defaced byVasari, by Michael Angelo, and by modern Florence. See those huge tombson your right hand and left, at the sides of the aisles, with theiralternate gable and round tops, and their paltriest of all sculpture,trying to be grand by bigness, and pathetic by expense. Tear themall down in your imagination; fancy the vast hall with its massivepillars,—not painted calomel-pill colour, as now, but of their nativestone, with the rough true wood for roof,—and a people praying beneaththem, strong in abiding, and pure in life, as their rocks and oliveforests. That was Arnolfo’s Santa Croce. Nor did his work remain longwithout grace.

That very line of chapels in which we found our St. Louis shows signsof change in temper. They have no pent-house roofs, but true Gothicvaults: we found our four square type of Franciscan Law on one of them.

It is probable, then, that these chapels may be later than therest—even in their stonework. In their decoration, they are so,assuredly; belonging already to the time when the story of St. Franciswas becoming a passionate tradition, told and painted everywhere withdelight.

And that high recess, taking the place of apse, in the centre,—see hownoble it is in the coloured shade surrounding[335] and joining the glow ofits windows, though their form be so simple. You are not to be amusedhere by patterns in balanced stone, as a French or English architectwould amuse you, says Arnolfo. “You are to read and think, under thesesevere walls of mine; immortal hands will write upon them.”

The Certosa of Pavia leaves upon the mind an impression of bewilderingsumptuousness: nowhere else are costly materials so combined with alavish expenditure of the rarest art. Those who have only once beendriven round together with the crew of sightseers can carry littleaway but the memory of lapis-lazuli and bronze work, inlaid agates andlabyrinthine sculpture, cloisters tenantless in silence, fair paintedfaces smiling from dark corners on the senseless crowd, trim gardenswith rows of pink primroses in Spring and bigonia in Autumn, bloomingbeneath colonnades of glowing terra-cotta. The striking contrastbetween the Gothic of the interior and the Renaissance façade, eachin its own kind perfect, will also be remembered; and thoughts of thetwo great houses, Visconti and Sforza, to whose pride of power it is amonument, may be blended with the recollection of art treasures aliento their spirit.

Two great artists, Ambrognio Borgognone and Antonio Amadeo are thepresiding genii of the Certosa. To minute criticism, based upon theaccurate investigation of records and comparison of styles, mustbe left the task of separating their work from that of numerouscollaborators. But it is none the less certain that the keynote of thewhole music is struck by them. Amadeo, the master of the Colleoni[337]chapel at Bergamo, was both sculptor and architect. If the façadeof the Certosa be not absolutely his creation, he had a hand in thedistribution of its masses and the detail of its ornaments. The onlyfault in this otherwise faultless product of the purest quattrocentoinspiration is that the façade is a frontispiece, with hardly anystructural relation to the church it mocks: and this, though seriousfrom the point of view of architecture, is no abatement of itssculpturesque and picturesque refinement. At first sight it seems awilderness of loveliest reliefs and statues—of angel faces, flutteringraiment, flowing hair, love-laden youths, and stationary figuresof grave saints, mid wayward tangles of acanthus and wild vine andcupid-laden foliage; but the subordination of these decorative detailsto the main design, clear, rhythmical and lucid, like the chant ofPergolese, or Stradella, will enrapture one who has the sense for unityevoked from divers elements, for thought subduing all caprices to theharmony of beauty. It is not possible elsewhere in Italy to find theinstinct of the earlier Renaissance, so amorous in its expenditure ofrare material, so lavish in its bestowal of the costliest workmanshipon ornamental episodes, brought into truer keeping with a pure andsimple structural effect.

All the great sculptor-architects of Lombardy worked in successionon this miracle of beauty; and this may account for the sustainedperfection of style, which nowhere suffers from the languor ofexhaustion in the artist or from repetition of motives. It remains thetriumph of North Italian genius, exhibiting qualities of tendernessand self abandonment[338] to inspiration which we lack in the severermasterpieces of the Tuscan school.

To Borgognone is assigned the painting of the roof in nave andchoir—exceeding rich, varied, and withal in sympathy with statelyGothic style. Borgognone, again, is said to have designed the saintsand martyrs worked in tarsia for the choir-stalls. His frescoesare in some parts well preserved, as in the lovely little Madonna atthe end of the south chapel, while the great fresco above the window inthe south transept has an historical value that renders it interestingin spite of partial decay.

The Certosa is a wilderness of lovely workmanship. From Borgognone’smajesty we pass into the quiet region of Luini’s Christian grace, ormark the influence of Leonardo on that rare Assumption of Madonna byhis pupil Andrea Solari. Like everything touched by the Leonardesquespirit, this great picture was left unfinished; yet Northern Italy hasnothing finer to show than the landscape outspread in its immeasurablepurity of calm, behind the grouped Apostles, and the ascendant Motherof Heaven. The feeling of that happy region between the Alps andLombardy, where there are many waters—et tacitos sine labe lacussine murmure rivos—and where the last spurs of the mountains sinkin undulations to the plain, has passed into this azure vista, just asall Umbria is suggested in a twilight background of young Raphael orPerugino.

The portraits of the dukes of Milan and their families carry us intoa very different realm of feeling. Medallions above the doors ofsacristy and chancel, stately figures[339] reared aloft beneath giganticcanopies, men and women slumbering with folded hands upon their marblebiers—we read in all these sculptured forms a strange record of humanrestlessness resolved into the quiet of the tomb. The iniquities ofGian Galeazzo Visconti, il gran Biscione; the blood-thirst ofGian Maria; the dark designs of Fillipo and his secret vices; FrancescoSforza’s treason; Galeazzo Maria’s vanities and lusts; their tyrant’sdread of thunder and the knife; their awful deaths by pestilence andthe assassin’s poniard; their selfishness, oppression, cruelty andfraud; the murders of their kinsmen; their labyrinthine plots and actsof broken faith;—all is tranquil now, and we can say to each whatBosola found for the Duchess of Malfi ere her execution:

From the church it is delightful to escape into the cloisters floodedwith sunlight, where the swallows skim and the brown hawks circleand the mason bees are at work among the carvings. The arcades ofthe two cloisters are the final triumph of Lombard terra-cotta.The memory fails before such infinite invention, such facility andfelicity of execution. Wreaths of cupids gliding round the arches amonggrape-bunches and bird-haunted foliage of vine; rows of angels, likerising and setting planets, some smiling and some grave, ascending anddescending by the Gothic curves; saints stationary on their[340] pedestalsand faces leaning from the rounds above; crowds of cherubs and coursesof stars and acanthus-leaves in woven lines and ribands incessantlyinscribed with Ave Maria! Then, over all, the rich red light andpurple shadows of the brick, than which no substance sympathizes morecompletely with the sky of solid blue above, the broad plain space ofwaving summer grass beneath our feet.

It is now late afternoon, and when evening comes the train will takeus back to Milan. There is yet a little while to rest tired eyes andstrained spirits among the willows and poplars by the monastery wall.Through that grey-green leafage, young with early spring, the pinnaclesof the Certosa leap like flames into the sky. The rice-fields areunder water, far and wide, shining like burnished gold beneath thelevel light now near to sundown. Frogs are croaking; those persistentfrogs whom the muses have ordained to sing for aye in spite of Bionand all tuneful poets dead. We sit and watch the water snakes, thebusy rats, the hundred creatures swarming in the fat, well wateredsoil. Nightingales here and there, newcomers, tune their timid Aprilsong. But, strangest of all sounds in such a place, my comrade fromthe Grisons jodels forth an Alpine cowherd’s melody—Auf den Alpendroben ist ein herrliches Leben!

Did the echoes of Gian Galeazzo’s convent ever wake to such a tune asthis before?

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 74786 ***